A/N: Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for the reviews! And for those of you who've subscribed but not reviewed, if you have the chance, please do. Even if you just leave a "this was cool, peace out" review it would mean a lot!

I finally made my way to see the Hunger Games movie, and that launched me right back into fan fiction. It was a fantastic film, I think; a few canon issues that angered me, but overall, a pretty spot-on reincarnation of the original book. I'm going to see the movie again soon! That's how awesome it is.

Anyway, I took some advice from my reviews and combined two ideas: 1. learning about the Games in school and 2. Rose finding a video of the Games. I'm trying to flesh out Rose's world a bit, especially by aging her somewhat so that my narrative can be a little more flowery. She's fourteen here, a freshman in high school.

This chapter is a little more personal for me than the previous. This year was the first year when I viewed actual footage of 9/11 for its anniversary, and I was horrified. I felt numb. I couldn't even cry – it was all just awful. I drew heavily on my reactions to that footage in order to write Rose's reaction to the Hunger Games footage, although we are obviously different people and Rose's different situation informed her reactions differently, and she saw more straight-up violence. The thing that really came straight from me to Rose was the fact that we as human beings did this to each other. Both 9/11 and the Games. It's all humans hurting humans. That's what makes the Hunger Games series so powerful – the insensitivity.

But all the same, I poured more of me into this chapter than I have in this fic so far, so I'm really happy with it. I just hope you feel the same way.

Please review!

May the odds be ever in your favor!

...

I suppose I should have known it was coming, but there are certain things that I just don't like to think about. Or talk about.

Or ever vaguely consider.

I'd known at least two months in advance that we'd be learning about the Hunger Games in history class. Every student, from my fellow high school freshmen to the seniors, received a neatly handwritten paper explaining about the upcoming lesson and requiring a parent's signature, granting the student permission to participate.

I knew for sure that Mom would panic. As it was, I still didn't get enough sleep at night. Almost every other day, I jerked awake in a cold sweat to hear Mom screaming like someone was trying to claw her heart out, or stab her, or strangle her, or maybe all of the above.

In earlier years, I hadn't understood. Sometimes, it scared me; other times, it upset me. There were even nights when it made me angry. I yelled at her. I told her the dreams weren't real. I told her to go back to sleep. I just didn't understand what Mom's problem was, why she had to keep me awake, why she had to scream.

Now, I was old enough to know why, and old enough to help.

I couldn't stand to see her suffer. Sometimes, I got to her even before Dad had the chance to wake up. I comforted her. I reminded her that it wasn't real anymore. I repeated the same things I'd been saying for years.

There is no more Capitol. There are no more Hunger Games. You are not going to starve. You are not going to die. You are not a tribute. You are my mother. You have a daughter and a son. They are your children, and they need you to be strong. They will never be tributes. You will never have to watch them die. You will never have to watch me die.

It always came back to the same thing, though. Mom's voice would come out raw, agonized, as though each syllable were immediately pursued by a knife in her chest. "Prim's – dead."

And I would have to nod.

"Yes. Prim's dead."

We spent more nights than I could count just crying together, fighting off each other's fear. I learned more details, obscure ones – the ones that Mom was sure wouldn't frighten me to death. She never had to censor the truth, because she never told me anything even remotely disturbing. She stuck to the simple, the straightforward; puzzle pieces for a picture of control and terror that I was never permitted to complete. I never saw the big picture. Just bizarre snapshots of a world I had never known, and hopefully, would never know.

Prim's blouse always came un-tucked into a ducktail, I learned. Annie Odair's late husband, Finnick, first greeted my Mom by offering her a sugar cube. Dad once saved Mom's life with some bread, back when they were just kids.

There were some things that never made sense to me, though. Inside jokes that I never understood.

Like how whenever something surprising happens – me managing to kill my first squirrel, Fin voluntarily taking a shower, or something else along those lines – Dad looks at Mom and laughs, "Real or not real?" I once asked him what it meant. Like an instinct, like a reflex, his eyes widened, a distance settled across his expression, and he pulled away from me, crawling into himself like he always did when something triggered a flashback. He said he didn't like to talk about it.

All the same, the phrase "real or not real?" always seemed to return at the most awkward moments of our daily life. Once, Dad tried to turn it into a romantic line. "I am the hottest baker in Panem," he told Mom. "Real or not real?"

Mom just rolled her eyes.

Living like this for fourteen years of life, I knew as sure as anything that I would not, could not show that permission slip to my parents. They'd insist that I participate in the history class, of course. But chances are, Dad would have to grab the nearest chair until the flashbacks stopped, and I'd find myself awakened by Mom's tortured shrieking every night for at least a week.

So I forged the signature.

Katniss Everdeen, I wrote in my best script, with my Mom's favorite pen. I practiced on the back of some scrap paper first, just to make sure I got it exactly right. The end result was nearly identical to Mom's real signature. I handed it in to the history teacher with pride. She would have no idea.

