Peeta

I've spent the entire day watching the tapes and taking notes, just like I promised Katniss I would. Although if I'm being honest, I knew it would never help. All it's done is solidify my biggest weakness when it comes to these Games.

I don't think I can kill them.

I've watched their interviews and the interviews of their family members. I've watched their original Reapings, when they were just frightened children walking up the stage to accept their deaths. Wasn't that me six months ago?

It's now when I wish I were like Katniss. She's so much better at this than I am: the emotional disconnect. Only until recently have I begun to accept why she does it. I've finally realized: it's too painful otherwise. I've tried my hand at it. I haven't spoken a word to anyone since getting on the train, too worried I'll break down, hoping that if I camouflage my feelings, I'll somehow trick myself into not feeling anything. It hasn't worked.

Now I am sitting here with Effie, watching the televised footage of yesterday's Reapings with tired eyes. She's taken my hand and I can tell it's her attempt at being supportive. Yesterday, when the train doors closed behind us Effie burst into tears and then ran to her compartment, teetering all the way on her wobbly high heels. She came out again at dinner and pretended like nothing had happened.

But I can't be mad at Effie. I know it's not her fault.

I dove into the Victor's tapes and I had gone through them fast. I didn't realize how few of us there will be.

It will be a fast Games, I had thought bitterly, but I sat on the couch in the train making notes, feeling like a stranger to myself the entire time. I don't enjoy pinpointing other people's flaws and using them to my advantage. But I did it anyway. For Katniss.

There are four tributes who I know will be my biggest competition and I pay particular attention to them as yesterday's Reapings air.

District 1—Gloss. He is large, blonde and the kind of handsome that the Capitol would love. But he's not particularly bright. His overarching cockiness is something that will be of value to me in the arena. He will underestimate me easily.

District 2—Enobaria. I remember her Games even though I couldn't have been more than 5 years old when they took place. They were the most gruesome I can recall and I had nightmares after watching them. Thinking back, I think she may have lost her mind completely in the arena: she ripped out another tribute's throat with her teeth. The act was so legendary that she altered them to resemble razor sharp fangs. I don't know if it was because she was proud or manipulated into doing so. I need to stay away from her.

District 4—Finnick Odair. He will be the most difficult to kill. I already know he's an incredible fighter. He's clever. He's an actor. And I liked him, which makes it much, much worse. Watching him now, I don't understand how he manages the 100-watt smile or his calm manner of acceptance during his second Reaping.

"He may be too used to luxury, Peeta. That's where I think you'll have the advantage. You're not out of practice because you were just in the Games," Effie states matter-of-factly and I have to hide my snort. If she's trying to help, she failed. I watch Finnick wave to the members of District 4. I think back to our time in the Capitol and seeing him in Snow's mansion. Katniss said he was in support of the rebellion because he executed that strange hand gesture. I don't really see how something that could be considered fidgeting could be a signal of a brewing rebellion. But then again maybe that's the whole point. I watch his Reaping closely, looking for tapping fingers. I don't see anything.

District 7—Johanna Mason. I knew the second her name was called during the announcement four weeks ago that she would be trouble. Johanna Mason's games were the most surprising that I remember. She acted like a complete mess during the interview with Caesar, so much so that he spent almost the entire time trying to calm her. Once in the arena she hid from all the other tributes. No one paid attention to her because she didn't seem like someone they needed to worry about. I forgot she was even alive until the end. None of us knew how skilled she was with an axe or how vicious and determined she turned out to be. She reminds me of Katniss: stone-faced, expressionless. I try not to think of Katniss but it's impossible once District 12 comes into view.

Effie's grip on my hand seems vice-like. I don't want to watch it, knowing how painful it will be, but I'm not sure how many other times I'll be able to see Katniss' face so my eyes remain trained on the screen.

I look stoic. I am a brick wall, which is a real testament to my acting ability because on the inside I was crumbling. Katniss, on the other hand, looks overwhelmingly distressed. She's trying to rein it in, but she's always been an awful actress. During the Reaping, I remember trying very hard to not let her affect me. I've seen Katniss cry many times, and for the most part I've been able to comfort her without breaking down myself. But I knew that if she started crying then, I would have lost it completely.

I watch in silence as she runs through the town square, her face a picture of shock and determination, if the combination is even possible. I watch as she throws her arms around me and for a moment it's almost like I can feel her again, her warm breathe on my neck, her hair tickling my cheek. The soft material of her worn dress and the smell of her skin. I commit it to memory, wishing for the millionth time that I could draw feelings and smells.

The Peacekeepers start to pull me away but Katniss leaps forward and presses her lips to mine.

Our last kiss.

The cameras can't see what she whispered against my lips at the last moment and I'm glad because that memory is mine alone. Mine.

How many times did I dream about Katniss telling me she loves me? Only practically every night since the moment you saw her when you were five years old, idiot. Thinking about her has become an unconscious act. But now that I know what I'm leaving—she loves me, finally she loves me—it's so much worse. It's an unbearable ache. It's an invisible clawing at my heart. It's so much worse.

When the television turns black again I leave Effie on the couch, having seen nothing and too heartsick to tell her goodnight.

I don't sleep.

