Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

 Chapter 1

I lean all of my weight onto the back of the struggling deer, the blood from its fatal wound coating my hands. It’s a white-tail buck, a little over a hundred and twenty pounds and the first one I’ve ever taken down alone. It’s an accomplishment, but the shot went wide of its mark and now the animal is slowly bleeding to death. I can see the helpless panic in its wide amber eyes and something in my chest squeezes painfully. I don’t usually get sentimental, for me, food’s food, but no one should suffer, especially not when I can help it.

“A little help here,” I call out. I need to get a knife into it and I only have two hands. The animal is weak, injured, but still dangerous. Plus it probably outweighs me by at least ten pounds.

“Nay, sweetheart you’ve got it,” Haymitch yells from somewhere to my left. I risk looking away from the deer to glare at him. He’s casually leaning against a tree, taking a long pull from the flask in his hand. He wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his stained hunting jacket before turning to the camera. “Whoo! This girl is on fire, today!”

The buck under me gives a shudder and I’m finally able to reach the knife tucked into my boot. I still can't believe I didn't get the knife out before coming up to the deer, but the animal was dead still at first and I’d thought the kill was clean. After four years of hunting ever day, I should have known better.

I slash the knife across the animal’s throat, releasing a weak spray of blood before it goes completely still beneath me. Breathing hard, I wipe the blood from my hands and knife onto some nearby grass and stand up on wobbly feet. The camera isn’t on me anymore, both cameramen have turned to focus on Haymitch as he finally decides to walk over to the buck and explains the proper methods for cleaning and field dressing.

I slip away to the makeshift kitchen area where my best friend, Gale Hawthorne, is waiting for me, towel in hand. He has a smile on his face and I rip the towel from his hand. I try to look angry, but I can feel myself smiling back at him. Gale’s one of the only people in the world who can make me smile. Gray-eyed like me, but tall and handsome, Gale has been like a brother to me these last few years. I use the towel to wipe the rest of the blood from my face and cover my mirth.

“You’re got to be more careful, Catnip,” he says. “You know better than that.”

I scowl at him, but I know he’s right. I’ve been hunting since I was a little girl, first with my father and then, when both our fathers died in the same accident, with Gale.

I hardly knew him before, but he became my hunting partner. Almost everything I know about hunting comes from him. He also got me this job as a hunting assistant on Chef of the Wild, billed as only gourmet game show on channel 12. Ha, ha.

The show’s host, Haymitch Abernathy, is about as gourmet as a toilet bowl, but the job pays well enough to keep me, my mother and my sister, Prim, alive. It was a close call, too, especially in those days after my father died and my mother developed fibromyalgia, hunting with Gale and this job were the only things between us and starvation.

Gale hefts a large tray of perfectly sectioned deer and takes it to where Haymitch will start grilling in a few minutes, before coming back into the kitchen to help our food prep girl, Madge, start dicing the vegetables.

I go to the trailer we all share and takes a shower in the tiny cubicle. I’ve be expected back on set in fifteen minutes to chat pleasantly with Haymitch on camera as he cooks and to tell him how good everything smells. After the shower, I go to my section of the trailer where my “uniforms” are stored. It’s what I wear after the real hunting is done. The uniform consists of a pair of skintight jeans and a variety of midriff baring plaid shirts. My hair in a single braid completes the modern Daisy Duke package. What can I say, the whole thing's ridiculous, but it pays the bills.

I check my face in the mirror. The gray eyes, too wide in my serious face stare back at me. Channel 12 is too cheap to give us a makeup artist, so I just smooth some tinted moisturizer on my face and I’m out with three minutes to spare.

The rest of the taping goes well and Haymitch pulls off his venison stew, venison chops, and venison burgers without a hitch despite becoming increasingly drunk. It’s mostly thanks to Madge. She makes sure we have the final dishes prepped ahead of time, so no matter how bad Haymitch screws up, everything still looks edible in the final cut. She should be the host, anyway, everything she makes is delicious. The whole crew always fights over who will take her food home. She’s not like me and Gale, her family’s rich and she only works because she wants to.

