Me? Posting on time? Who would've guessed?

I change things up. I go to bed early and sneak to the roof in the morning, I'm not surprised at all when Peeta joins me- he's terrible at sneaking. I can hear him as soon as he starts climbing the stairs.

Day three. Our last day of training. I know what he's thinking, and it's the same thing that's on my mind: we're screwed. Two days of our best efforts and worst luck, with just one more chance to worm our way in with the Careers. While Nolan still seems sympathetic to our case, no one else has bent at all. In fact, Storm has actually gotten more opposed to it, and Thunder seems to be leaning towards her side.

Haymitch has been no help. He just keeps telling us to try harder, and if we argue, he reminds me that the Capitol has it out for me. As if that's helpful. I know my life is in danger. What I don't know is how to save it.

"Here for the sunrise?" Peeta guesses, taking a seat next to me.

I nod, almost imperceptibly. "Had no luck looking at the stars. Wanted to see if the morning view was any better."

"Well, I'm impressed so far."

He's right; the sunrise is gorgeous, as long as you can get past the harsh Capitol skyline on the horizon. I miss sunrises in the woods, watching them through the trees, by myself or sometimes with Gale. Gale. Talk about someone who hasn't been helpful. Even though it's only been a day since we officially parted ways, Gale has become a total stranger to me. We'll speak to each other only when we have to, in businesslike tones, strictly about tribute-mentor business. No one would guess that we had once been in love- which is a good thing, I guess.

Haymitch, of course, finds all of this hilarious, proving that he is a sociopath as well as a drunk.

And Effie…well, let's not go there.

"How the hell are we going to pull this off?" I ask, when observing the sunset begins to feel too much like being alone with my thoughts.

I mean it as a hypothetical question, but Peeta actually thinks about it and gives me an answer. "Well…obviously what we're doing so far isn't working."

"Understatement."

"So either we roll over and accept death…or we attempt a change of strategy."

§

We arrive late to training. Everyone's eyes are on us for that reason, and Peeta slams the door shut behind us to make sure of it. I want to shrink away from the attention- my strength has always been staying out of the spotlight, creeping beneath the radar- but I force myself to revel in it. We're commanding attention for a reason. Change of strategy.

I make a beeline for the archery station, Peeta to the knot-tying booth. He quickly knots some short sections of rope into loops while I shoot my first couple bulls-eyes. It's incredible, to have a bow in my hand again. The Capitol bow I grab from the rack is different from the one my father made for me; it's heavier and made of metal, not wood, but I adjust to it quickly. Bam. Bam. Bam. One after another.

I grab a new quiver full of arrows when Peeta meets me in front of the range, rope loops in hand. A quick glance around tells me the vast majority of the room is still looking at us, still watching the show we're putting on. I give him a nod, and he throws the first loop of rope into the air. I only have a moment to draw my bow, aim, and let it fly.

I nail it, of course- squirrels are much faster, and I manage to hit them in the eye every single time. Peeta starts throwing them faster, making sure it's a challenge but also making sure it's not so difficult I might fail at it entirely. The goal is to convince them I'm a crack shot- convince them they should be scared of me.

There's not much time to watch the other tributes react to my performance, because we move so quickly onto the next segment. I've done my piece; now we need to show the whole lot of them that Peeta is to be feared as well. His talents are not as easy to advertise as archery, but I drag one of the foam dummies to the weight rack and he makes a big scene of launching some of the heaviest weights at it. He's very strong. I've always known that, but I've never seen it put to the test like this. It almost scares me, seeing him push the very limit and let out a somewhat-animalistic grunt as he hurls something I'm positive is heavier than me.

He's breathing heavily when he steps back, but the dummy has clearly taken more damage than him from the heavyweight assault. They're made to be impossible to knock over, but it rocked dangerously far back several times, as most things would when hit by multiple hundred pounds at high speeds. Finally, I allow myself to turn around and look, see what kind of attention we've commanded. The District Four tributes seem impressed. Brin from Ten has a hand over her mouth. But they're not the ones who matter. We might have caused a scene in front of everyone, but there were only four people, two districts, that we were really looking to impress.