I don't even realize how much time has passed until Effie knocks on my door, telling me we've arrived in the Capitol. I'm surprised when Portia doesn't give me something elaborate to wear. I know the second I walk off the train platform I will be hounded by photographers and all eyes will be on me. Shouldn't I be wearing something incredible? Some ridiculous suit with sparkles that 'do wonders for my eyes' or something equally as embarrassing? Instead, Portia hands me a pair of plain black pants and a simple, grey shirt. It's something I would wear at home and I feel the familiar dizzying pain that accompanies me whenever I let my mind wander.

I miss home. I miss Katniss. I won't ever see them again, will I?

"There are no sponsors this time, Peeta. Why be someone you're not? You've already made your impression," Portia says softly, answering my silent question as she combs my hair into place. She has the soft touch of a mother and that brings forth another wave of empty pain. My mother was never this gentle.

How strange is it that this woman, whose job it is to dress me for a death match, has become the closest thing I have to a mother.

My mind flits back to what Portia said.

"There are no sponsors this time."

The lack of sponsors hasn't been something I thought about too much. I got through my first Games with barely any gifts from sponsors. I understand that Haymitch's plan was to get Katniss out of arena. It became my plan, too, so I can't blame him for it. There can only be one Victor and she's the one who stood the biggest chance at survival. But I know that if there were sponsors this time around, I would have had no problem in the arena. Maybe that's why they added the rule.

They are going to make it absolutely impossible for me to survive.

When I step off the train I'm bombarded by photographers and I move my hand to my side slightly out of habit, as if Katniss' hand is there waiting for me. I should blush out of embarrassment but I don't think I'm really capable of feeling anything right now in front of these strangers other than a dull sort of loathing. I know I shouldn't.

They loved us. That's the danger.

"Peeta! Look over here, Peeta!" I turn in the direction of the cameras and give a very weak smile. I don't really know how I should act right now. All other times I was met with the Capitol I was supposed to act in love with Katniss, which was incredibly easy because I was in love with Katniss. I am in love with Katniss. I'm so in love with Katniss that it hurts.

I grind my teeth and allow two massive Peacekeepers to escort me to the Tribute Training Center and straight up to the 12th floor. The opening ceremony is tonight and Portia will be getting me ready. I can't help but think how rushed it seems. They're really wasting no time, are they?

I walk to my room in silence. The twelfth floor seems much larger and more menacing when it's just me. I sit on the bed and put my head in my hands, hoping in vain that if I press hard enough against my temple I'll shut out my thoughts. I have to consciously stop myself from thinking of Katniss. It feels like I'm drowning when I do. Like I'm desperately trying to stay afloat despite the current that pulls me down. I try not to suffocate in memories of her but it's hard not to. It's comfort and pain at the same time and I have no idea what to do about it. It happened so fast.

I rake my fingers through my hair and pace the room, trying to clear my head. The tears burn behind my eyes and it's a familiar sensation. I've felt it almost straight through the past two days. I push them back and the lump in my throat that accompanies the action is almost welcome. How many times have I felt this way, with Katniss clinging to me, my shirt soaked with her tears? I'm fairly certain there are less than five people on the planet who have seen Katniss openly cry, excluding when she lost Rue. If she trusts me enough to comfort her, I wasn't about to go ahead and burst into tears as well.

Only Katniss isn't here now and I don't have to be strong for anyone.

I let myself cry.

Not the leaky-eyed weeping I tried to hide in District 12, but full-on body wracking sobs. I punch the wall but don't register the pain in my fingers. I throw a decorative bowl at the mirror, shattering it to pieces.

Seven years bad luck, I think with a sour smile. It won't matter.

For the thousandth time I wonder what Katniss is doing right now. She'll be worried. She thinks I'm scared of going back, and I am, but I'm not scared of death. I got over that fear quickly during my first Hunger Games. Death is inevitable. No one can live forever. But I couldn't tell her that the reason for my drastic change in behavior the weeks before the Reaping wasn't because I was scared but because I was completely heartbroken.

That's why I didn't speak as much, didn't smile as much, couldn't find myself able to make her laugh as much. I was too heartbroken. Despite how much I tried to pull myself up and enjoy the little time I had with her, I couldn't because the pain of knowing I was just going to have to leave was too much. I'm an idiot.

Her words flood over me as I cry and I sink to the floor, face flushed and wet in the most pathetic way.

"How can I possibly be prepared? What would you do? If our places were switched? Would you be prepared if I died?"

"I'm terrified because I love you so damn much! I'm scared I messed everything up! I don't know how to say 'goodbye' to you."

"I'm in love with you Peeta. That's why you need to come back. To me."

I never told her I loved her enough. I reacted oddly when she told me and I wish I could redo it. I would have told her how much I loved hearing her say it. I would have told her everything I love about her. Every little thing. But I didn't. Because my stomach dropped to my feet like a heavy stone and all I could think was "it was easier when you didn't." It was easier when she didn't love me and there was nothing waiting for me. And I'm so upset that I ever doubted her feelings towards me because they seem so obvious when I look back. I think I would do anything in the world to be with her again. Even if it's just one more night. One more hour.

But would I kill these people with families of their own? I don't know.

I'll have to try.