I was usually a stellar student, though, and the lie stung. Every time the Hunger Games inevitably slithered back into my conversations with Mom and Dad, I felt my stomach curl into a knot, twisting like a fist was gripping my chest, and I had to take deep breaths to avoid spilling out the whole, awful thing.

The thought of taking the class was sickening, even terrifying, at some level. I didn't understand the fear I felt whenever I considered it, but it was most definitely there – tightness in my throat, a sudden lurch in my stomach, a leap of my heart, a flash of heat in my cheeks, a jolt of ice coiling down my spine – every time I dared to think of it.

I found myself repeating the same facts in my head that I'd so often repeated to Mom in the dead of night.

There is no more Capitol. There are no more Hunger Games. It's only a history lesson. Nothing more.

Once, when Haymitch Abernathy came over to visit (or, more truthfully, to see if we had any alcohol to offer him,) he mentioned the upcoming class to me. Said they'd tried to hire him to come in to the school and speak, but he'd showed up for the interview drunk, so they'd declined that option. I laughed, but when he asked about the permission slip, I had to swallow and deliberately say, "I don't want to talk about the Games, Haymitch."

"It's just a class, Rose. It's important that you understand," Haymitch encouraged. He gave me a pat on the shoulder, something like an old friend would give. "That's why your Mom talks to you about the Games."

"Only the safe parts," I blurted out. "Not the whole thing."

Haymitch sighed, staggering over to me. He was drunk out of his mind, alright. He leaned in close to me, getting right in my face. His breath smelled like beer, and I almost gagged. "You didn't have Katniss sign the slip like you were supposed to, did you?"

I stared at my feet. "No."

"You skipped the class, then?"

I shook my head.

Haymitch burst into all-out laughter. It lasted for a very long thirty seconds, but when he could breathe again – or at least pant – he finally managed, "Oh, you forged it, didn't you?"

I sighed. The thick silence was like a physical weight.

Haymitch raised one eyebrow. "Just admit it, girl."

I nodded. "Uh-huh. I forget iti."

Thankfully, Haymitch was too drunk by that point to bother telling Mom or Dad, and I made him promise that he never would. Once he sobered, I reminded him that he'd better keep his word, and he was stuck. He never said a word to my parents.

You've got to love Haymitch, sometimes.

Still, time ticked away, and whether or not my parents were aware of it, I knew that the class was coming. I dreaded it every minute.

But it's only today, walking into the classroom – arms locked at my sides, eyes straight ahead, repeating there is no more Hunger Games in my head – only today, that I really take in the reality of it all.

I sit down in my usual spot. Fourth desk from the left, second row; my friend Shane on my left, and fifteen-year-old Araihna on my right. I never speak much to Araihna, but we get along fine. Shane, on the other hand, is the closest thing I have to an older brother. He only beats me by a year, but a year can do a lot to a high school student. And Shane understands me. We understand each other in a way no one understands.

But of course, as always, two rows behind me – there's that idiot sophomore, Aken. He's a pervert and a monster. He tried to pull his usual "you are my soul mate" crap on me when I started high school, but Shane came to my defense and put a quick end to that. Ever since, Shane and I have been closer than siblings, but Aken detests the very air I breathe.

Heck, whatever. I hate him anyway.

As could be expected from him, he's snickering some fresh Hunger Games jokes from behind me in particularly bad taste. Something about how many ways there were for a tribute to die, and how if he were in the Games, he'd gut everyone like fish.

Of course Aken wouldn't take this seriously. I don't know why I'm so surprised. Maybe it's just that I never thought anyone could be that insensitive about something as sick and horrible as the Games.

My heart is pounding and racing, just galloping like crazy as I force myself to take my usual seat, attempt to even out my breathing, and keep staring straight ahead. Don't think about it. Just take the class. It'll be over in no time.

Shane can tell I'm uncomfortable. He's always good at detecting my mood swings. "You okay, Rose?"

I won't look at him. I won't break. I'll hear about it from the older highschoolers for weeks, otherwise; they already think I must be psychotic, being the daughter of two damaged victors.

Without looking at Shane, I mouth, "I hate this."

He puts one hand on my shoulder. Normally, I wouldn't like anyone touching me. But I'm close enough to hysteria that the comfort is welcome, awkward or not. Shane and I aren't anything more than friends. He knows it. I'm just glad to know that someone cares, that anyone exists who hasn't already written me off as that Everdeen girl.

Funny, since I'm Rose Mellark, not Rose Everdeen. I rarely hear the name Mellark, save for during role call. On the other hand, Everdeen is practically a curse the way my peers say it. Half of them don't even know about Mom, about how she ended the Games, about anything at all. Only rumors. I don't know how many are true. I've always been afraid to tell them to Mom.

"It's okay, Rose," Shane whispers. "Just... don't think about it. It'll be over in no time."