After we wrap, all six of us, me and Gale, Haymitch, Madge, and the two cameramen pile into the van. The thing has the logo of the show, a giant deer with exed out eyes as a full wrap decal. I’m only glad it covers the windows so I don’t have to be seen riding in the thing.

We’re heading home when Haymitch starts cursing from the backseat. “We’ve got to meet the pains and the producers at the home office this afternoon,” he slurred.

Everyone in the van groans. The pains are what we call the only other cooking show on channel 12. The real name of the show is Le Pain, which, thanks to four years of high school French, I know means bread, but in our slightly unhealthy, one-sided competition, it morphs into the pains.

Le Pain is the channel favorite. With their highbrow, French inspired baking, Le Pain always manages to get national advertisers and the channel loves them for it. With our fishin’ and huntin’, the best we can hope for are local lawyer and used car lot  ads.

“What time?” Gale asks, turning the car back toward the city.

“About five minutes ago,” Haymitch answers.

Gale breaks every speed limit to get to our channel’s office downtown. It’s in a rundown building that should have been demolished ten years ago, but I hear that the rent is cheap for this part of downtown. I drag Haymitch into the building while Gale attempts the nearly impossible task of finding a parking space. More than likely, the meeting is just for Haymitch, anyway. The local execs don’t have a lot to say to the grunt workers.

The elevator takes us up to the third floor where the meeting is being held and I pull Haymitch along the corridor. Part of it is his being drunk, the other part is him really not wanting to go. I pull harder.

We finally make it to the door and I try to stand Haymitch up on his own two feet. “Get it together,” I whisper into his ears.

Part of me is terrified that if they know how bad Haymitch's drinking is, they’ll cancel the show. His drunken antics are supposed to be part of the good ole boy gimmick, but he’s not supposed to bring it to the boardroom. I need this job. I’m the only one in my family bringing home a paycheck. The little money from my father’s death benefits and my mother’s disability claims wouldn’t keep the lights on for a month. And they won't pay for Prim to go to college.

Haymitch turns his blurry eyes on me for a second and I see understanding in their depths, maybe he’s not as drunk as he seems. He stands up straighter and turns the knob.

“Numbers are down for this quarter for both shows, even more than projected…” the bland voice breaks off and five pairs of eyes turn in our direction. The baker who hosts Le Pain has brought along two of his sons who assist him on the show. They sit like ducks in a row, all blond haired and blue-eyed in their nice designer clothes.

I only know one of them by name, Peeta Mellark. I take in the surprised look in his blue eyes before they flit from my face down to the bare midriff of the costume I’m still wearing. I shift nervously under his gaze and I can’t help trying to pull the darn top down. But of course, it stays firmly above my navel. What right does he have anyway, to judge me?

The exec smiles a bland smile, “Chef, thank you for finally showing up. We were just discussing the dire straits we find ourselves in.”

The man offers Haymitch a folder which Haymitch immediately hands to me without looking at it.

“According to you, Cray, we are always in dire straits,” Haymitch says dryly. He plops himself into one of the vacant seats at the table and I slide in next to him, right in front of Peeta Mellark.

The only reason I know the name is because of something that happened years ago, right after my father died. Le Pain is not only the name of their show, but the name of the trendy bakery where they tape their show. At the time, I didn’t know any of this, all I knew was that the place looked busy and they had bread sitting right out in the open. So, after looking around, I stole a loaf.

I have no excuse, it wasn’t just to ease a physical hunger, even though that was a part of it. Stealing the bread relieved a lingering numbness I felt in the wake of my father’s death. It made me feel something again. So, a few days later, I did it again and again after another week. The fourth time, the security guard caught me red handed. He was about to call the police when a young man who worked there, a boy with ash blond hair and blue eyes stopped him. He looked about my age at the time, about fifteen.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get you a bag for your bread,” the boy said brightly.

The guard and I exchanged equally dumbfounded looks.

“She was stealing,” the guard said. “This is the second time I’ve seen her in here.”

“No, we have a standing order with Ms.…” those blue eyes turned to me questioningly.

“Everdeen, Katniss Everdeen,” I mumbled.

“Ms. Everdeen, that’s right. We have a standing order with Ms. Everdeen for a loaf of raisin walnut bread each week.” he finished.