They're looking. They are exceptionally good at keeping neutral expressions, but they're looking.

Peeta clears his throat, only loud enough for me to hear. "…should we go talk to them?"

I consider it, but shake my head. "No. We're done begging at their feet. Let's go learn to throw knives."

I don't know if flinging knives at targets will really help calm my nerves, but I have to try. If nothing else, it's something that requires a lot of concentration, and our little talent show has left me pretty jittery. It was not a decision we made lightly, giving away our secret weapons in hopes of impressing the Careers. We've probably ruined our chances of survival- but they weren't that good before, either.

The throwing knife instructor is named Paul. He's a large man with only four fingers on each hand, but oddly friendly. I think he's just really passionate about knives, something that makes weirder than any of the freakish Capitol citizens I've met before.

I wouldn't say I'm good at knife throwing, but I'm not bad. Definitely not as bad as I am at spear-throwing. My aim is good; it's the overall body position and throwing stance that I struggle with. Unfortunately, that is something that affects aim.

Peeta struggles with it more, which is only fair, because he's been a natural at basically everything else so far. I guess ranged weapons are my thing, and hand-to-hand combat is his. Truly, we complement each other perfectly.

I pretend not to notice when the Careers approach us. Peeta actually doesn't notice, proving that I am the scout as well as the ranged weapons master on our team. I keep throwing my knives, a little better each time, and I don't turn around until Turquoise says, "ahem".

My heart is beating out of my chest; this is the moment that says it all. "Yes?"

A moment of silence, an awkward pause. Nolan nudges Storm with his elbows, and her face sours. Her face was already pretty sour before, so it's impressive she had even more to give. She still doesn't say anything.

Another nudge. Storm grudgingly comes up with, "We will think about it."

I gnaw at my lip. I know it's vital to keep my cool here, but there's a part of me that desperately wants to argue with her, demand to know what more we possibly could have done. We can't appear desperate, though- even if we are.

"Thank you for your consideration," is what I actually say, as coldly as I can manage. Peeta backs me up.

We spend the rest of the day hoping, but the Careers don't approach us again. They look our way plenty of times, though. I try to pretend it doesn't bother me, but with every passing hour, I lose a little bit more hope. We gave away our secret weapon for nothing. The Careers know exactly what we have on the table, and I'm sure they- "they" meaning "Storm"- will take us out as soon as they can.

Haymitch is distinctly not happy about our little stunt, which we notably did not warn him about. He lectures us all through dinner, until it's time for us to leave for our private Gamemaker sessions, which are one level below the training center. Face like a stone, he pushes Gale to speak. "Hawthorne, tell them everything you remember about your session."

Gale heaves a great sigh. His face his pinched, like he's been worrying extra hard. "You'll go in district order, boys first- I don't know why it's the opposite of everything else. You'll go into a room by yourself, where they have everything from the Training Center condensed into a few tables. You'll have fifteen minutes to show off however you like, and the Gamemakers will watch from an adjoined room."

"This is the time to give it all you've got," Haymitch clarifies. "You know, since everybody already-"

I cut him off. "Yes, we know; we get it. We'll go right now."

"Don't disappoint me!" Haymitch calls as we step into the elevator. As if he hasn't been disappointing me since his first few minutes as mentor.

We don't talk much on the elevator. Halfway down, Davina and Griff from Six get on with us, and that effectively shuts down any conversation that might have been. Peeta and I have gotten in enough trouble for revealing too much already.

I don't know why we bothered getting there on time. Peeta and I will be last. We find seats in the waiting room, as far away from the Careers as possible, but of course Turquoise is staring at me. When I notice her, she crosses her eyes and smacks Thunder who, naturally, has no idea what's going on. I look away. There's no point in engaging with her- there just isn't. I'm glad Turquoise is in and out within the first hour.

