Author's Note

Very short one this time (to make up for the very long one last time, I suppose). I had written this, decided to cut it out, and halfway through the next chapter decided that it needed to stay after all. The story seemed a little disjointed without this scene, so for the sake of flow here it is. I considered making it a part of the next chapter, but it didn't work very well that way. I may still go back and rework this once the next chapter is done and split them more evenly, but for now I'm leaving it like this. Feedback is appreciated.

Also, I fixed my summary... SO EMBARASSING. I pride myself on being articulate, but I wrote that summary half asleep at something like 1:30 in the morning and never bothered to look at it again until now. I guess it still kind of makes sense the old way, but ... now it's more correct. The reader infers, the writer implies. Not the other way round. Misusing words is one of by biggest pet peeves - right up there with misplaced apostrophes. Thank you for reading; next chapter should hopefully not take too long to post.

...

It's raining lightly when we gather in the square for the training score announcement. Luckily, this is one of the mandatory events that doesn't take very long. They cycle through the tributes and flash their ranks on screen in big bold numbers, Caesar Flickerman babbles a few lines to tease for the interviews to be aired tomorrow, and they send us on their way. Details are never shared. God forbid the gamemakers spoil any surprises about how any of the contestants are going to kill each other. That would take the fun out of it.

I stand with my brothers and sister at the back of the crowd again (prepared to make a hasty retreat as soon as this is over) while my mother wanders away for a few minutes to talk to a friend. Even from here I can see reporters milling about where Prim and her mother are standing at the front of the crowd. I've spoken very little to Prim since Reaping Day, only when I'd stopped by to drop off food or make sure her mother was still alive. Part of me feels sorry for her, part of me is glad she is safe, and part of me is angry because if it weren't for her Katniss would still be here which makes the last little part of me feel like a monster. I guess time will mitigate those feelings, but for now they make conversation unbearably uncomfortable. Still, Prim seemed to tacitly understand to leave my name unmentioned to the vultures that hound her at every event. But that doesn't mean someone else won't.

The kids start getting antsy at the waiting, and Vick begins stomping one foot in a puddle with the very specific intention of soaking Rory's pants. Rory become justifiably annoyed and sets to putting his brother into an improvised arm-lock, which only encourages the splashing. I pry them apart and place myself strategically between them to prevent an otherwise guaranteed round of name-calling.

Without Rory to draw his attention, Vick tugs at my sleeve hard enough to shake raindrops off the edge of my hood and onto the both of us. "Gale! Gale! When are they going to say Katniss is an ele-"

I clap a hand over his mouth just before he can get the whole word out. I don't get a chance to give further instruction because Posy starts in, hands-on-hips and full-on bossy.

"Vick! Nobody's supposed to know she's –"

She gets my free hand clamped over her mouth also. "Quit it, Mom Junior, not your job. And you're being just as loud." We could get in a lot of trouble finding out about this ahead of time. And so could Madge for telling us.

….

A flash onscreen cues the Anthem, and people start to settle. I feel a strange sense of excitement and pride for this morbid event, because I know what is coming before anyone else does.

The crowd applauds when Peeta Mellark's "8" lights up the screen; it is one of the better scores ever awarded to a District Twelve tribute. Usually people in the square are morose even on the rare occasion that respectable scores are handed out – the Hunger Games are for the Capitol and the Capitol only. But this year, the fact that downtrodden Twelve has outshined – quite literally – the Capitol's pet districts seems an act of defiance in itself. And everyone loves it.

Then they scroll through the list of female tributes, and to be honest, I hardly see a single one of them. I'm waiting for the one that matters. And when her picture comes on, next to one of the highest scores ever awarded in the history of the Games, the square erupts. Cheers and whistles fill the air, hats are tossed overhead, people embrace each other and jump up and down for the joy and hope they can no longer contain. For a moment, not even the rain can touch us.

I look for Gale across the sea of bodies to see his reaction, wishing that he's finding a way to hope. I can see him smile from under the hood of his jacket and point at the screen, and for a fleeting moment he even appears to laugh. I lose his face when he bends down; when he comes back up he has his sister in his arms. He points again and she claps excitedly now that she can see what's going on. Then, suddenly, his eyes find mine. But I don't get the glare of contempt that I've come to expect as a matter of course. My heart skids to a stop as one corner of his mouth pulls faintly upward, and his head gives the smallest nod in my direction before he turns to shepherd his siblings back home. And it's like it was never raining at all.