The guard looked between the two of us, but the boy stood his ground and after a few more seconds of scrutiny, he shrugged and walking away.

“Let me wrap this up for you,” the boy said. He walked over to a table with wax paper and brown bags. “Would you like it sliced?”

I shook my head slowly, still mute with shock.

“Good choice, pre-slicing just makes the bread go stale faster,” he said conversationally.

I couldn’t figure out why he was doing this. He had to know there was no such standing order. Or was there? Was there a customer who looked like me that he’d confused me with? The boy deftly wrapped the bread up. As he handed me the loaf, his eye slide over to an older woman working behind the counter. When she didn’t look up, he smiled.

“Oh, yeah, and here is your change,” he said. He laid a bill in my hand. It was a hundred dollar bill.

The bland smile on the execs’ face doesn’t waver, but a deep crease appears in his forehead. “Chef Abernathy, your show is in serious danger of being cancelled. Our projections state that we would be better off with reruns of the Andy Griffith Show in your time slot if rating don’t pick up soon. Le Pain is doing slightly better, but rating are still down. No one wants to see old-school instructional cooking anymore.”

“Well, what do you suggest?” Chef Mellark says. Mellark may be a brilliant pastry chef, but his quiet personality probably doesn’t translate well on television.

“The Hunger Games,” the other exec announces. She is not bland. From her pink tipped blond hair, to the red bottomed soles of her heels, this woman is the living antonym of the word bland.

“Effie Trinket, executive producer at Capitol Television,” the woman says. “I’m here to personally invite representatives from channel 12 to this year’s Hunger Games.”

I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. The Hunger Games are the Olympics of the food world. Two representatives, charmingly called “tributes” from each channel owned by Capitol Television compete in a championship tournament that tests cooking ability and food knowledge until only one contestant is left. The final contestant is named victor and receives a multimillion dollar contract on the channel of their choice as well as genuine celebrity status. The show is always number one in rating, every year. Of course, no one from channel 12 ever wins. That is except…I look at Haymitch out of the corner of my eye.

Fifteen years ago, during the network’s tenth Games, Haymitch Abernathy became victor. How he won, I will never guess, but he did. And he decided to come back to channel 12 instead of going off to one of the fancier channels. It’s one of the reasons the channel execs tolerates him, even years later. Being a victor garners special status.

But, I still don’t see what Effie Trinket is getting at. They have the Games every year and Haymitch and usually Chef Mellark go every year. Haymitch always manages to piss someone off in the first round and come right back home and the baker doesn’t stay on much longer than that. No one cares.

“This year,” Effie Trinket says with theatrical flair, “For our twenty-fifth Games and the twenty-fifth anniversary of our network, we are going to do things a bit differently. Raise the stakes. We want our network to be younger, edgier. We’ve seen the hosts of some of the shows compete time and time and time again. We’re ready to inject the Games with a new vigor, especially with our smaller channels.” She pauses here to cast a sympathetic look around the room. For her, smaller is a euphemism for useless. “So, in addition to the victor receiving the usual contract and the endorsements, the shows of the losing representatives will all be canceled and their contracts revoked.”

“You… you can’t do that. Half our brand recognition comes from that show!” Peeta’s brother starts.

I do allow myself an eye roll for that one. They’re worried about brand recognition when all I can think about is how I won't be able to feed my family without this stupid show. My family and Gale’s are relying on Chef of the Wild.

“Now, if you read your contracts carefully, you’ll see that we have the right to set the prizes and losses for the Hunger Games,” Effie Trinket says. Then a secretive smile crosses her red lipsticky lips. “Within reason, of course. And in addition to this change, the tributes for the twenty-fifth Games have been selected by the network from among the cast and crew.”

I glance over to the Le Pain side of the table to gauge their reactions. The father looks sadly thoughtful, like he’s already resigned to losing the show, the older brother’s angry, but Peeta Mellark is looking right at me with those twinkling blue eyes. And I stare right back.

“Chef of the Wild, first,” Effie Trinket says. For us to even have a chance at winning, it needs to be Madge. She can cook. She’s nice. She’s pretty and blonde. Madge is our best bet. I will the paper to say Madge.

