A/N: Hey guys! Very short note here at the beginning. I'm beyond thrilled that the majority of you like where this story is heading. For those of you who are still wary, I can only ask you to trust that I know exactly what I'm doing. :)

Movie quote for the day is another quote from my favorite movie ever, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

"Don't ever hit your mother with a shovel. It leaves a dull impression on her mind." - Butch Cassidy

Random Disclaimer: I do not own CF, though I do own a rather fantastic fedora; "Think you used enough dynamite there, Butch?"; "Why is the rum always gone?"; "Why so serious?"; "I'll get you my pretty! And your little dog, too!"; "I am Asneeze, father of Achoo."; "Dobby did not mean to kill . . . only to maim . . . or seriously injure."; "My precious!"; "Puny god"; "So that's what it feels like"; "Yeah, I can fly."; "There's only one God, ma'am, and I'm pretty sure he doesn't dress like that."; "Your skin is pale white, you dress fashionably, and you abstain from sex. . . I know what you are . . . Jonas brother"; "Snakes. I hate snakes."; "When you marooned me on that god forsaken spit of land, you forgot one very important thing, mate: I'm Captain Jack Sparrow."; "It's like Christmas, but with more . . . me."; "It's the unknown we fear when we look upon death and darkness, nothing more."; "It's beautiful isn't it, Harry? The moon."; "Hang on, everybody! I wanna try something I saw in a cartoon once!"; "Well that's as clean as it will ever be."; "Slimy, yet satisfying."; "You may not like it Minister, but you can't deny . . . Dumbledore's got style."; "Over that boy hand!"; "Don't ever hit your mother with a shovel. It leaves a dull impression on her mind."


Chapter 23

A high pitched wail cuts me to my core. Horror causes me to freeze, and I swear that my heart stops completely for a brief second before beginning to beat frantically. I'd recognize that wail anywhere . . .

I'm running before I realize my legs are moving, sprinting faster than I ever have before. The trees and vines cut at my face and my arms, but I plow through them like they're nothing but a meek thread. The ground beneath my feet is uneven and causes me to stumble frequently, but I do not slow. In fact, I only move faster.

Another wail echoes throughout the arena, and the sound brings tears to my eyes, but I blink them back furiously as I continue my rampage through the forest. Finally, I reach the meadow where sweet, little Rue died, where I killed Marvel.

But this time, as I burst into the clearing, it's not Rue and Marvel I see. President Snow, dressed as immaculately as ever in a crisp black suit with the ever-present white rose in his lapel, is standing in the meadow.

In his arms is my baby.

"Let him go," I beg. "Please! Your fight is with me, not him! He's innocent!"

President Snow chuckles evilly. "But my dear, Katniss, no one is innocent."

My heart threatens to shatter. "Please," I plead with him. "Please, just let him go! Take me instead."

"But why would I take you?" Snow asks with a sneer. "What are you? Just a girl who bit off more than she could chew. You're of no use to me. But your husband on the other hand . . ."

Suddenly, Peeta appears in the clearing, bloodied and broken, only able to stand on his feet because of the support of two Capitol men. Still, he's able to meet my gaze, and a sob tears through my chest when I see the defeat in his eyes.

"You know, Katniss, I'm feeling generous." My eyes snap back to President Snow, who is still holding my squirming, wailing child in his arms. "I can't possibly kill both your husband and your son. No, that would be too cruel, even for me. How about I let one live? I'll even let you decide!"

What? He wants me to choose? "I can't—"

"Katniss." Immediately, my attention is on Peeta. "Save him, Katniss. Save our son."

Tears begin to fall down my cheeks. "Peeta . . ." I whisper brokenly, cringing when a particularly harsh wail pierces the air.

"Katniss, just let me go," Peeta pleads with me. "I'll still be with you, just in a different way."

My eyes fall on our son, fruitlessly trying to fight his way out of Snow's arms. I see his little tuft of blonde hair, and my heart breaks. "Okay," I answer, but whether I'm addressing Peeta or President Snow, I don't know.

"Wonderful." Snow smiles. "Who shall you save?"

"Give me my baby," I demand, my voice cracking. I take a step forward, but Snow takes a step back.

