A/N: Hey guys, here's chapter eleven! I'm getting back into the groove of this story so expect more chapters soon! :D

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot idea.

Chapter Eleven

Every revolution begins with a spark. A spark. A spark that doesn't just grow from nothing. If I ever wanted to become a catalyst like Peeta wants then I'd have to do something to ignite something big. But it has to be something small.

What could I, of all people, possibly do?

Dust unsettles around me as I march through the crowded market area. I rap my knuckles against my forehead and grunt. People mill about around me, chatting, carrying shopping, yelling orders to their slaves, but they might as well not be there as far as I'm aware.

It's when the twelve year old boy trips and lands in front of my feet that I snap out of it. I'm transported back to when my views of slavery were changed. When that boy dropped the shopping bags in the town square. The boy who's owner beat him for it until he cowered on his knees before her. Only a child. A little boy. So young. Then it hits me. This isn't what the country should be like. Little boys should have the right to sing and play and be as carefree as little girls.

They should be born free.

I hold my hand out to the tripped boy. He looks up at me fearfully. Dirt is engrained in the creases of his skin and his face looks youthful, expressing how young he really is and how unfair it is that this is the life he has to live.

"It's okay," I whisper. "I won't hurt you."

As any naive child would, he believes me and takes my hand. I gently pull him to his feet and dust his clothes off for him. He looks awestruck, stunned almost, and I realize why. I just helped a slave to his feet.

The women in the square stare at me in various ways. Shock. Horror. Disgust.

But the slaves stare me too. In appreciation. In pride. In hope. Every one of them wear a smile-however small-on their faces.

When the first apple is thrown, I'm unprepared for it and it bounces off my head. My eyes follow the red fruit as it drops to the ground and rolls a couple of inches before stopping. The apple creates a tidal wave of multiple items of foods to get thrown at me. I shriek and wrap my arms around the boy's shoulders, steering him away from the crowd as we're pelted with scraps.

My feet skid as I turn a corner down an alleyway. The food throwing dies down and the boy and I lean against the way, gasping for breath.

"Are you okay?" I ask him.

"Yeah," he replies, bracing his hands against his thighs as he calms his breathing.

"What's your name?"

"Rory," the boy answers. "Rory Hawthorne."

"Nice to meet you Rory, I'm Katniss," I say. "Katniss Everdeen. Where's your owner Rory?"

"At home . . ." Rory answers almost gravely.

"And she trusted you to go to the market on your own?" I ask in disbelief. Normally slaves are not trusted to complete tasks on their own in public areas until they're at least eighteen.

"No, I'm with my brother," he replies, straightening up.

"Your . . . brother?"

"Rory!" someone shouts. A boy runs down the alley and grabs Rory's arm, pulling him behind himself and glaring at me. "You stay away from my brother," he snaps.

"What?!" I exclaim.

"No, Gale, this is Katniss. She helped me!" Rory pipes up from behind his brother.

"Don't be stupid Rory, women don't care about us," the boy-who I assume to be Gale-says. The way his grey eyes stare at me with hatred both terrifies me and makes me want to prove his hate wrong.

"No Gale really," Rory insists. "Katniss helped me up in front of everyone! They threw food at us and all . . . please don't hurt her Gale she wasn't hurting me."

"Of course I wasn't hurting him!" I exclaim. "He's just a kid!"

Gale looks conflicted and his face twists into a deep frown. "Just stay away from my brother, okay?" With that he grabs Rory and drags him up the alley, despite his protests.

Something tells me this isn't the last time I'll see Gale and Rory Hawthorne.

When I get home, I tug on my braid in frustration, trying to think of the right way to tell Peeta that I can't do it. I just can't. I'm not rebellion material. It's just impossible. I stand outside the basement door for what feels like hours, nibbling on a hangnail nervously. It'll disappoint him, I know it will. He believed I could do it and I'm about to tell him no.

My fist is poised above the door to knock when I hear him speak.

"You have no idea how you make me feel . . . no that's stupid . . . hey, here's the thing . . . damn it Peeta get yourself together . . ."

I frown, confused, and lean in closer to the basement door to listen more carefully.

"I've spent years being treated like dirt. They've beat me, they've made me feel like I'am nothing and I'll never be anything because I'am the way I'am." His voice is slightly muffled but there's no mistaking it. That's definetly Peeta. What's he doing? Talking to himself? Lord, I hope he's not losing his mind down there . . .

"And yet . . you're different. You talk to me like I'm your equal. Like there's no divide. Like I'am not dirt. I'am not nothing. That I'am really just like you. I wish I could say all this to you face, I really do, but everytime you look at me everything just crumbles apart and I remember my place, where I stand in this country, and yet also when I look into your eyes I feel like I could do anything. Walk on water, soar through the sky like a mockingjay . . . live a normal life . . . with you. Always with you."

Is he talking about me? He can't be surely. I'am not capable of making someone feel so alive like the way he describes. My hand retracts back from the door. Did he, dare I say it, have a boyfriend back in the training center? It happens . . . sometimes . . . especially with the slaves. They change their sexuality to be able to please their needs in the cramped compound. I saw it in a documentary of male behaviour in school once.

For some reason, the thought of there being someone else makes my heart ache and I step back from the basement doors. Could Peeta be gay? He can't be. But why do I think that? It's not impossible. What singles out this one boy from the rest who have changed their sexual preferences in the compound? There shouldn't be anything at all and yet there is. As insignificent the one thing is being:

I don't want there to be anyone else.

My mind is consumed in my thoughts, my worries of Peeta having another half who fills his waking hours. Someone who makes him happy, who he loves . . .

Someone who isn't me.

A/N: The feels are flying and the Hawthornes have appeared! What will the women think of Katniss helping Rory? Shall it become the spark that ignites a rebellion? :-)

Please R&R! :D