“Katniss Everdeen, you shall represent channel 12 and Chef of the Wild. I am glad you are here so I can congratulate you personally,” Effie Trinket beams.

I didn’t know it was possible to be so annoying. This woman has to be the most irritating person alive. Peeta’s still looking at me, but now with the faintest hint of a smile. I can tell he’s laughing at me. Okay, so it’s possible to be even more irritating.

“And we have chosen Peeta Mellark for Le Pain. Congratulations to you as well.”

“So I can go, now?” Haymitch interrupts. He doesn’t look distressed that the future of his show is in the hands of a teenaged girl. In fact, he looks relieved.

“No so fast, Chef Abernathy,” Effie Trinket trills, “We at Capitol don’t forget our past victors. As part of these extra-special Games, our new tributes will be mentored by a past victor from their channel and since you’re the only one from 12, the honor goes to you.”

“So I still have to go to the Hunger Games,” Haymitch says flatly.

“Yes, as a mentor. Congratulations!”

“Lady, I don’t know who you are, but I hate you.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

Haymitch Abernathy stared, trying to get his eyes to focus on the woman sitting next to him. The seats on the private plane were large and spacious, but the woman had wedged herself into the window seat as far away from him as humanly possible, her face scrunched up in a mask of absolute distaste.

If he were a gentleman, he’d vacate to one of the empty seats on the other side of the aisle or even to the back where the two kids were sitting, just to save her from her obvious discomfort.

His lips curved into a grin. Good thing he’d never been a gentleman.

He’d picked the seat with the sole purpose of annoying her.

And why shouldn’t he annoy her? She’d sure as hell annoyed him, waltzing down to the middle of nowhere with her tight little designer suit and shiny golden hair to drag him back to Capitol TV’s home office. Shouldn’t they all know by now that he just wanted to rot? He didn’t need their fame or publicity, none of that mattered to him. He didn’t even want the damn show.

The lifestyle that came with winning the Hunger Games had cost Haymitch Abernathy everything—his family, his marriage, his sanity. And those bastards at Capitol had wanted him to smile, smile, smile through every loss.

Sure, he’d scrambled to save everything, left the glitzy job and gleaming restaurants in the heart of the Capitol for the backwoods of his hometown, but it was too late. His wife was fed up, done with his drinking, with his constant absences, and she’d packed herself and their daughter up within the month.

They both lived with her new husband on the west coast now.

The few times his ex-wife let him visit the girl, his daughter had looked at him like she had no idea who he was, like he was just some stranger, a drunken bum who knew nothing about her life. One who made a laughingstock of himself on television.

The image of his daughter morphed in his mind into the girl that works with him on the show, the one with the sick mama and kid sister to take care of. Katniss.

Now there was one prickly girl. But she was the real reason he kept the show up, tried to hold everything together a few hours each week so that she had a paycheck to take home. Her and the boy who work with them.

The other girl would get her daddy to send her to culinary school—or just about anywhere else she’d like to go, too, but the others were like him, doing their best to make ends meet.

Or rather what he’d been like before he stopped caring. The network sent him a steady supply of money, but the ends, the real ends in life—friends, family, hope—those ends had stopped meeting so long ago they weren’t on speaking terms.

Haymitch leaned closer to the woman, inhaling the sweet, flowery fragrance of her perfume.

“Give me one good reason…why I should… lift a finger to help the pain boy?” Haymitch slurred. It was something that had been bothering him ever since they brought up the ridiculous mentor idea. Granted, almost every idea Capitol TV thinks up is ridiculous, but this seemed incredibly stupid, even for them. “Why should I help him get my show canceled?”

The woman managed to distance herself even more from him. If she leaned any further, her head would be sticking out the window. She pursed her cherry red lips in a combination of real disgust and feigned sympathy,

“It’s a shame really, most other channels have enough victors to send at least two mentors. Impartial, for the most part. Channel 12 will just have to make due,” she said.

“And what’s to stop me from ignoring his existence?”

She gave a trilling laugh and turned toward Haymitch, her shoulder inadvertently brushing against his, forgetting for the moment that he repulsed her. “Oh, Chef Abernathy, I’m sure you would never do anything so dishonest. Or that displays such bad manners.”