I close my eyes for a second and try to catch my breath. I'm tired, I realize, and that only brings on another set of infuriating tears. If I'm tired Katniss will be tired. Who will hold her when she can't sleep after I'm gone?

Gale will.

I cover my eyes with my arm and lie down in a pathetic heap on the floor. Katniss won't let him comfort her. If that were a remote possibility she would have gone to him the moment we arrived back in District 12 six months ago. She would have sought him out.

But she sought me out. And her loving me was for nothing, wasn't it? Katniss didn't want to be with me, she tried just about everything to fight it, yet she loved me anyway. It has to mean something. Gale will never be able to help her the way I can and it's not an arrogant statement, just a simple truth. He won't understand. He can't. Even if I made him promise to look after her when I'm gone, will it actually help her?

If the situation was switched, I don't think anyone else would be able to help me.

But would I kill these people with families of their own to get back to her? I don't know.

I'll have to try. Because I love her too much.

I know people think we've jumped the gun. That it's just puppy love, or an infatuation, and up until the first Reaping it was that. For me, at least. But how can I explain to other people what we went through together? No one else will understand. Ever. Is it clichéd? Probably, but frankly I don't care what other people think. But if you survive a televised death match with the person you love, no matter how young you are, and then they die...

I would shatter into pieces and blow away.

I take a deep, shuttering breath and think about my last few days in District 12. I made a lot of people promise me things before I left. Gale. Prim. Rye. Haymitch. Katniss. Hers is the most important.

It always comes back to her. It always has.

I lie on the floor and it takes me about half an hour to calm myself. I think of her smile. That smile. Just her smile, nothing else, and it's enough to get me to stop crying. It's enough to make me feel slightly better.

I think I've lost my mind.

My thought process swerves from "hopeless victim" to "ruthless warrior" to "lovesick teenager" every two hours and the constant motion is giving me a migraine. This needs to be simpler.

I take a series of deep breaths and think about my promise to Katniss. Hell, Prim even cornered me about it. Little Prim, with surprising control, demanding I make it back to her sister. It makes me smile, the look she had on her face. It reminded me of the way Katniss ordered me not to die during my first Games, even though my survival seemed so slim at the time. It's not that different is it? My survival now seems unlikely but maybe there is a chance.

I think back to Katniss and how she's changed so much. Her desperate pleas that day in the attic are what get me because I can only imagine what barriers she had to climb to verbalize them, what barriers she had to climb to let herself love me.

"You're letting me down."

When I think back on it now, the thought makes me want to vomit. I can't let her down. And then I remember the last thing she said to me before we fell asleep that last night.

"I want a future with you."

If anything she's said can give me the resolve to fight, it's those words. I have to try. And sitting here on the floor, crying like a pathetic baby, is not trying. I need to stop wallowing in the past and focus on the future, no matter how bleak it seems because maybe it can work. I want a future. A future where I can kiss Katniss until I can't breathe, where I can crush her to me, tell her in painstaking detail why I'm so hopelessly in love with her and show her how unbelievable happy I am that she feels the same. Because I need a future with her. It's the only thing driving me forward at this point.

I get off the floor then, embarrassed with myself. I take a shower, regretting punching the wall. I study the purple swelling around my fingers and think I may have fractured a finger. Katniss would kill me if she knew.

I have a few hours to myself during the time before Portia is supposed to collect me and I spend it trying to decide how I should present myself to the public. I need a plan. I sit in the corner and I think back to my discussion with Haymitch during the Victory Tour. Where this whole mess started. I think about how I riled up the Districts with my speech and offerings to 11. About how I riled up the Capitol with my stupid love stories. I think back to the one time we spoke alone during the four weeks leading up to the Reaping.

I had been baking alone in my kitchen. Typical behavior.

It was during the time when Katniss and I rarely spoke, too caught up in our own issues to communicate properly. It was the day before she told me she loved me.

"Do you ever stop?"

I jump at the voice, surprised Haymitch is out of his house. I haven't seen him since the announcement. He looks surprisingly sober, which throws me off and I'm so insulted he hasn't tried talking to me sooner that I almost ask him why he isn't obliterated. I thought Haymitch would have dealt with the announcement by drinking.

"Well the District still needs bread and as long as I'm here I might as well make some," I respond before turning back around.

"Jesus," he whispers. "You have no idea."

"What?" I ask, irritated. I feel Haymitch move in back of me and when he grabs me by the arm and pushes me in the direction of the stairs, I'm too surprised by his actions to resist. I go to the bathroom and turn on all the faucets without really giving it much thought. When I turn around Haymitch is closing the door behind him.

"It was gonna be you all along," he says.

"What do you mean?"

"You're the one they had to worry about," he elaborates, as if this sentence alone answers all my questions. It doesn't and now I'm pissed. Haymitch talking in code might be the thing that sets me off.

"Seriously Haymitch if you're going to stand here—"

"I'm sorry, kid," he says, and it looks like he really means it. I bring my hands up to my face and start rubbing my eyes. I don't know what to say back to him. I never know what to say back to people when they tell me how sorry they are. When it happens in the Hob, or in town, I just grimace. Katniss will grip my hand. It's always a silent exchange.

