Author's Note: After this chapter, I am aiming to post chapters once a week. I know the first few chapters will be slow, but unlike a lot of alternate POVs I've read, I'm aiming to actually write it as if the original Hunger Games never existed. I'm explaining a lot of things you probably already know, because if you hadn't ever read the Hunger Games, well, you wouldn't!

I'm writing and editing as I go, so please bear with me on any mistakes. I've already gone back and edited Chapter 1. No content changes, just some spelling and grammar errors I didn't catch the first time through.

Thank you so much for reading! Leave a review to let me know what you think.

Disclaimer: The Hunger Games universe isn't mine.

Chapter 2

To clear these awful thoughts from my head, I begin to drink the beer more quickly. Small drops escape around the glass and roll down my cheeks, mingling with the sweat already coating my neck.

The sounds of my gulping down the crisp liquid must have drawn my father's attention. He looks at me and smiles, putting down his own glass and says, "Slow down, son. Wouldn't want the Peacekeepers to know I've given you this before the Reaping." Then he frowns. I think acknowledging it out loud is even more difficult for him than simply sharing a beer with me. He mimics me, draining his glass and stands to take both with him back into the cellar. It will keep the evidence of our transgression away from my mother's prying, angry eyes.

As he disappears down the stairs I look out the window, gazing past the view down our market street, over the cluster of hovels that make up the Seam, to the forest. Even from this distance I can see the wind is moving the tree tops gently. They look as if they are dancing. Swaying gently, they welcome the sun in a sky growing ever lighter.

I hear my father return up the cellar steps, gently closing the trap door. He goes back to the morning preparations for the bakery as if our little break didn't happen, though the aftertaste of the beer still lingers in the back of my throat. I make no move to help him and he doesn't ask me to. Thinking of baking reminds me of the work we will have to put in when we return from the Reaping. Families will want to celebrate making it through another year, their children safe. Only two families will mourn tonight.

One of my brothers, Jemin, is twenty and has already made it through his seven Reapings. He will never have to go through it again or worry about his name being called. Colm, my other brother, is eighteen and is going into his last Reaping. At sixteen, I'll have two more if I make it through today.

From down the narrow hallway, a creaking makes me sit up and blink. My mother is awake and is headed to the kitchen. Usually this would mean my father, brothers and I would be moving in double time to avoid being accused of laziness or beaten with her wooden spoon first thing in the morning. But today, I can't bring myself to care that much.

She comes through the door, hair wrapped tightly in a worn red kerchief. She grabs the apron hanging by the door and begins to tie it on over her heavy linen skirts, hesitating briefly as she sees me still sitting at the table. Her already narrow eyes become glittering slits as she glares at me.

"Not even fully sun up and already wasting the day! We're going to lose you and your brother for at least two hours or more this afternoon and that's bad enough without you lazing about!" She moves towards me with hand raised, not even stopping to grab the spoon or rolling pin she usually uses to administer beatings. I don't attempt to move. I just stare into her eyes, mentally preparing for the blow to come.

For the third time I'm surprised, as my father comes behind her and takes her arm. This is such a rare occurrence it stops her in her tracks. She turns with shock on her face. While her back is to me, I try to make myself as small as possible by shrinking down in the chair slowly. This is shaping up to be a nasty explosion.

"Leave him be, Neeka," he says calmly, impassively returning her surprised gaze, "Today of all days, leave him be."

From her profile I can see the emotions flash across her face. Shock, anger, disbelief and finally a type of resigned irritation. She jerks her arm out of his grasp and straightens her kerchief. Glancing as me sideways, she sneers at my father.

"You shouldn't be worried. Haven't we fed him, provided for him, kept a roof over his head so he never had to take a single tesserae? What are his five entries to the fifty that some of those Seam brats must have? If you're going to be worried, worry over Colm, he's got his name in more times. Though I can see neither he nor Jemin have any respect for this family. Still asleep, I imagine? Maybe he will get chosen, serve him right and one less mouth for us to feed!"

And with that, she huffs back into the hallway and we can hear her stomping up the steps. I feel a pang of sympathy for my brothers. There will be no one up there to stop her.

My father turns back to his tasks. He says nothing, and neither do i. Despite her horrible words, my mother has a point. Compared to some of the Seam kids, what chance do I have of getting chosen? Each year starting at twelve, your name is entered into the Reaping bowl once, adding up to seven total chances to be drawn by the time you reach eighteen. But that isn't the only way to have your name entered into the Reaping. The poor, starving children of the Seam can choose to enter their name more times, in exchange for a year's worth of grain and oil rations provided directly by the government. Those extra entries also build on each other, so it's not outside the realm of possibility that some of the older kids from families with lots of mouths to feed have over fifty entries in the Reaping this year.