Storm and Nolan are gone quickly too. Fifteen minutes for every tribute drags on and on, but at least the worst people are gone first.

Slowly but steadily, the waiting room gets emptier and quieter, until it's just Peeta and me left. My throat feels dry and I wish I hadn't eaten anything for dinner. I don't know why I'm more nervous about this than the scene we made this morning. Maybe it's the feeling of having ruined everything.

"You know what you're gonna do in there?" asks Peeta.

I shrug. "The only thing I'm good at, I guess. Arrows. You?"

He sighs. "As we learned this morning, lifting weights isn't a very exciting talent to demonstrate. I'm sorry, Katniss; I'm sure that's-"

I shake my head. I know what he's going to say. "No. I'm sure it's not. We did everything we could, and you have nothing to be sorry for."

He gives me half a smile, but I know he's not going to quit thinking that way. I try again. "Maybe our deaths will just be quicker this way."

His face sinks even lower. "I still don't want to die, Katniss."

"No one wants to die."

It's never been about what we want. It's about punishing the districts for a war, a war that no one alive even remembers. No wonder the Capitol won- they have proved they're capable of immense cruelty.

Kinzie from Eleven steps out of the Gamemakers' room, a troubled look on her thin face. She gives a little nod as she passes by, but she's clearly in a hurry and I don't really care to ask her how it went. She scurries out of the room and a robotic voice makes its robotic decree. "Peeta Mellark: District Twelve."

We look at each other one more time. Both of us are nervous. I can feel it in the air.

"Good luck in there," I say, trying not to betray how worried I really am. This is truly our last shot. If our training scores don't impress the Careers, we have nothing left to give. The fight for our lives begins now- it won't wait for us to enter the arena.

Peeta leaves, somewhat reluctantly, and I am left to wait. Normally I prefer solitude, but this time, I'm oddly agitated by myself. Peeta is good to me that way. He seems to absorb some of the chaos I produce and turn it into something that makes sense.

Fifteen minutes passes by painfully slowly. I refuse to let my mind wander to the Careers, the arena, or whatever hell awaits us tomorrow. I think of Prim. I think of how much she believes in me, and how desperate I am to go back home to her. This is my way out. This is the only option I have.

Relief meets terror when Peeta comes out of the room. It's my turn now- for better or for worse. He gives me an encouraging look that completely fails to encourage me. "You can't do any worse than me," he jokes. Then, turning serious, "Shoot straight, Katniss."

I swallow hard, but my throat is dry. I manage to thank him, and then the robot voice calls me into the room. There's no more putting it off now.

Oddly enough, my nerves fade as soon as I step through the door. I spot a bow right away and I grab it, testing the weight of it in my hand. It's nothing I can't shoot. The same robot voice tells me I may begin, but I hold off for a moment, making sure the Gamemakers are paying attention. They are in a small room overlooking the gym that I'm in, but they seem more occupied by a roasted pig than any talent I might demonstrate. How frustrating- my one chance to prove myself, and they're more concerned about a pig. I can't believe these people actually garner any respect in society.

Nonetheless, I'm determined to make an impression. I nock an arrow and step back. There are lines painted on the floor, marking every five meters up to thirty, but I pass those by and use the whole length of the room. Making an impression involves going above and beyond. I've already decided that.

It also involves a bulls-eye, but I'm not too worried about that. I take a moment to aim and let the arrow fly, stabbing into the target with a satisfying thwack. I draw another arrow and move onto the next target, tucking and rolling like I imagine I might if I was actually in combat. I hit that one too. It's easy.

I go down the line, making increasingly difficult shots until I think to check back on the Gamemakers. Irritation flashes through me. They're not watching. They're all looking down at their plates. I bet they've hardly even glanced at me once.

I'm not going to let this be the end of me, let them score me low by default or because I'm from District Twelve. No, they have to pay attention, and they'll wish they had sooner. I glance around the room, trying to come up with a way to make noise. An answer comes to me quickly: the disk-shaped weights that are meant to go on either end of a barbell.