"You're too 'good'. You don't even realize it, which makes it so much worse for them," Haymitch continues, and I open my mouth to respond but just end up closing it. If I am so 'good' why did they decide to send me to my death again?

"You're the one they needed to get rid of. You were the one getting every one upset. Do you remember 11? And the interview with Caesar?" The blood seems to evaporate from my veins. I'd never really contemplated why I was the one who was chosen. I honestly thought it was going to be Katniss so when my name was pulled, it was relief, not anger, I felt. I thought it was some weird chance of luck on my part. Only after the initial shock wore off did I begin to understand what it meant. That I wouldn't see her again.

"I've tried, boy," Haymitch continues. "I've tried to…think of a way around this. I have." With that Haymitch sits down on the toilet seat and runs his hands over his face. "I should've realized…I should've been better."

I've never seen Haymitch sad before. Upset, yes. But sad? No. I don't like it.

"You were great. You saved us," I answer back. He shouldn't feel guilty about this. Just like Katniss shouldn't feel guilty about this. When Haymitch doesn't snap back a retort I know something is wrong.

"I'm not making it out, am I?" I whisper, my voice almost detached from my body. I've known it deep down since the moment my name was called but I think having Haymitch here more or less confirms it.

"I'm sorry," Haymitch croaks again. "I just think…most of the Victors this year…they've been problematic. It wasn't a coincidence. I have no idea what to do for you. I don't know how to help."

I sink to the floor at this. I don't know what to do either. It's all a waste. Katniss training me, it won't work out. The grief that hits me at the realization is something I can't put into words.

"You'll look after her, right?" I ask. I can feel my voice breaking. If I won't make it out, I can at least make sure she will be safe. She's my only concern, really. Always has been. She's more family to me now than mine ever was; the only person who didn't look at me with disdain and pity. "When I'm gone, you'll make sure she…that she's alright." The words seem to get caught in my throat at different intervals and they come out a bit choked. Haymitch looks up at me and nods slightly.

"She is so in love with you it's ridiculous," he says. "She probably hasn't told you, or anyone, but holy shit it's leaking out of her ears."

Haymitch ponders his words for a minute and then starts to laugh. I stare at him for a few seconds and then, because the situation is so bleak, and Haymitch and I are sitting on my bathroom floor talking about love, I start to laugh until it's hard to breathe. Although I'm sure it sounds more like suffocated crying.

No, Katniss hadn't told me she loved me… but I know she does. She's a terrible actress and at this point, I would be able to tell if she were faking it, having experienced the fake before. I feel bad for it. She, who never wanted to fall in love, fell in love with the boy who is sent to die. What tragic irony.

Eventually Haymitch's laughing dies down and he stares at his fingers, mulling over what he is about to say.

"I think they're hoping that if you don't make it out of there, she'll be too broken to cause any more trouble," he says.

The memory hurts but it reminds me of something. I made her promise to fight, and I'm not doing it myself. I'm a coward.

It's then when I realize what I'll do. I know I promised her I would try my hardest to make it back, and I will. But if the Capitol is intent on getting rid of me, I'm going to help bring them down the only way I know how.

I'm not going to have an angle this time around. I've never had an angle, now that I think of it. Like always, I'm going to tell it like it is.

Portia and my prep team spend close to no time getting me ready. There is no synthetic fire this time. No shading done on my face to make me look older and more mature. I wear the same thing that I wore during the Reaping and this time, I understand why she's doing it this way.

It's obvious my prep team is trying to make a statement. My clothes, despite the fact that they were the best I owned before the Hunger Games, are worn and faded: hand me downs from my brothers. There's no doubt in my mind that the Capitol will be comparing the Victors' original Games and the one that is about to come. I've been dressed in basically the same clothes since leaving 12 and there's no way the Capitol, and certainly the Districts, can ignore it.

"Why be someone you're not?"

I'll be an exact replica of six months ago. I'm still just a boy from District 12 with terrible luck. Portia brushes my hair again, reminding me of the mother I never had, and before she can leave for the night I touch her hand, stopping her.

"Thank you, Portia. For letting me be myself one last time."

I see her amber eyes flicker slightly, betraying her true emotions, but she recovers quickly and looks back at me with a steely expression.

"You deserve it," she says before she leaves.

It seems that District 12 has the only stylist who thought to rebel in their choice of costume because I am the only one who is dressed in plain clothes. Even though I took no time getting ready, I am the last to arrive and when the other Tributes hear me enter the chariot tunnel, they stop and stare. Not sure what to do, I stare back.

They are more confused than anything, but I see understanding in a few of the Victors' faces. I see the Victor from 11, Chaff, give me a curt nod. He lost one of his arms during his Games and as a slight act of rebellion he refused a prosthetic. Chaff is the one who clued Haymitch in on the brewing rebellion in 11 and he is one of the Victors who I can understand why he's here.

I can feel eyes on me but I walk over to my chariot anyway and start to pet one of the horses, hoping that the awkward silence that filled the room once I arrived will dissipate quickly. I know that most of these Victors already know each other. I can tell by the way they're joking around, trying to make light of a despicable situation. Maybe my old self would join them, try to be friendly, but I don't really see the point. Gloss and Enobaria are chatting a few yards away, wearing costumes I'm sure are supposed to gain respect. It looks like Enobaria is wearing a dress made up of the teeth of different animals. I look away.