Because of the tesserae, it's almost always one of the older Seam kids that get chosen in the Reaping. Town dwellers and the younger ones just have less chance of getting picked. Every once in a while though, a merchant's son or daughter or one of the twelve year olds will be selected. It happened once, when I was eight. It was Jemin's first year in the Reaping, and a boy from his class in school was called. Because he was from the Seam, he was even smaller than I was at the time. I remember the adults' deep murmurs, the sadness that everyone seemed to share. It is always terrible when a twelve or thirteen year old is picked.

Racket down the stairs and through the hall precedes the arrival of my brothers, bleary eyed but moving quickly. They both begin helping my father with the huge wooden flats we use to shuffle loaves in and out of the ovens.

My mother follows them in, and looks at me. "Peeta, go chop the new delivery of wood we got yesterday. Our stores are running too low and it will get you out from under my feet and out of my sight. Go. Now!" she says.

Without waiting to see if I've moved, she turns to stare at my father's back, daring him to make an objection. He doesn't even hear her, or at least he acts like he doesn't, which I am much more used to. I push away from the table and head out the back door into our yard.

Under the gnarly old apple tree standing behind our house is the ancient chopping block and axe. I walk slowly across the yard, patting the pig who has ambled over to the side of his pen near his trough looking for his morning swill. Ducking my head a little under a low hanging branch, I step up to the block and pull the axe free of its normal notch. I absentmindedly test the blade with my thumb to make sure Colm sharpened it the last time he was out here. I should have been paying more attention, because the blade cuts a very shallow line through the pad of my finger.

I jerk my hand back, and stick my thumb in my mouth to stop the bleeding. It stings but that's a good thing. If it were deeper, it wouldn't hurt at all. I pull it out and take a look at the single bead of blood forming from under my skin. I sigh. It should stop soon, and going inside to bandage it would mean having to deal with my mother. I decide to just ignore it.

Bending towards the pile of freshly delivered logs, I grab one and set it in place of the block. From there, I quickly fall into the rhythm. Place the wood, swing the axe, stack the wood. Place the wood, swing the axe, stack the wood.

It's such a relaxing, normal activity I soon lose the anxiety that has been hanging around my shoulders like a cloud. My muscles unbunch and my body takes over. It has been a strange morning even for a Reaping day. The mindless task of the chopping clears my mind, the steady thump of steel through wood settles my heart.

I have no concept of the time while I work. I'm so at ease in my labor that I'm startled by the shrill voice of my mother screaming from the door, "Come, you stupid boy! Leave that! You'll be late for the Reaping and that kind of trouble is not something this family needs!" For all her talk of family, I know my mother is only concerned for herself.

I look up at the sky, realizing the sun is almost directly overhead. Scrambling, I stack the last pieces on the top of the tall pile I've made, and put the axe back in its notch. No time to sharpen it today. The sting I had been able to ignore returns to my thumb as I jog back into the house.

As I pass, my mother hits the back of my head with the flat of her palm, saying "And just what are we supposed to do with all of that wood? We can't possible cure it all before the rot sets in! Too stupid to do even the simple tasks, eh?"

"Sorry," I mumble, keeping my eyes down and continuing through the kitchen to the hallway stairs as quickly as possible without looking like I'm running away. That she doesn't demand I come back so she can continue harrying me shows me how late I'm going to be if I don't hurry.

Running up the last few steps out of her sight, I move to the opening leading to the rickety attic stairs. Up the last flight, but staying crouched to avoid hitting my head on the low beams, I move into the more open space where the rafters meet near the roof.

Colm is already clean and dressed, sitting on his bed whittling on a small, wooden pipe flute. He looks up as I go to the stand with the wash bowl and splash water on my face and hair.

"Better hurry up, Peets. Wouldn't want them to shoot you for being late." Attendance at the Reaping is mandatory, not just for those eligible, but the entire district. If you don't show up, or you're late, the Peacekeepers will want to know why. If they don't think you have a good enough reason, you go to prison.

"Shut up," I say. I hate it when he or Jemin call me Peets. He shrugs, and begins blowing into his whistle. A faintly off-key approximation of a jay call fills the attic.

I run a towel over my face and head. I know my hair will be sticking up at odd angles, and use my hands as best I can to flatten it down. That is going to be all I have time for.