I grab a few of those and some of the knot-tying ropes (wow, those are useful) and make a clumsy trip up the climbing wall to hang them from the rafters. I'm keenly aware of my time ticking away, but I need to get this right. A loud noise will get their attention. Talent will keep it.

I draw back and let go. Just as Peeta had wished for me, I shoot straight, and the first rope snaps, sending the fifteen-pound weight clattering to the floor. I note with some degree of satisfaction that the Gamemakers are looking at me now, if only to wonder why their course wasn't good enough for me and I had to put up something of my own invention.

I move quickly. I can't have much time left, and I need to make the very most of it. I leap onto the table that's meant to be the camouflage station for my next shot, knocking twenty pounds to the floor with an even louder bang. For my last shot, I release my arrow as I jump off the table, taking a tricky angle from an equally tricky position.

I finish just in time. A buzzer goes off, indicating my moment in the spotlight is over. Not sure what else to do, I bow deeply, as this is the only portion where I am sure I have the Gamemakers' full attention. A thick pasty-faced man nods at me, but it's an angular pink-haired woman who speaks. "You're dismissed."

Suddenly, I can't wait to get out of this room. I replace the bow on the rack and leave, barely keeping it together, and I don't think I take a single breath until I'm back in the elevator.

No one seems to be waiting up for me at the penthouse. They're all on the large U-shaped couch, as far away from each other as they possibly can be, watching television. The training scores are aired very soon after they're assigned- I'm sure they don't want to miss a thing.

I hesitantly take a seat between Peeta and Effie. As the last piece of the puzzle, I will be squeezed in no matter what, and I figure it's best to avoid Gale, or Haymitch, who has a constant reek to him.

"How'd it go?" asks the smelly one, not looking away from the screen.

I shrug. "Fine, I guess. I shot well, but they didn't seem to care."

"They didn't care much for me, either," Peeta adds. I think he means it in a comforting way. "I threw some weights around; I think I did all the right things- what more could I have done?"

Gale snorts. "Be from District Two?"

Effie scolds him for implying the Gamemakers might be biased in any way, and I ignore her. It's easier just to pay attention to the screen, where Claudius Templesmith and Caesar Flickerman are chatting away. They are both extremely odd-looking. Caesar's hair is a peculiar shade of salmon, while Claudius has his distinct poof of blonde that makes him look more like a piece of popcorn than a person.

I don't care about their chatter, their predictions. All I'm interested in is the numbers, and fortunately, those flash across the screen before much time passes. Turquoise and Thunder both get tens. Nolan does too. Storm gets an eleven, and none of that surprises me- I already knew the Careers were dangerous.

Both from District Three score low, and Four is mediocre as well. I don't really care about any of the middle districts, to be honest. I've spent enough time in training with all of them to know who I have to worry about, and it's not going to be anyone from Districts Five or Six. The only thing that surprises me is Aspen and Lorcan, from Seven, both scoring eights. Other than that, I only want to hear my own score.

Well, and Peeta's, I guess. He gets a six, and instantly, his face falls. There's no time to comfort him before the monotone voice makes its next announcement: "Katniss Everdeen. District Twelve. Score of eight."

I'll be honest; I'm disappointed too. An eight and a six. The Careers will laugh that off easily. I'd had this dream, this ridiculous fantasy, where both of us…no. No matter how much I wanted to take the top score, I should have known it would end up this way.

"Oh, don't look so disappointed," Haymitch scolds. "You did fine. C'mon. Did you really think you were going to get in there and knock it out of the park?"

Neither of us answers. I can tell he's drunk- probably drunker than usual- and just trying to get a rise out of us. It's not worth engaging with.

He shuts the TV off and gets up. "I'm off to bed."

It's eight o'clock.

"This whiskey won't drink itself."

How is that flask not empty yet?

"Get some rest. Interview day tomorrow."

Effie's the only one excited about interview day. For me- and for Peeta, too- it's just another reminder that we're completely beyond hope.