Author's Note: I'm making this story more and more my own, but like I made clear before, everything belongs to Suzanne Collins. I'm really enjoying writing this, and I hope people are enjoying reading this. Review if you can. (:

The First Encounter

One minute I'm feeling completely detached from the world, emotionless and stoic, and the next minute tears are streaming down my face. I can't seem to compose my thoughts; everything has become a jumbled blur that I can't seem to visualize.

My father and brothers want me to come home, to come back to them, to win. But on the other hand, my own mother doesn't have an ounce of faith in me, and most likely wouldn't mind not seeing me ever again.

And then, there's Katniss. That girl is a real fighter – my mother's words reverberate in my head. But the truth of the matter is, my mother is right. Katniss is strong. Everyday she hunts, or, did hunt, for her family to survive; and hunting in District 12 is strictly forbidden. She breaks the law in order to see the light of the next morning's dawn.

I've seen her grow to be the fantastic hunter that she is now. And I've seen her in her weakest state. I remember the memory like it happened just yesterday.

A couple of years ago, when I was around eleven years old, I had been helping out with the evening shift in the back of the bakery, rolling out dough for bread. The day was a cold and rainy one – depressing and dark.

Suddenly, my mother had sprinted out the back door, yelling, and I followed her. Outside we had seen Katniss, rifling through our trash bins, scrounging for bits of any food she could find. My mother scolded her, banishing her from our property, and Katniss hobbled away to sit under a nearby tree. Collapsing, she had put her head in her hands, looking as if she had given up.

As my mother and I reentered the bakery, I walked over to the ovens. I knew this was my only opportunity to help Katniss, so I grasped a tray of freshly baked loaves of bread, and "accidentally" dropped them into the fire. My mother screamed at me, angry at my clumsiness, and she proceeded to slap me; I willed myself not to cry at that moment – there was worse suffering than this in the world around me. My mother then ordered me to go throw the loaves to the pigs in the pig pin outside.

I consented happily, knowing my plan had succeeded. Walking out the back door again, I disregarded the pig pin and approached Katniss. She barely glanced at me, since she was in such a weak state. However, she must have still had her reflexes about her, because I threw the first of two loaves to her, and then the second, and she caught them both. She looked at me, longing glazing her eyes over, and uncertainty existing on the tip of her tongue. To show I meant the gesture, I just walked away, knowing she would understand.

I realized afterward that I was able to keep Katniss alive when she needed someone the most. I always wondered why no one had bothered to help her first, but I could never formulate an answer to that.

And does Katniss even know it was me who helped her? Her vision and thoughts must've been obscured by starvation; maybe she hadn't realized who had done her the favor at all. Well, all that really matters is that I know, because she might not even be here today without me. If she had died…I don't even want to think about that.

And the idea of Katniss not being here wrings my heart in such a way that my tears begin to fall harder than ever.

I hear the doorknob of the exit turn, and I quickly wipe my tears away. I don't want to let these feelings show to anybody, not even a Peacekeeper. I can't let these depressing emotions be displayed; how else will I manage to get sponsored in the arena?

Two Peacekeepers come in the room to retrieve me, and I obligingly follow. I know my face must be puffy and tear-stained from my crying by the looks they give me, but I ignore them.

No more crying from here on out.

They lead me all the way to the train station, where the train is already there, puffing smoke and whistling loudly. Katniss is standing by one of the train's many doors, about to enter. Her face looks unnaturally blank; she has probably adopted the same strategy as I have – no display of negative emotions.

Suddenly Haymitch, our drunken mentor of this year's Games, appears. Haymitch Abernathy won the 50th Hunger Games, and apparently has not dealt with it well, because he is almost never sober. And the way he's acting right now certainly proves that theory.

"On the train, on the train, time to go!" he yells to Katniss and I, as he scrambles through the compartment door Katniss is next to, almost missing the entrance and running into the wall. I eye Katniss, trying not to laugh, but her face doesn't even flicker a smile.

But a retching sound from inside of the compartment makes my smile disappear in an instant.

Katniss and I finally board the train to see that Haymitch has vomited all over the luxurious carpeting of the compartment, and he seems to be unconscious now.

Without a word, we both take Haymitch, arm in arm, to his room after being pointed in the right direction by a Peacekeeper.

Not wanting Katniss to have to deal with stripping and showering the vomit-covered Haymitch, I say, "I'll take it from here."

She looks me in the eyes, and for the first time I see how beautifully grey her eyes are. I just want to gaze into them forever, but she quickly turns away and mutters "thanks" under her breath. She walks toward her room, after asking a Peacekeeper for the right compartment, and my heart seems to immediately drop when she leaves my presence.

"Katniss Everdeen, I will make you open up to me," I whisper to no one in particular, as a limp Haymitch awakes and vomits again all over my shoes.