“Lady, have you even seen my show?”

“Besides,” she said ignoring him. “If you were to treat Peeta Mellark unfairly, the audience and by extension, the sponsors would see it.”

“Again, have you seen my show? I couldn’t care less about the audience or any damned sponsors.”

“You should, Chef Abernathy. I know it’s been a while since you lasted more than a day in the Games, but surely you remember that the sponsors provide the tributes with everything. If they detect anything outside the rules of fair play, neither of your tributes will get so much as a carrot.”

“Might be best just to get it over with,” Haymitch murmured. Neither of those kids have what it takes to win the Games, not against chefs trained at Michelin star restaurants, not when they’ll be judged by the same type of people.

The pain boy might make it a little farther than the girl, but everyone knows pastry chefs can’t cook real food. They don’t have the feel for it. Baking’s all about precise measurements and rules, real cooking is about talent. His father’s proof of that. For all his French training, the baker never made it past the second round.

“Now, that’s not the right attitude Chef Abernathy. You wouldn’t want to damage your tributes chances or get into any legal trouble with the network for breach of contract?” The woman smiled, a real one this time. “And you know how President Snow is. So old-fashioned. No video conferences. No lawyers. You’ll have to stay there, maybe for months, dealing with accusations and answering questions. All in the alcohol-free zone that is the Capitol Center.”

President Snow was president and founder of the Capitol Network. A man in his eighties, the president still micro-managed everything from what his highest execs wore to how many pencils the newest intern could break before being dismissed.

The man refused the title of CEO, even though that’s what he really was, because president sounds more commanding. Haymitch was surprised he didn’t demand to be called king. Or Caesar.

The thought of spending any time in that man’s tyrannical presence made Haymitch shiver.

“I see you get my meaning,” she said smugly.

That annoyed him, her high-handed, superior attitude, but by now, she was turned toward him, green eyes flashing and amused, the open neckline of her suit giving him a glimpse of creamy breast…and none of that annoyed him. Haymitch smiled again. No, not at all.

I watch the sun sink in the late summer sky as the private plane taxis the runway, waiting for permission to take off. They’d only given us an hour to pack and say goodbye. We didn’t have to pack much, apparently there’ll be a whole team of stylists and wardrobe specialists there to dress us, so it was mostly just saying goodbye. My mother and sister were surprised and pleased as they packed a quick bag for me. Not in the least bit scared. They somehow think that I can win. Prim’s eyes were bright and exited as she gripped my hand, promising that she would have everyone at her school watch. She’d rested her blonde head on my shoulder and told me that I am the best cook she knows.

Too bad most of the stuff I “make” at home are just reheated leftovers from Madge.

Even Gale, who should know better, just folded me in his arms and made me promise to bring home the win.

It’s impossible. I can’t win against twenty-three of the top chefs in the country. I can hunt. I can make simple dishes, but I’m no chef. The show will be canceled and everyone I care about will lose their jobs, all because I don’t know how to make a stupid dish like coq au vin. I can feel the sting of tears in the corners of my eyes, but I don’t give into it, no yet. Not here with my nearest competition siting across the aisle from me.

Although Peeta Mellark doesn’t exactly look like he’s up to any devious planning. Not just this minute, anyway. He looks more like he’s about to be sick, the faint green tinge to his skin a dead giveaway. I’d noticed it when he first sat down across from me. After a few looks out the small window, he’d firmly closed the shutter and moved into the aisle seat.

If he’s feeling sick now, how’s he going to be when we actually get in the air?

There are other seats on the plane, it’s tiny but I could move a row over, out of the way of any projectile vomit, but I don’t. Mostly because I’d feel the need to come up with an excuse for why I’m moving.

And I don’t want to talk. The only thing I want is to pretend I’m alone. I pull my earbuds out of my messenger bag and put them in my ears, but I don’t turn the music on. I still need to be alert to what’s happening, to any announcement from the pilot as to when we’ll actually be leaving. The earbuds are for discouraging conversation. I pull out one of the in-flight magazines and pretend to thumb through that, too.

Yes, being anti-social is a talent.