An ugly, derisive sneer appears on President Snow's face. "You actually thought I'd let you save one of them?" He laughs manically. "How can I let either of them live? I want you to break, Katniss. If you break, the rebellion breaks. I can't allow you to have anything to fight for. Without your little family you're nothing."

My son cries for me one last time before . . .

"No!"

I shoot up into a sitting position, sweating and breathing heavily. A wave of nausea hits me and I bolt from the bed, barely making it to the toilet in time to throw up everything in my stomach. I'm trembling with the reticent fear from my nightmare, and when I feel a hand on my shoulder, I instinctively jerk away from the contact and blindly swing my fist.

A strong hand catches my wrist. "Hey, it's just me," a soft voice assures me.

Peeta sits down on the bathroom floor beside me, and I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes. He doesn't ask questions, at least not yet. Regrettably, in the past three weeks this has happened enough that it's almost a routine now. Since learning that I was pregnant, my nightmares have come back full force, and they're crueler than ever, relentless in their attempts to drive me insane. Every dream is similar in the theme that my baby dies, that I can't save him. It's always a boy, never a girl. Peeta is usually present, too. Sometimes he'll die trying to save me. Sometimes he'll die trying to save the baby. Either way, death is ever-present in my nightmares.

"Want to talk about it?" Peeta asks quietly, and I shake my head. Normally, I might tell him a few details, but this nightmare was the worst.

All I can manage to say is, "It was terrible."

"It's not real," Peeta says soothingly, and I feel his lips in my hair. "As you can see, I'm definitely alive. And you're alive."

And the baby is alive, goes unsaid.

Honestly, it makes sense that I would have my worst nightmare yet this morning. The reaping is today. One year ago, I was Katniss Everdeen, a sixteen year old girl from the Seam. I stood in the square praying that my name wouldn't be called, that Gale's name wouldn't be called, giving no real thought to Prim. But of course, Prim was called, and I volunteered to take her place. I willingly went into the arena.

This year, I'm Katniss Mellark, a seventeen year old girl from the Victor's Village. This year, I have no choice but to go into the arena. My fate is set.

And hopefully everything goes according to plan.

Yeah, I know, trying to plan fate. So sue me for attempting to conquer the insurmountable.

"Go back to bed," I tell Peeta, giving his shoulder a gentle shove before I get to my feet. "I'll be there in a minute."

"You better be," he says with a small smile before leaving the bathroom.

The moment he's gone I sigh heavily and look at my reflection in the mirror. Aside from the slightly crazed look in my eyes, I look relatively normal. The faint beginnings of shadows can be seen under my eyes, but hopefully with another few hours of sleep that will be taken care of. Peeta and I already told ourselves that we weren't getting out of bed until noon or later, so that gives me at least another six hours of sleep.

I brush my teeth, getting rid of the acidic taste in my mouth, and then splash some water on my face, if only to prolong my solitude in the bathroom. It's not as though I'm avoiding Peeta. I just hate that I'm being so weak right now, waking up screaming in the middle of the night and crying endlessly. My moods are all over the place sometimes, and the littlest things can either set me off or make me cry. And then there was morning sickness, the bane of my existence. It isn't even aptly named because my nausea is not exclusive to the morning hours.

And poor Peeta, he's just been along for the ride, but he never complains. Not when I yell at him for no reason, or when I suddenly burst into tears. He'll hold my hair when I'm puking my guts out, despite my adamant protests that he leave. And then there are the nightmares, where I will wake him up with my screaming and thrashing. He always holds me until I fall asleep again, even if it takes hours. I don't deserve him.

I decide that I've postponed my return to bed long enough. I flip off the bathroom light and navigate my way through the darkness of the bedroom. The moment I slip under the covers, Peeta pulls me into his arms. We don't say anything. I simply burrow into his side, and Peeta's arms tighten around me. Only then do I allow my eyes to close.

The next time I wake up, bright sun is streaming through the window. I blink against the sudden brightness, and my first thought is not how lovely the sun feels on my face. My first thought is how, for once, I don't automatically feel the need vomit. Glorious.

In fact, my mood threatens to lift considerably until I remember my nightmare. My mood plummets. The reaping is today. I lift my head from Peeta's chest to glance at the clock on the nightstand. It's a quarter 'til noon. Great. Only a little more than two hours until I'm going to allow myself to walk into the waiting clutches of the Capitol, of President Snow. Memories of my nightmare are not making my situation any better. I don't want my child anywhere near the Capitol, let alone the arena.