I nod. I force myself to look at him. His gray Seam eyes look pale, like someone drained the life from them. His brown hair is a mess, but he doesn't care. He's just worried about me, like usual. "Thank you," I choke out, and try out a smile. It's lopsided. But heck, it's something.

"No problem," Shane says.

I hear footsteps. I look up. It's our teacher, her blond hair in a neat bun, as she enters the room. There's nothing unusual about her appearance – except that I can't help but notice the DVD in her right hand. The long-unseen Capitol seal adorns the case, defying age.

A Hunger Games film. It must be.

All the tension flows out of me at the sight. Thank you, God! No nauseating books to read or awkward class discussions to have. Just a video. A documentary. I can handle a documentary, right?

I wring my hands together, and then ball them into fists on my desk. Just breathe. I swallow. I try to pretend I'm somewhere else, anywhere else.

Aken's voice snarls from behind me. "A little nervous, Everdeen?"

I don't turn around. "Shut up," I say reflexively, but my voice catches in the back of my throat. I'm vulnerable today. The parts of me I've walled up are going to be out here for everyone to see, and I can't hide them. This whole thing hurts too much.

"Leave her alone, Aken," Shane says.

Aken groans. He doesn't say anything else, but I can hear him laughing – at me, no doubt.

The teacher silences him with an upraised hand. She introduces the new subject to the class, says some crap summary about the Hunger Games – how they were created, what they were like while they existed, how they were abolished – and every time she says Mom's name, she looks at me.

My cheeks feel hot. I stare at my desk. I focus on the safe grip of Shane's hand on my shoulder. I've never been so glad to have him for a friend.

Eventually, the teacher curtails her rant, clearly sensing my unrest. She addresses the class, moving promptly forwards.

"In order for you to understand the gravity of what your parents fought to end," she says, "I've borrowed this from District 12's own Haymitch Abernathy." She lifts the DVD, showing it to the class. "This is actual footage of the Fiftieth Hunger Games, when Haymitch was reaped for the Quarter Quell. It's very intense, at times – but it's vital that you understand what could have been, and in fact, what was considered to be normalcy for seventy-five long years of slaughter. I ask that you remain silent" – she shoots a quick glare at Aken – "and do your best to pay attention."

The teacher turns to the flatscreen TV mounted on the wall, sliding in the DVD. She cuts the lights. The video begins to play.

In minutes, I can't breathe.

Emaciated civilians of District 12 file together by age for the inevitable reaping. As I expected, Haymitch is chosen. It's a whirlwind from there. Brutal training ensues. The tributes begin to look like healthy youths instead of walking skeletons.

Then it happens. The Games begin.

Blood and gore stains the Capitol's cameras. Poison disguised as beautiful plants kills more people than I can count. The entire Arena is a beautiful lie – a seductive death trap. This sweet, innocent girl named Maysilee is taken out by genetically altered birds. Haymitch's guts and intestines are visibly gushing from an axe wound on camera as some madman girl hunts him down, one eye ruined, the raw, gaping hole that used to be an eye socket now pouring out scarlet blood...

I can't look.

But I can't look away.

I'm so numb, I can't even cry. I'm just staring. My face burns. My eyes sting with tears that refuse to come. My lip quivers, words screaming in my mind, but they won't form audibly. I feel Shane's grip on my shoulder periodically tighten and release, in time with Haymitch's yells and the girl's shrieks.

Now I know why Mom screams in the night.

Now I know why Dad has to grab the nearest piece of furniture and hold on for dear life until the flashbacks roll over.

I would have nightmares, too. I would flash back to the murders. I would be afraid to live again, afraid to ever love, to trust, to hope, when all of that drowned in blood and mutilated flesh in the Capitol's Arena.

How could all of Panem watch this, year after year, and not say a word? How could these people's parents let them go? How is my class watching this without even flinching?

But what hurts the most, what feels like a blow to the ribs, is that this wasn't a natural disaster. This wasn't something that some distant race did to us.

How could we, as human beings, have done this to each other?

I sprint from the room as soon as class is over. Shane doesn't even have time to catch up. Aken yells after me, "Got a weak stomach, Everdeen?", so my face must make me look as sick as I feel, if that's even possible, but I'm already gone, tearing down the hall, one hand pressed to my chest as if to hold me together.

As soon as I reach the girls' bathroom, I'm on my knees in a stall, the door locked, hot tears streaming from my eyes, and I'm throwing up into the toilet. I throw up everything I've eaten all day, retching violently, racking shakes shuddering through my whole body. It's a miracle I don't upchuck my entire stomach. I'm doubled over, convulsing. Images of blood and corpses and smiling teens stabbing other teens blaze through my mind, branded into my brain.

When it's over, I'm still gasping between fresh swells of tears and rolling nausea. I sit on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. I hug my knees to my chest.

This is what the Capitol did to my mother? To my father? To my District? To my family?

And I bury my head in my hands.