"Peeta."

I twist my neck in the direction of the voice and see a middle-aged woman smiling warmly at me.

District 8—Cecelia. I had trouble watching her second Reaping. Peacekeepers had to pry her away from her screaming children.

"Hi, Cecelia," I respond. "It's nice to meet you." I hold out my hand, for some reason unable to stay closed off, and she takes it lightly and smiles.

"I thought I would introduce myself. It's sort of like an exclusive club, here, isn't it? But you're new," she says. There's no amusement in her voice but I laugh anyway. What a fun club to be a part of.

"Yes. Brand new. Everybody's always wary of the new guy."

"They're all intimidated by you," she says quietly. "You're different than most of the Victors."

I know, I almost respond. Look where's it gotten me. I hear the anthem start to play and I look towards the opening of the tunnel. Gloss is stepping into his chariot.

"I think we're all more alike than we think," I respond truthfully and to my surprise, Cecelia brings her hand up to my face and touches my cheek.

"I hope my boys grow up to be like you," she barely whispers. I look down at her and the pain in her eyes is sharp but brief. She straightens the collar of my shirt, a habit surely, and pats my shoulder before walking away.

I take a deep breath, trying to clear my mind, and climb into my chariot.

I don't have Katniss' hand to hold onto this time so I clutch the sides of the chariot and my knuckles turn white. It hurts my bruised fingers but the pain I feel distracts me from Cecelia's words. I don't have much time to think before the horses start to pull me and before I know it, I'm shuttling through the open tunnel and into the square. The roar of the audience falters when I make my entrance, but not by much. Surely they are surprised by my costume. I look up into the crowds, a faceless mass, wondering where the cameras are. Katniss is watching this.

I let the emotion play on my face this time, knowing the more the Capitol and Districts see of my true feelings, the more jarring it will be. I turn my head and see myself displayed on the enormous screens surrounding the square. I look kind of pathetic in my worn clothes but I'm sure that's the point. I feel something hit me lightly on the head and it falls to my feet in the chariot box.

A rose.

I remember how Katniss would sometimes scream nonsense about roses during her nightmares. After she woke up, as her heart rate slowed and her breathing calmed, I would hold her to me and always wonder what it was about roses that got to her.

I bring my foot down and crush it. I don't like roses either.

The chariots slow and I make my last loop around the square. I stare up into the crowds, wondering how the citizens of the Capitol are handling this. The Games are six months early and there are only 12 Tributes. They've grown to love them all, in some way or another. Will they be upset when we die? Or will they be easily distracted by something else when we're gone?

"Welcome, citizens of the Capitol. Welcome, Panem."

The chariots stop and I look up into the President's box. Snow is standing at a podium high above us, smiling out into the crowd. He looks small when he's so far away. Puny, even. The Peacekeepers that flank him seem to be twice his size.

"Welcome Tributes, Victors in your own right," he continues and I stare at him, willing him to meet my eyes. He doesn't. Coward.

"We gather here tonight to celebrate the start of the 75th Hunger Games: The Third Quarter Quell."

I half-listen as he goes into detail about the importance of the Games and the history of the Quell. I've heard it before. He claims that the twist in each Quell was created before the start of even the very first Hunger Games but I have trouble believing this particular Quell was created years in advance. It must have been created just months ago. It's far too specific.

"This year, one surviving Victor from each of the Districts has been chosen by the Gamemakers. The chosen Tribute will demonstrate his or her skills in this year's arena without the help of Mentors or sponsors," Snow says, his voice reverberating around the square. I glance at the screens and see that a small smile graces his grotesque and puffy lips. He doesn't explain the rule. Again, coward.

I listen carefully to the rest of his speech, my eyes not leaving his form, and he goes on about how exciting this years' games will be with only 12 Tributes. How the arena will be as fantastic as ever. He doesn't talk about why these particular Victors were chosen and all I can think of is how cowardly he is, hiding behind manipulation and lies in his lush Capitol mansion.

Right before he leaves the podium and the opening ceremony is brought to an end he looks at me. It's hard to tell because he's so far away, but I can feel his gaze. It makes the hair on my arms stand up and my skin grow cold. I hate him. I hate him so much and I may as well be screaming it at him because I'm sure the look on my face communicates my true feelings clearly. I wonder if the screens are on me now but I'm too enraged to look.

The horses carry us back into the tunnel and I clench my fists, suddenly furious at everyone and everything. I step off my chariot and my prosthetic leg almost buckles at the force with which I move.

"Nice outfit, 12." I turn around to see that Johanna Mason has jumped off her chariot as well. Johanna is small with short brown hair and she's assessing me with large brown eyes. "I didn't get to tell you before the opening ceremony." She walks over to me and leans against my chariot, crossing her arms over her chest.

"It's not as…stemmed in nature as yours is but I'm happy with it," I respond, my anger only slightly dying. Johanna is from District 7—lumber. It seems her stylists took the safe route and dressed her like the trees from her district. Her dress is brown and tight, the top of which is decorated in short green things I presume are supposed to resemble pine needles. She's wearing a green crown and brown, leather slippers. She would look pretty if it weren't for the glare that covers her face. She didn't like my comment.