But I have no choice.

Choices. They're funny, kind of whimsical things. They can be simple, like whether you want grape jelly or strawberry jelly on your toast. Or, they can be not so simple, like if it comes down to it, who will I save? Peeta or myself, and by extension the baby? I hate that I know the answer. Answers are another thing. Sometimes you're just better off not knowing the answers. It's simpler. Less guilt.

Peeta begins to stir beneath me, and I watch as a pair of sleepy blue eyes gradually becomes more alert. He glances at the clock, sees the time, and then groans pathetically. I can't help but laugh as flips us over so that his head is resting on my chest, his arm lying heavily over my waist, effectively pinning me to the bed, which I'm pretty sure was his intent.

Unable to help myself, my fingers begin to comb through his hair, and Peeta sighs contentedly. He'll never admit it, but he loves it when I play with his hair. We stay like this for a minute before Peeta murmurs, "I don't want to go. I want to stay right here."

"In bed?" I try to joke, desperately attempting to insert some levity.

I feel Peeta smile against my shoulder. "Fantastic things happen in this bed."

A soft laugh escapes me, and Peeta lifts his head to smile at me. "Very true," I admit, as I trace his jaw absently with my fingers.

I study his face as I continue to trace his features. Strong jaw. Straight nose. Perfect lips. His blue eyes, so like a clear summer sky, are staring at me with amusement and love. I do love his eyes. They're his best feature.

My eyes continue to study him, taking in his blonde curls that are threatening to hang in his eyes if he doesn't cut them soon. His skin has a sun-kissed look, giving him a warm glow. My hand runs down his back, noting the feel of the muscles beneath my fingertips.

"You're really handsome, you know that?" I blurt, as if just coming to this conclusion.

Peeta cocks his head to the side, a surprised chuckle escaping him. I can't help but think he looks even better when he's smiling. "Thanks," he says, amusement ringing in his tone. "And you're really beautiful, you know that?"

I scoff. "You have no choice but to say that."

"That doesn't mean it's not true," Peeta replies before claiming my lips in a sweet kiss that makes my stomach flutter. "You are the most beautiful woman in the world."

A deep blush stains my cheeks. "I haven't been feeling too beautiful lately."

"You'll never be able to accept a compliment, will you?" Peeta shakes his head, but the smile never leaves his face.

"Nope," I say, popping the 'p.'

We fall into silence once more as the weight of the reaping presses down upon us, squashing our attempts to lighten the mood. As if we're both acting on some silent command, both of us look at the clock to check the time. Noon.

Two more hours.

"We need to get up," I say quietly, but neither of us moves.

Fifteen minutes later and we still haven't budged. "It's crazy to think how much things have changed," Peeta says suddenly, breaking the silence. "I mean, think of where we were a year ago today, and then where we are now."

"Hmm," I agree. "Let's see . . . in one year, you have managed to completely turn my life upside down. I'm in love, married, and pregnant. Three things I never thought would happen. Way to go, Mellark."

Peeta looks me in the eyes, searching. His hand settles on my cheek. "You don't regret anything?" he asks, and I wonder how long this question has been lurking in the back of his mind.

"Well, I won't pretend that things wouldn't have been much simpler if you hadn't come into the picture," I tell him honestly, before adding with a soft smile. "But I don't regret a single minute of the time I've had with you. Sometimes simple isn't always better."

Peeta smiles. "Well, that's good to hear," he says, hiding his relief. "Because I know that you never wanted this—"

"No," I interrupt him. "I never thought I wanted this. Big difference." I reach up to capture his lips, and for a moment everything fades. All that matters is the feel of Peeta's lips moving with mine. When we break apart, we're both a little breathless. "I need you, Peeta. Just because I didn't realize it before, doesn't mean it wasn't always true."

Peeta kisses me one more time, lingering for a few seconds before pulling away with a heavy sigh. "We really do need to get up," he murmurs, glaring at the clock that tells us it's half past noon.

I nod and make the first move, sliding out from under Peeta and making my way into the bathroom. A shower sounds lovely, and once I'm under the hot spray I feel some of the tenseness in my muscles go away.