But, my eyes keep flitting over to him from behind my magazine. I watch him fidget for a few more minutes before I find myself pulling out my earbuds. “You know, you don’t have anything to worry about. Flying is safe.”

Peeta scratches his head and looks over at me, a pale pink blush spreading across his cheeks, replacing the sickly green. “That obvious, huh?”

“Yeah, kind of,” I say. I move to put the earbuds back when there’s some kind of commotion up front where Haymitch and the Capitol exec are sitting. The woman’s making a show of changing seats, moving two rows forward in a loud huff.

Peeta leans forward in his seat. “What do you think he said to her?”

I frown. Haymitch is a slob and a drunk, but I’ve never known him to hit on a woman. His general hatred of humanity made me think he was immune to that kind of thing. “He probably just drooled on her in his sleep.”

“Oh,” Peeta says, a hint of a smile on his face. “For some reason, I always assumed he saved public drooling for business meetings with Le Pain. I thought we were special.”

He catches my eye and he looks so sincere that I can’t help but laugh.

“I waited, you know, for you to come back to the bakery. I waited for weeks, but you never did. Next thing I know, you’re taking down a turkey on Chef of the Wild with a bow and arrow. While sitting in a tree. I’ve never seen anyone shoot like that.”

For some reason, bringing up that day in the bakery puts me on the defensive. “Well, I guess I didn’t need the charity anymore.”

A look of hurt flashes through those guileless blue eyes and I feel a twinge of guilt in my chest. I didn’t mean to hurt his feeling, but that had been one of the lowest moments in my life and I hate remembering how close to the edge we’d gotten. So close that I had to steal to keep us feed. But, more than that I don’t like owing people. I don’t like feeling gratitude. It makes me feel out of control and helpless. And that’s something I never want to feel again.

Peeta shakes he head. “It wasn’t about the bread. Or you needing charity. I just wanted to see you again,” he says softly. He looks away from me then, back towards his shuttered window.

I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t even really understand it. Why would he want to see me again, a too-skinny thief, too poor to even buy a loaf of bread?

After about five more minutes of silence, the raspy voice of the pilot fills the air, telling us we’re finally ready to take off and to buckle our seat belts. We turn one final corner and then the plane is speeding down the runway fast enough to press me into the plush seat. I look over at Peeta again, his fists balled tightly against the armrests.

Before I can stop myself I reach out and cover his hand with my own. His is large and pale and my hand looks delicate in comparison.

His eyes find mine as he gently laces our fingers together while the plane lifts off the ground and up into a sunset sky.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

“Welcome to the Capitol Center,” Effie Trinket chirps. “The home of the largest cable channel in the world.” She stretches her arms out as if embracing the building. “We have forty-six sets on site as well as offices… and…for our special guests, we have executive suites on the top floors.”

She pivots towards us, arms still raised high, waiting expectantly for our excited ohhs and ahhs. When only blank stares greet her, she swings away in a huff, clipping forward on her high heels.

But, I have to admit the building is impressive—nothing like the Capitol’s outpost downtown, full of musty smells and flickering fluorescent lights. Polished silver pillars, floors with swirling gray marble, and endless walls of big screen televisions surround us. Since it’s already past midnight, only a few guards stand by, posted at intervals along the main hallway.

Haymitch, Peeta, and I follow the sharp click of Effie’s heels past walls lit with softly glowing sconces to an elevator with clear glass walls and I hope, to some place where I can sleep.

We pile into the elevator and it plummets, dipping deep below ground and I have to wrap my hands around the rail to keep standing. After the flight, the plunge has my knees weak and my head throbbing.

“Where are we going?” Peeta whispers from his place beside me. He managed not to throw up on me during the flight, but I can tell from the deep blue shadows under his eyes he’s exhausted. All I can do is shrug in answer.

We descend further underground, the clear glass of the elevator revealing alternating glimpses of silvery hewn stone and the lighted landings of the various floors we past. Finally, the car clanks down on what must be the lowest level.

I stumble out of the elevator into a long empty space, like a warehouse, with a cluster of rooms set off to one side. A woman, her hair, the same blue as the sky, grabs hold of Peeta's arm and drags him off in one direction. I’m about to ask where they’re taking him when a young man dressed in a black turtleneck and pants, walks up to me and smiles, his eyes hidden behind gold framed sunglasses. His smile is kind and just a little bit sad.