I pull off my dirty shirt and pants, pull on the nicest pair I own and start buttoning my only nice shirt. It's a hand-me-down from Jemin and is too tight in the arms and chest. I'm bigger than either of my brothers were at my age. As my father gets older, he can do less of the heavy work, leaving more of it for us, the wood chopping and unloading the fifty pound bags of flour, sugar and salt that arrive each week in the trading market from the Capitol.

Dressed and as clean as I can be, I motion for Colm, "I'm ready," I say. As ready as I can be.

It's a little after one o'clock, from the sun beaming in through our small window. He stands up from his bed and makes his way to the stairs. I follow, almost bumping into him when he stops and looks at me over his shoulder.

"Good luck, Peets." He punches me in the arm and heads down the steps.

"You, too," I say to his back, and follow him down.

oOoOoOo

As my feet hit the ground outside the bakery, I can already feel the tension in the air and in the crowd heading towards the town square. Colm and I merge into the mass of people, moving together, being silently watched by Peacekeepers lining the streets to ensure no one eligible for the Reaping tries to make a run for it.

My mother, father and Jemin will be leaving later. They don't need to be signed in or herded to the roped off holding pens for those who could be chosen. In fact, most of the crowd now is made up of kids ranging from just reaching their awkward teens to mostly grown. Some have their parents walking with them. Others are leading smaller siblings by the hand, guiding them through their first Reaping. I can't keep myself from looking for a particular face in the crowd, but I don't see her.

The children of District 12 are all dressed in their best clothes, some obviously finer than others. I see Madge Undersee, the mayor's daughter, in a pretty white dress with a pink ribbon in her long blonde hair. Colm has already left me behind, working his way through the crowd to friends his age.

I push through the bodies towards Madge, coming up behind her and tapping her on the shoulder.

"Happy Reaping Day," I say, smiling at her despite the nervousness pressing in on me from all sides.

She turns her head and smiles back at me, "Reaping Day, yes. Happy, I'll let you know in a few hours."

Her comment makes me smile a little wider, for the gentle sarcasm in her voice. We fall into silence as we continue to move along towards the square. We are joined by a few more of our friends from school, Delly Cartwright and Able Hammersmith. I just nod to their friendly greetings.

Finally, we arrive in the square festooned with paper banners and other decorations on the buildings. Waiting in line to sign in, I look around again, trying to catch a glimpse of dark brown hair and grey eyes in a specific face. This isn't as easy as it may sound. Though the town kids mostly have blonde hair and light colored eyes, people in the Seam are almost exclusively dark, with brown hair and grey or black eyes. Still not able to spot the one I'm looking for, I sigh and step up to the table. The sullen Peacekeeper manning the book reaches for my outstretched hand, pricks my longest finger with a needle, and presses the welling of blood onto a page. My name appears on a screen next the book, flashes green. I'm waved on past the table, and now two of my fingers sting.

The holding pens are roped off by ages. This year, I move one group closer to the front, where the eighteen year olds are standing. I can see my brother with his friends, as close to the back of their area as possible. As if that will save them if their name is called.

I can't blame them though, my instinct being to stand with my friends at the back of our own area. We're all nervous, the boys getting a little restless and the girls talking in hushed voices. I try to stay out of the way, keeping my eyes on the sign in table. I get worried as the start time for the ceremony gets closer. Will she be late? Will she skip it entirely? I'd hate to see her arrested, or worse, killed just because she didn't make it to the square in time.

But then she's there. Her little sister is clutching desperately to her hand. They sign in, some of the last to come into the holding areas. She drops her sister off with the other twelve year olds, and makes her way to our pen.

She looks so beautiful today. I've never seen her wear the blue dress she has on, but it suits her. Her dark hair has been braided and coiled around her head in a way that accentuates her large eyes. She moves purposefully but not hurriedly to stand with the other Seam kids closer to the front. I see Madge wave slightly, and she returns the little wave before turning her back to us. Her shoulders and neck are tense, but whose isn't today?

Seeing her, the girl I've loved since I was small, calms something in me. I wish I could stand by her side, hold her hand as so many of my friends are doing with their girls. But she wouldn't accept my comfort, wouldn't know why a boy she's never spoken to might want to be near her at a time like this, instead of with his town friends.

The square begins to fill with the rest of the district as I stare at the back of her head. The square isn't large enough to hold the whole district, so stragglers have to stand in the adjacent streets and watch the ceremony on the large monitors brought in from the Capitol on special occasions.