"My stylists are a bunch of idiots," Johanna huffs. "They've been dressing us up like trees for years. I wish I had a team like yours. The dresses they put Katniss in? Seemed she had everyone eating out of the palm of her hand during the Victory Tour. She looks like a total bitch if you ask me, though," Johanna says while picking at her fingernails. She glances up at me and then smirks. "No offense."

She's not a bitch! I want to shout but I bite my tongue and smile at her, instead, choosing to ignore the comment completely and Johanna keeps running her mouth.

"It's too bad they didn't dress you up in something like Finnick over there. I'm sure we'd all love to see what exactly you've got going on under there," she says with a raised eyebrow, gesturing towards me with, what I'm guessing is, a seductive grin. Her comment about Finnick bothers me. I remember the long-ago threat Snow used against Katniss: prostituting me out to the people of the Capitol to make her cooperate. I can feel my face heat up out of anger and guilt but Johanna mistakes it for a blush and laughs.

"Finnick! Twelve over here is jealous of your costume," she shouts, making everyone turn to look in my direction. My face burns again and I watch Finnick saunter over. All he's wearing is a loosely tied fishing net, the knot strategically placed over his groin. It seems that he's been sprayed a sort of golden color and it makes his green eyes even more piercing than they are. He looks like one of those marble statues Katniss and I saw during our tour of the Capitol museums.

"Don't mind Jo, she's just upset she never got a piece of it," Finnick says before he pecks Johanna on the cheek. She scowls again and punches him in the arm. "How you doing over there, 12? You're looking kind of washed out," he says as he inspects my shirt.

"Just peachy," I respond. "Thrilled to be here. I'm not sure why your prep team dressed you up like that, though. It's not like you'll be gaining any sponsors," I say with a smile. I couldn't help myself. There's only so much prodding I can take before start to fight back.

Johanna's lip twitches, like she's holding back a smile, and Finnick tilts his head at me, curious. It's hard to tell if they've realized this already: the pointlessness of playing the Game.

"Guess you're right about that. What's your plan, then?" Finnick asks casually, patting the chariot horse on the neck.

Kill you, I think begrudgingly, because I would rather not. I search my mind for something clever to say but come up short.

"I don't think any of us will really know for sure until we get in there," I say. I want to kick myself for my honest answer even though it's true. I have no idea what I'm going to do. Maybe they'll both mistake my uncertainty for mystery.

Finnick points to the elevators and changes the subject.

"Riding up?"

I nod and Johanna and I follow behind him. When the elevator doors close behind us, Johanna immediately strips out of her dress, wearing nothing except the brown leather slippers. I stare straight ahead and Finnick starts to laugh.

"See something you like, 12?" Johanna asks in a light voice.

"Sorry. You're not my type." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. I think it's pretty obvious what my type is at this point. Her name is Katniss Everdeen.

"I can change that," she quips and I feel her hand grip my backside. I lurch away from her and knock into the side of the elevator. Johanna just laughs.

"What? Did no one tell you about the birds and the bees, little boy?" Johanna taunts.

Almost immediately my mind veers and I all can think about is Katniss. Running my fingers between her legs. Her hand pumping me. Hot, wet kisses. The way she tastes and the throaty sounds she panted into my ear. I remember her flushed cheeks and the indescribable feeling of her skin moving against mine. Me hovering over her. Her legs around my waist. Her muscles clenching around me. The look on her face as she came. I've been able to get hard just thinking about it and I'm infinitely grateful it doesn't happen here, in this elevator.

I think, deep down, I would kill everyone one of these Victors to spend one more night with her, to press my body against hers and whisper in her ear how much I love her.

When I respond to Johanna I'm staring straight into her eyes.

"I'm perfectly well-versed in that area." I'm surprised my cheeks don't burn.

"Here that, Jo? I wouldn't underestimate him if I were you," Finnick says with a large grin. I look at him and he starts to chuckle knowingly as the doors open on the fourth floor. Only then do I feel the familiar heat of a blush rise up my neck.

"Don't let the bed bugs bite, you two!" Finnick jokes before he disappears.

The elevator is silent all the way up to the seventh floor. Out of the corner of my eye I see that Johanna is studying me carefully. The doors open and Johanna steps off.

"I don't underestimate you," she says and I look at her. I know immediately she's not talking about sex anymore. She doesn't seem phased by the fact that she's completely nude and the look in her eyes is one of silent resolve.

Just as the doors begin to close she speaks again.

"I just hope we don't overestimate you."

The training center is almost empty when I arrive the first day. I decided to come early because I have nothing else to do and I thought I might as well get a head start on practicing with some of the weapons in here. I spot the Victors from 5 and 6 sitting in the corner. One is staring at his hands, the other is touching the wall as if trying to figure a way out. I wrote them off easily during the second Reaping. One is clearly addicted to morphling, the other has to be over 65 years old. I wonder why the Capitol chose them. They don't seem like they are capable of feeding themselves, let alone aiding a rebellion.

Finnick's early too, and seems to be milling around the ropes station. He's chatting with the older man I vaguely remember to be from District 3. I'm not sure what to do with myself. I know Katniss would want me to ignore the other people in here and start practicing with plants and snares right away. I'm walking towards the plants station when Finnick calls me.