It doesn't take Peeta and I more than half an hour to get ready. Neither of us makes any real attempt to dress up, at least not like last year. We have no one to impress. Everyone knows us. Peeta wears jeans and a blue dress shirt with the sleeves haphazardly rolled up to his elbows, and my compromise is a simple, white summer dress. However, the true glory of my outfit is shown by my mockingjay pin, which is fastened to the dress.

We spend the rest of the time before the reaping at my house with Prim, my mother, and the Mellarks. Everyone tries to keep the mood light, but Rye's jokes tend to fall flat. Chris's teasing isn't as light, and Mr. Mellark just seems to alternate glances at my mother and then at Peeta. Prim sits on the floor leaning against my legs, absently petting Maya.

When it's time to head to the square, it almost feels like a funeral procession and the comparison does not set my mind at ease. Peeta and I walk hand in hand, leading our families to the square. We run into Haymitch on the way, and together we all walk to the square.

The reaping is really a joke. When it comes time to separate, Peeta gives me a long kiss that somehow doesn't seem indecent in such a public setting. It's too pure. I know the cameras are probably already on us, but I really don't care. Let them see what the Capitol is doing. Let them see how they're tearing the star-crossed lovers of District 12 apart.

I stand by myself in the roped-off section for the girl tributes. I'm oddly calm, considering everything. Maybe it's my acceptance of the fact that there's no running from this. Or maybe it has to do with the hope of breaking out of the arena and escaping to District 13.

Effie, her wig a metallic gold, walks up to the microphone and for once she has none of the pep in her speech like she usually does. She has to pause frequently to bat back tears, especially when she announces that it's time to pick the girl tribute. Really, it's ridiculous, and I'm already making my way to the stage as she reads my name. Then, she calls Haymitch's name, but Peeta is already volunteering before she finishes reading the ballot.

It's an odd sense of déjà vu when Peeta meets me on the stage. The anthem plays, just like last year. And just like last year, Peeta's fingers twine with mine and together, we turn to face the cameras, presenting a united front.

We're ushered off the stage, but instead of being led into a holding room like last year, we're met by Head Peacekeeper Thread. He sneers and informs us of a 'new procedure' this year. We don't get an hour of goodbyes. Instead, we're led to a car, Haymitch and Effie a few steps behind us. There are no cameras that greet us, at the car or at the train station, and when the doors shut behind us, I immediately feel trapped.

To try and alleviate the feeling, I move to a window and stand there until the forests of District 12 have long since faded. I feel Peeta come to stand behind me. His arms wrap around my waist and his lips are at my ear. "We'll see them again," he assures quietly. "Promise."

I honestly don't know. Even now that I know some of the details about District 13's plan to break us out of the arena, it seems even more ridiculous and farfetched. Too desperate. Can a single wire really do that much damage? I shake my head, not wanting to think about it too much. All I had was hope and a will to survive.

Dinner is incredibly tense and awkward. A sense of prevailing doom seems to settle over everyone, no matter how many times Peeta and Effie attempt to initiate some conversation. "I like your new hair, Effie," Peeta says, breaking the silence.

"Oh, thank you, dear," Effie gives him a small smile that holds none of her usual brightness. "I had it especially done to match Katniss's pin. I was thinking we might get you a golden ankle band and maybe find Haymitch a gold bracelet or something so we could all look like a team," she explains.

I wonder how much Effie knows. Judging by her idea of matching my mockingjay, she's not a true rebel. A real rebel doesn't get matching gold accessories. A real rebel stamps my mockingjay onto a cracker, to be eaten at a moment's notice. But surely Effie isn't completely oblivious to mine and Peeta's plight. Well, she doesn't know about the baby, or the fact that Peeta and I are married. Only Prim and Haymitch know that, and not even Prim knows that Peeta and I are married.

But Effie must realize how tense things are in Panem, in the Capitol, because for all of her apparent blind bubbly persona, she actually possesses a fair amount of wit. I wonder what side she will choose.

However, these thoughts are thrown by the wayside when a plate of chocolate custard and cherries is set in front of me. Peeta and I discovered fairly early that my main food craving is chocolate. I love chocolate. At all times of the day. Morning, noon, night, is does not matter. I see Peeta trying to hide a smile as I dig in to my desert, and he doesn't even attempt to eat his, scooting his plate over to me without asking if I want it or not. He knows the answer.