The town clock strikes two and everyone turns their focus to the temporary stage set up in front of the Justice Building. On it, in low-backed black chairs sit Mayor Undersee, Madge's tall, balding father, and Effie Trinket, the garishly fashionable Capitol escort assigned to District 12. Her hair is the exact pink of Madge's ribbon, and her suit is the color of new spring leaves. There is an empty chair between them, reserved for Haymitch Abernathy. He is District 12's only living Victor, and only he could possibly get away with missing the start of the ceremony.

Mayor Undersee stands up and walks the short distance to the podium, where a microphone is waiting for him. His speech is the same every year, the same words telling the history of Panem. We are a country that was formed from the fractured pieces of a place that was once called North America. Natural disasters, famine, and war tore apart what was once a fertile, productive land. When the dust settled, Panem rose from the ashes. A shining Capitol which brought peace and prosperity to the surrounding thirteen districts. To the deep sorrow of the Capitol, the peace did not last. The Dark Days marked a dangerous time of rebellion by the districts against the Capitol. Eventually, twelve of the districts were defeated, the thirteenth wiped off the face of the earth.

The Treaty of Treason was formed with new laws to guarantee a lasting peace and, as a reminder to never again repeat the mistakes of our ancestors, the Hunger Games were instituted.

The rules of the Games are simple. Each district must provide one boy and one girl, between the ages of twelve and eighteen to participate. These chosen are called tributes, and they will be imprisoned in an outdoor arena where the objective is to remain alive, at the cost of the other twenty-three. The Games can last from a few days to close to a month, depending on how quickly the competitors weed each other out. The last one standing wins.

His speech goes on, but I stop listening. I've heard it every year. Instead, I think about what the games actually mean. They are the Capitol's way of humiliating us, of making us feel ashamed and helpless. I feel all of those things, but I've never even held a gun. Never fired the first shot against the Capitol. I think about that twelve year old boy who was chosen in Jemin's first Reaping. He clearly was no threat to the government, could not have hurt anyone if he tried. He died within the first ten minutes of the game, strangled to death by someone bigger, stronger than him. I think about the one who strangled him. Was he a person like me once, before his name was drawn? Did he go to school, have friends, a family, a girl, before the Capitol turned him into a monster?

Maybe that is the point of all this. The Capitol trying to show us how lost, how basic, how animal we would become without them. I look up at Effie Trinket, seemingly enraptured by the stilted, robotic words of our Mayor as he talks about the glory the winners bring to their districts, the prizes of food, even delicacies like extra sugar that will be showered on the winner's home for a year. A Victor receives even more, an entire life of ease and wealth paid for by the Capitol.

"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," Mayor Undersee ends his speech and glances back towards the empty middle chair behind him. He begins to read the list of past District 12 victors, a short thing because we've only had two winners in the past seventy-three years. As if summoned by the sound of his name, Haymitch appears. Staggering, yelling something too slurred to make out, he falls into his empty chair. He is obviously very drunk.

A smattering of applause makes its way through the crowd while Haymitch tries to wrap his arms around Effie Trinket in greeting. She just manages to slip under his grasp, knocking her hair slightly askew in the process. The mayor does his best to save her by calling her to the podium with an introduction.

I'm sure the cameras loved Haymitch's bad behavior. The whole ceremony is being broadcasted across Panem. In the Capitol, viewing each of the district's Reapings is part of the crazy spectacle that is the Hunger Games. Once the tributes are chosen and whisked away to the Capitol, people in the districts will be required to watch the Games as well.

Effie's ridiculous high heeled shoes click on the cheap press board of the stage. She beams at the crowd and trills, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

Her funny Capitol accent is jarring after the deep, solemn voice of the mayor. I don't want to hear anything she has to say, so I turn my focus back to the girl I can't help but love.

I do hear Effie say, "Ladies first!" and I know the drawing is about to happen. I can't breathe, can't move, my gaze bores a hole in the back of her head and the only thought in my mind is not Katniss Everdeen. Not Katniss Everdeen. Not Katniss Everdeen.

Effie reads out the name, and air immediately returns to my lungs. My shoulders sag in relief and I almost cry out in joy that she's safe. Then I see Katniss's knees begin to buckle and the boy standing next to her grabs her arm to hold her up. I wonder what's wrong with her. She wasn't picked!

Then the name Effie called registers in my brain. It wasn't Katniss Everdeen. It was her tiny little sister, Primrose.