"Hey, there District 12!" I turn around and look at him. He's standing by the rope station, all genuine smiles and wild bronze hair. It goes against my nature to shy away from other people but this time I back away. I'm not scared of Finnick Odair. I just don't want to get too attached to him. To any of them, really, because I know I'm just going to have to kill them in the end. "How are they treating you up in the penthouse? Doesn't look like you got much sleep."

That's because I suffer from horrible post-traumatic stress nightmares and the only way I can sleep at night is if I can hold onto my girlfriend, who suffers from the same nightmares. Isn't that cute, District 4?

"I was trying to erase the image of you in that fishing net from my mind," I reply dryly. If he wants to play this game, I'll go along with it. Finnick laughs loudly and slaps my shoulder.

"Well if you've got the goods, am I right? The ladies sure didn't seem to mind it. And some of the men, for that matter," he continues. I laugh along with him equally confused and disturbed. Whenever I see Finnick, I see Snow's version. The handsome young man, adored by the Capitol, sold to the highest bidder. It could have been me.

"This is rude of me. Have you met Beetee? District 3." Finnick turns to the small man by his side and gestures between the two of us. The man named Beetee looks up at me with a half smile.

"Beetee. Nice to meet you I'm Peeta," I hold my hand out and he grips it weakly, distractedly. "You're from District 3?" I flinch inwardly. That was a stupid statement; Finnick just said he was from District 3.

Beetee nods and I glance back up at Finnick but he just smiles and moves to the other side of the room. I look over and see him make his way toward Johanna. I'm happier here.

"I'm sorry you were Reaped," Beetee says in a soft voice. I turn to look at him. This isn't something that should be discussed here, or anywhere for that matter. Not in the Capitol. I move to shake my head but Beetee interrupts me quietly.

"There are no sound devices in here. Cameras, yes, but none that transmit sound. Only here, though. In the living quarters they have everything."

I'm shocked by his bluntness and my eyes go wide. I take the man in. He's on the shorter side with very pale skin and dark hair. He's from District 3 so I know that he knows a lot about the technology in here. I can't decide if I trust him or not. I know I shouldn't, I shouldn't trust anyone, but something about this old man, the way he stands and his soft voice, pull me in. I'm about to ask him 'why?' when he continues speaking.

"The Gamemakers are up there," Beetee gestures ever so slightly to the second floor of the Training Center while pulling at a knot. A dozen or so Gamemakers are milling about, chatting with one another. Plutarch Heavensbee is pouring himself some coffee. My blood boils, remembering how friendly he was to me during the Victory Tour. No one is paying attention to us, which I find strange. If we're all here because we're suspected traitors, why aren't they more attentive?

"We're right in their line of sight. They come down here once training officially starts," Beetee continues. "Who would dream of spreading words of treason in the belly of the beast?"

I close my mouth, which I realize had been hanging open and Beetee keeps pulling at the ropes, finally loosening the knot he had been working on.

"That'll be his downfall. Arrogance and blind stupidity."

Beetee drops the rope and walks away from me. I reel at his words.

I talk to a few other people that day during training, trying to keep my demeanor calm, ignoring Beetee's words. Chaff and I share our experiences with phantom limbs. I chat with Finnick for a while. Johanna grabs my ass again and tries to make it seem like I was the one hitting on her. I sit with Cecelia during lunch, and listen to her tell stories about her young boys. I watch her eyes glaze over and try desperately not to be affected by her. She'll have to die for me to make it back and she only reminds me of what I have to lose.

I lie in bed that night thinking of Katniss, of the way her hair smells, wondering if she can somehow find sleep without me.

On the second day of training, Beetee ignores me completely, which I find odd considering our exchange the day before. I try not to let it get to me so naturally it does. I'm about to confront him again when out of nowhere Johanna pulls me over to the camouflage station.

"Mind showing me some tricks?" It's the first time she's said anything without trying to make me uncomfortable and I'm so surprised that I agree. I know I shouldn't be teaching her my trade secrets but I have a terrible habit of not being able to turn people down, even if they could potentially kill me in a few days. I'm awful at this.

"Sure," I respond, hating myself. I start to mix some paints and Johanna moves across the table.

"Well, if you're trying to camouflage you need—"

"I know you spoke to Beetee," she says quietly so the Gamemaker in the corner doesn't overhear us. I resume mixing the paints.

"I spoke to him yesterday for about 3 minutes," I reply casually. I don't trust her. In fact, I trust her the least out of every one of these people.

"It's true about the sound devices. He would know, after all. He probably made them."

I glance up at her but she's looking down at the paint, dipping one of her fingers into the mixture experimentally.

"They're really riled up out there. In the Districts. In the Capitol. You and I both know you're a big part of that."

I continue mixing the paint but can feel my face pale. What is she getting at?

"I don't think you like me all that much," Johanna says, voice rather serious. "Maybe you should start to remember who the real enemy is, 12." I pause, my fingers stilling in the mixed paint. "Just think it over. Now, come on I'm sick of this arts and craft shit. Let me show you what I can do with an axe."

Johanna moves towards the station with the axes and I quickly dry my hands and follow her, trying not to let what she said show on my face.