I just manage to glimpse Haymitch's eye roll.

When I've managed to scrape every single bit of chocolate off both my plates, Effie suggests that we move into the sitting room to watch the recap of the reapings. I get comfy on the couch, folding my legs underneath me, as I wait for Peeta to fetch his notebook. He returns not a moment later, notebook in hand, and immediately takes a seat beside me.

I try and focus on the tributes, like I did last year, but hardly any of them make an impression on me. I recognize most of them, having seen them as mentors or just in the Capitol during the Games in general, but some I have no idea who they are—too doped up on drugs or drunk on alcohol. Years of addiction having made them unrecognizable.

Unsurprisingly, the tribute pools are the largest in Districts 1, 2, and 4, but each district manages to come up with at least one male and female tribute. I note the tributes from District 1, a brother and sister who won in consecutive years when I was younger. Brutus, a volunteer from District 2, rushes up on the stage much like Cato did last year. He looks just as eager for a fight.

However, when I see Beetee and Wiress take the stage as the tributes from District 3, my gaze becomes sharper. Haymitch told Peeta and I of the rebel victors, how they were going to be our allies in the arena. It's up to Beetee and Wiress to break us out. Without them we're dead. After only hearing about them from Haymitch, it's nice to put a name to a face. District 4 takes the screen and I watch as Finnick Odair, an exceptionally good-looking man in his mid twenties, who also happens to be our ally, takes the stage. A beautiful brunette is called as his fellow tribute, but she immediately begins to scream. In response, an old lady who needs a cane to walk up to the stage volunteers to take the screaming girl's place. Johanna Mason from District 7 is called, another one of my allies. We also have the fact that we're the only living female victors from our districts in common.

The rest of the tributes are called, and the only one that really sticks out to me is Chaff from 11, who I know is a particular friend of Haymitch. And then it's time for the reaping from District 12. I'm called, and am struck by the seemingly defiant look on my face. Haymitch is called and when Peeta volunteers the commentators are just about beside themselves in apparent anguish. I actually hear tears in the voice of the female announcer as she says that it seems like the odds will never be in our favor. But of course, in true Capitol style, she pulls herself together and announces that these games are sure to be the best yet!

After the reapings are done, Effie makes a few more comments about the victors and how it's a shame, particularly for the female tribute from District 8, Cecelia, who had to disengage herself from three small children—my heart had clinched at that. With another sigh, Effie leaves the room, Haymitch soon after, but not before giving both Peeta and I a look that communicated something along the lines of, 'no funny business.'

I wanted to point out that I was already pregnant. Not like that advice would do me much good, now.

The moment he leaves, Peeta and I both turn to each other and laugh. "You know, he was weird before," I say lightly. "But now that he's being all paternal, it's really freaking me out."

Peeta chuckles, shaking his head, "Don't tell him that."

"He'll deny it," I agree.

"Why don't you go to bed?" Peeta suggests, and I scowl at him. "What?" he defends. "It's been a long day."

"So come to bed with me," I retort, raising my eyebrows and Peeta sighs.

Just like I'd known he would, Peeta has become the overprotective husband/dad-to-be. He's still a sweetheart, but he'll tell me to rest or to eat. He tends to walk slightly in front of me, and somehow his hand will always find my stomach when he's holding me. It'd be cute if it weren't so annoying.

"I'll be there," he tries to sway me, but I defiantly fold my arms over my chest, and raise my eyebrows. "Eventually," he adds, and I scowl. "I'm just going to review my notes awhile. Get a clear picture of who we're up against."

In other words, he's going to study them so he knows how better to protect me until we're able to break out of the arena. "Then I'll sleep here," I say stubbornly.

Peeta sighs in defeat, but a wry smile appears on his face. "You drive me crazy, you know that?"

I smile innocently as I straddle his lap and rest my hands on his chest. "But in a good way, right?"

"A very, very good way," Peeta assures me, his voice steadily dipping lower and it makes me shiver. Did I mention my hormones are totally out of whack?

Just as my lips brush against his, a nervous cough causes both of us to part. Frustration threatens to make me grab the nearest sharp object and throw it at whoever interrupted us, but instead, I control my more violent urges and make mine and Peeta's position slightly more appropriate. I shift to sit beside Peeta, who is looking curiously at the attendant that is standing awkwardly in front of us, holding a tray with two cups.

"Yes?" Peeta prompts politely, though I can tell that he's trying to hide his amusement.

"Oh, I, um, noticed that you and Ms. Everdeen . . ." It took all the effort I had not to correct him immediately. I was no longer Ms. Everdeen. I was Mrs. Mellark. ". . . were up late, and thought that a nice, warm drink might be appreciated. So, I, uh, took the liberty to make you some warm milk." He tries to smile, but he's so nervous it falls flat. I wonder what's making him so awkward.

"Thank you," Peeta says with a smile. "That's very kind of you."

The attendant relaxes a little, Peeta's easy-going nature seeming to slowly set the young man at ease. "I added some honey for sweetness," the attendant adds. "And some spices."

My eyes narrow ever so slightly as I study the attendant. Is that pity in his eyes? He looks like he wants to say more to us, but he shakes his head and backs out of the room. When he's gone I look to Peeta, who has a thoughtful expression on his face.

"What's with him?" I ask.

Peeta frowns a little, and I see a plan formulating in his eyes. "I think he feels bad for us."

I nod, remembering the pity I saw in the attendant's eyes. "Maybe," I agree casually, but my attention is focused on the milk that the attendant brought. I grab a cup and take a tentative sip. My eyes light up at the taste. The milk is delicious.

"Seriously, though," Peeta regains my attention. "I don't think the people in the Capitol are going to be all that happy about our going back in," he says. "Or the other victors. They get attached to their champions."

"What are you planning?" I ask him curiously. "I know that face."

"Nothing concrete," Peeta answers ambiguously. "But we can use the Capitol's feelings to our advantage . . . we just need the right words to act as ammunition . . ." he trails off, his thoughts overcoming him.

I sit quietly as he schemes, wondering what crazy, brilliant plan he's going to come up with. Planning is his and Haymitch's realm of expertise, not mine. I'd rather just jump into the situation and wing it. I'm impulsive, I can't help it.

My attention settles on the box of tapes in front of us, and I begin to rifle through them. Effie only gave us the tapes of the games for victors who are still alive. I pass over the year that Brutus, the male tributes from District 2, won, and just as I'm about to move away from the box, a title catches my eye. The tape's title is: 50, Haymitch Abernathy.

The second Quarter Quell.

I take the tape out of the box and set it in my lap, debating. In all the tapes of previous games that Peeta, Haymitch, and I had watched in preparation for the Quell, we had avoided two tapes. The seventy-fourth Hunger Games and the fiftieth Hunger Games. It had been an unspoken agreement. None of us wanted to relive our games.

But Haymitch's games were the only Quell we had available. It would be wise to watch the tape, to see how Quell's work and how they're different. Any little clue would help. Even if there was a plan to break us out of the arena, it didn't mean that Peeta and I, or the rest of the allies, wouldn't be in any danger. No, the danger would be just the same. Tributes would still try to kill us and so would the Gamemakers. Peeta and I just had to survive until District 13 could break us out, which could be anywhere from two days to more than a week.

Haymitch hadn't a clue as to what the arena might be like, so Peeta and I were on our own as to how we were going to face it and live long enough to be rescued. We need all the information we can get, and if watching Haymitch's games could possibly help . . .

"We should watch this," I say, breaking whatever thoughtful trance Peeta had been in. His blue eyes settle on the tape in my hands and he frowns.

"I don't know, Katniss," he hesitates. "It's a big invasion to Haymitch's privacy, or it feels like it anyway."

"It's the only Quell we have," I argue. "We don't have to tell Haymitch we saw it."

Peeta stares at the tape in my hands, debating for a second more, before putting the tape in. I curl up into his side as he drapes an arm around my shoulders and together we watch the fiftieth Hunger Games unfold. The editors focused more on Haymitch than anyone else, since he was the victor, but we still watch every reaping from all twelve districts. The sheer number of tributes, twice as many as usual, astounds me. When they show District 12's reaping, I'm waiting for Haymitch to be called, but another name catches my attention.