After lunch I head over to the bow and arrow station. I'm running my fingers over the bow, itching to practice. Katniss was a very patient teacher and I'm not good at it but if I can surprise the other Victors, I would have quite an edge.

"You miss her."

I turn around at the sound of Finnick's voice. I don't know what to say to him. Obviously I miss her. I can't go five seconds without thinking of her, but this time I was honestly just trying to size up these bows. I wonder if he knows Katniss taught me how to shoot.

"That obvious, huh?" I ask. Finnick's a nice guy. At least he pretends to be. For all I know Beetee and Johanna could be pretending, too. I have no idea what to think of them anymore and their camaraderie is making my initial plan of "act like a wall, suck it up and kill them all" a lot more difficult.

"Yeah. That obvious," Finnick sighs. "I mean, I don't know you very well, you just seem kind of lost. I've watched your interviews from before. You seem like you would be a lot friendlier." I stop my hands on the bow and whip my head in his direction. His casual, loosely boastful tone is completely gone, replaced with genuine concern. It's thrown me off. I want to tell him that typically I am a lot friendlier but being sent to my imminent death for the second time in less than a year will take a toll on your manners. Instead I take a deep breath and let it out through my nose.

"I don't want to be here. I don't want to kill you. I don't want to kill anyone. I want to go home." I'm surprised by my honesty with him. Maybe it's the fact that Finnick kind of reminds me of my brother, Rye. That coupled with the fact I'm absolutely terrible at playing these games. I can't do it. I'm not good at manipulating people.

I watch as Finnick grabs an arrow and starts to twirl it around in his fingers.

"There's a plan. A rescue mission," Finnick's voice is low but more urgent than normal and I can feel my body freeze. "You just need to trust me. You need to trust Johanna. She spoke with you, right?"

I nod, too shocked to do anything else.

"I can understand why you would have your reservations. But we're too tired of playing mind games with people in the same situation as us. I'm tired of playing games with the Capitol. I want to go back to the girl I love, too." My eyebrows knit together. Finnick has a girl back home? In District Four? It goes against everything I'm supposed to believe about his playboy image. I look at him hard and for a second, his façade crumbles away. I see it in his eyes. His heartbreak matches mine.

"I think you should hear us out. It's your only chance, really. You're a smart guy so I know that you know you don't really have a chance in this by yourself. I alone could squash you like a fly in the arena. But I don't want to." Finnick picks up the arrow and brings it to the light, pretending to examine it. It's true. Finnick could destroy me. I'm strong, yes, but he's got a solid 4 inches on me height-wise and he's a lot more agile. If he has a girl back home why doesn't he just kill me? What the hell is this rescue mission he's talking about? I'm on the defensive now.

"Why include me? Why am I of any use to you?" I glance over at him and to my surprise he looks slightly disappointed.

"Sometimes people aren't necessarily 'of use' to you but you try to help them anyway," Finnick says while considering the arrow in his hands. "For some reason I thought you would already know that."

Finnick hands me the arrow, pats my back and then walks away. I turn around and watch him. He nods at Johanna, all the while tapping the three middle fingers of his right hand to his right leg.

Finnick's words haunt me the rest of the day and throughout the night. I try to think of all the reasons he would want to screw me over and, unfortunately, come up with hundreds. But the truth of the matter is, if Finnick wants to come out alive, he will. Trusting him is my only shot of survival, even if it is ambiguous. Trusting people is really the only way I know how to survive, if I'm being honest. I trusted Katniss. I trusted Haymitch. It's what I know how to do. To trust.

What the hell was I thinking when I thought I could kill all these people and come out Victor? I tried to be closed off and I failed. I have one leg, for god's sake. Any possibility I had of surviving suddenly seems very far away.

"Sometimes people aren't necessarily 'of use' to you but you try to help them anyway."

Of everything he said to me, this sticks the most. It's a concept I've lived by my entire life and being here, in the Capitol, for less than a week has turned it around in my head. I've abandoned my beliefs and adopted a new set: do anything to win, especially if it means losing yourself. It's exactly what the Capitol wants. Didn't I tell Katniss that same thing the night before my first Games? That if I'm going to die, I want to die as Peeta—not the Capitol-constructed Victor.

"For some reason I thought you would already know that."

He can't possibly know about Katniss and me and the bread that defined out relationship. How many times have I said those words to Katniss, phrased differently, these past few months? That sometimes you want to help people for the sake of helping. If I turn away from Finnick, I'll be a hypocrite. I'll be a phony. A liar. I will have lied to Katniss.

For once, I let mind focus entirely on her, not caring about the pain it will surely bring. Her eyes. Her soft, dark hair. Her smile. That smile. The freckle just below her left breast. Her laugh. The soft skin of her inner thigh. The way she looks with peanut butter stuck to her nose. The way her tongue tastes. The feeling of being inside of her. Her whispered words.

"I love you. Always."

We promised not to lie to each other. If I somehow make it back, the blood of 11 others permanently stained on my hands, how could I look at her the same way? I will be a liar. What's more, how can I live with myself if I knew there might have been another option? I remember the three fingers, the sign that confounded me. Now it's a beacon of hope in this otherwise hopeless situation.