Maysilee Donner. Her blonde hair and blue eyes tell me that she's a merchant, but that's not what pulls me up short. My eyes focus on the two blonde girls that are hugging Maysilee. "I think that's my mom," I say as my eyes find the young girl on the right. Seeing my mother's image shocks me, because now I know that my mother's beauty was never over exaggerated. Even in tears, she's unquestionably beautiful. My eyes focus on the other crying girl hugging Maysilee, and frown when I see that she looks just like Maysilee . . . and a lot like another person I know, too.

"Madge," I say, looking to Peeta for an explanation.

"That's her mother," he explains. "She and Maysilee were twins. My father told me that once."

Haymitch is called next, and I'm struck by how different he looks. Young. Strong. And, oddly enough, fairly good-looking. But ever present is the calculating, analytical look in his Seam grey eyes. Haymitch takes the stage, and then we're thrown into the parade.

In stereotypical form, District 12 is dressed in ugly, baggy coalminer's outfits. The parade flashes by, and so do the interviews, but since Haymitch is the winner, we get to see his entire interview with Caesar Flickerman. Caesar looks exactly the same then as he does now, dressed in the same twinkling midnight blue suit, except for his hair and makeup, which are dark green.

"So, Haymitch, what do you think of the Games having one hundred percent more competitors than usual?" he asks.

"I don't see that it makes much difference," Haymitch says indifferently with a tinge of arrogance. "They'll still be one hundred percent as stupid as usual, so I figure my odds will be roughly the same."

I can't fight the wry smile on my face, as I look up at Peeta. "He didn't have to reach far for that, did he?" Arrogant. Indifferent. Snarky. That was Haymitch.

Next is the arena, and we're shown the point of view of the tributes as they rise up into the arena from their Launch Rooms. I can't help the gasp that escapes me once I get a view of the arena. In one word, the arena is beautiful, absolutely beautiful. A lush, green, flowering meadow stretches across in front of them, the golden horn of the Cornucopia gleaming in the sunlight. A blue sky so clear it's unreal, birds flying overhead. A large, snow-capped mountain is to the right, while sparse woods not unlike the woods in my own games are to the left and behind.

The tributes, much like me, are struck by the beauty, even Haymitch, though his eyes only lift in pleasure for a second before he reverts back to his usual scowl. When the gong goes off, Haymitch is the first to reach the Cornucopia, taking advantage of the other tributes beautified stupor. He already has two backpacks and a knife and is running toward the woods before the others even reach the Cornucopia.

As the Games progress, it's clear that the beauty of the arena is deadly. Almost everything is poisonous. Fruit. Flowers. Water. Everything is poison. The only safe food and water are from the packs at the Cornucopia. Even the animals are dangerous. Cute, little fluffy-tailed squirrels turn into vicious maneaters and attack Haymitch. He's lucky to get away. Stings from beautiful butterflies bring agony, but Haymitch trudges on, always moving in the same direction, keeping his back to the mountain.

I'm surprised to see Maysilee Donner prove to be quite resourceful as well. In her pack that she grabbed from the Cornucopia is a blow gun with a dozen darts. Utilizing the many poisons available in the arena, she makes a deadly weapon and uses it well, killing three tributes that cross her path.

Almost a week into the games, the previously peaceful mountain explodes, spewing hot, molten lava. The eruption wipes out half the Career Pack and a handful of the other tributes. With the volcano erupting and the meadow providing nothing in terms of concealment, the remaining tributes—thirteen in total—flee to the woods.

Haymitch continues his trek through the woods, never faltering in his direction. However, what with thirteen tributes confined to the woods, confrontations are bound to ensue, and a day later Haymitch is attacked by three Careers. Reacting with surprising speed, Haymitch is able to kill two of them, but the third disarms him. Even though I know that Haymitch wins the games, when I see the Career's blade at Haymitch's throat, nerves and a sense of dread settle heavily in my stomach. Peeta, as if sensing my distress, tightens his arm around me reassuringly.

To my shock, Maysilee Donner is the one who saves the day, killing the Career with a dart from her blowgun. "We'd live longer with the two of us," she states and Haymitch seems to debate her offer of alliance for only a moment before nodding.

"Guess you proved that."

Like Peeta and I, Haymitch and Maysilee do better together. More food, more water, more rest. Haymitch keeps his steady direction as he trails through the woods, ignoring Maysilee's questions about where he's going. Finally, Maysilee puts her foot down, refusing to go another step until Haymitch tells her what he's trying to find.

"It has to end somewhere, right?" Haymitch questions. "The arena can't go on forever."

"What do you expect to find?" Maysilee asks as they resume walking.

"I don't know, but maybe there's something we can use."

Eventually, Haymitch and Maysilee do reach the end of the arena, a rocky, desert-like cliff face. When Haymitch's looks over the edge, all you see is a jagged, rocky bottom. "That's all there is Haymitch," Maysilee says. "Let's go back."

"No," Haymitch shakes his head. "I'm staying here."

Maysilee shrugs. "There's only five of us left," she says logically. "May as well say goodbye now, anyway. I don't want it to come down to you and me."

Haymitch doesn't even look up at her as he answers, "Okay." His attention is focused on the cliff face.

Maysilee walks away and we're left with Haymitch, who begins to walk along the edge of the cliff. He looks as though he's trying to figure something out. Exasperated, he sits down and kicks some pebbles over the side of the cliff . . . and a minute later the pebbles shoot back up and land beside him.

A light enters Haymitch's eyes and he quickly gets up and finds a fist-sized rock. He lobs it over the edge of the cliff and waits. After a second or two, the rock flies out of the gorge and lands in Haymitch's hand, causing him to laugh. But his laugh is abruptly cut off when a shriek pierces the air. Haymitch takes off running to Maysilee, but he doesn't come to her aid quickly enough. He arrives just in time to see a flock of bright pink birds with sharp beaks skewer her through the neck. Haymitch holds her hand as she dies, and I can't help but be thrown back into my own games. Being with Peeta in the cave, watching helplessly as he faded. Or on the top of the Cornucopia after he fought with the mutts, slowly bleeding out. I sympathize with Haymitch.

The games quickly come to a head later that day. One tribute dies from combat and another is attacked by yet another ferocious pack of cute, fluffy squirrels. This leaves Haymitch and a girl from District 1 to fight for the crown. It's bloody and brutal. The girl is bigger than Haymitch, but still every bit as fast. Eventually, both of them are too weak from blood loss and their injuries to fight any longer.

Haymitch, sensing the end is near, resorts to fleeing back to the cliff, holding in his intestines all the while. The District 1 girl stumbles along after him, an ax in one hand while the other tries to staunch the blood flow from her empty eye socket. Haymitch reaches the end of the arena and collapses, just as the girl throws her ax.

The ax goes over the edge of the cliff, and the District 1 girl tries to keep her feet under her, hoping that Haymitch succumbs to his wounds. But Haymitch knows something that she doesn't. The ax that District 1 had thrown over the cliff comes sailing back, imbedding itself in her skull before she even has a chance to blink.

Haymitch is the victor.

Peeta turns off the TV, and both of us are quiet for a moment. Finally, I say. "Well, he screwed up almost as bad as we did."

"Almost, but not quite."

At the sound of our mentor's voice, Peeta and I spin around to face him, no doubt looking guilty. Haymitch laughs, and takes a swig from his flask, causing Peeta and I to relax. We're not in trouble.

"That force field at the bottom of the cliff," Peeta begins intently. "That was the same force field that they have on top of the roof of the Training Center. It'll throw you back if you try to jump and commit suicide." He looks at Haymitch. "You made it into a weapon."

"And made fools of the Capitol, just like we did," I say.

Haymitch smirks. "See? We all have that in common. We're friends for life, now," he says sarcastically, as he plops down on the sofa beside me.

I blame it on the hormones, but I disengage myself from Peeta and move to Haymitch, looping my arm through his and leaning my head on his shoulder. "Family," I correct him softly. "We're family."

Haymitch doesn't argue, and Peeta and I share a smile.


I can't help it. I love fluffy moments between Haymitch and PK. So, they've gone through the reapings, seen the other reapings, admitted they're all family, and are Capitol-bound. Don't you know they're excited.

I know I am. ;)

The fun is about to begin.

Quote from the next chapter comes from . . . FINNICK!

"Oh, can't have people thinking a scandal is brewing."

Lots of love,

AC