“I’m Cinna, your stylist for the Games,” he says, his voice soft and almost dreamy. He takes my hand in his and some of the anxiety I’ve been feeling since they announced these stupid Games leeches away. I don’t know what it is about him, but I don’t resist when he starts to pull me toward a set of closed doors. I look back, but Haymitch and Effie have already disappeared.

“They are doing some of the initial photography tonight, so we have to make you presentable,” Cinna says. I’m stifling a groan that we have to do anything tonight other than sleep, when he opens one of the door to reveal three of the most bizarrely dressed people I’ve ever seen.

 Back home, there’s not much variation in what people wear; some kids might dye their hair purple or pink, maybe get a tattoo or two, but nothing like the extremes of the figures in front of me. It isn’t just the hair colors—bright orange, green, metallic gold—but the contact lens and skin colors to match— I guess that’s not fair, only one of them had skin the same color as their hair and eyes—and it's a really a nice shade of green.

“This is my team: Venia, Octavia, and Flavius. They will be prepping you for the shoot.” he says pointing to the gold tattooed one, the green one, and the one with bright orange hair in turn. “And this is Katniss Everdeen. We will be helping her look her best for the Games.”

Cinna leads me over to a makeup chair and tries to let go of my hand, but I hold on, not wanting to be left to the fashion whims of his team. I don’t care much about how I look, but I don’t think I want to be dyed gray like my eyes. Looking like a decomposing zombie won’t help me win the Hunger Games.

“You’re in good hands,” Cinna whispers before leaving.

For the next hour I’m plucked, shaved, washed, and coifed into something that doesn’t feel human. Chef of the Wild never bothered with this kind of preparation, so having three different people working on every part of my body has left my nerves raw, not to mention the constant chatter of the team, each talking over my head to the others, makes me feel like one of those dead deer Haymitch and Gale dress in the field.

After they finish, Cinna comes in and takes a few minutes to adjust my makeup before letting me see myself in the mirror. I’m surprised to see how natural I look—nothing like myself, but not overly made up either—and my hair is still in its single braid, this one more ornate and elegant than I would have crafted for myself, but still in the same style.

“We want you to be recognizable to fans of your current show,” Cinna says, looking at my reflection. “Very natural. Girl next door.”

Cinna bundles me into a robe and we exit the room. In the last hour, the huge empty space has been transformed, workers mill around, setting up lights and even a kitchen, complete with oven, sink, and table.

We go over to one end of the space where a long sheet of white paper is suspended high from rollers and draped onto the ground next to things that vaguely look like lit black umbrellas. It all sits in front of a camera. A similar set up, facing the other direction is right next to it. In the distance, I can see a crew of bored looking guys in t-shirts and caps setting up a third station.

Cinna leads me over to a cubicle and a rack of clothes. He settles me into the space, which has a small bench and a mirror before handing me an outfit, a beautiful dress that shimmers in the fiery tones of red, orange, and yellow along with matching shoes. I change into the garment and walk out in front of the overly warm white lights.

It’s not until the last second, when I’m standing in first of the camera, that reality crashes down on me, stealing my breath and I freeze. This is just like when I first started on Chef of the Wild; it took me weeks to stop shaking in front of the cameras. I couldn’t relax until I got to know the cameramen, Cas and PJ, and learned to just talk to them.

I can’t see the person behind this camera, but Cinna comes out to fix the drape of the dress.

“What do they want me to do?” I ask in a panicked whisper. I can feel my heart pounding in my ears and have to lock my knees to stay standing.

“They want a few shots to introduce you to the audience before the Games,” Cinna says. “Just relax and be yourself.”

“I don’t know how to be myself!” I ground out.

Cinna chuckles. “Then just smile and do what they tell you.”

He disappears and the disembodied voice behind the camera tells me to smile. I manage a smile and the lights on three sides of me flash. Somewhere in the distance, loud pop music starts to blare.

“Can you give me more of a smile?” the voice asks. “And a little movement.”

I do as he says, moving to the music, letting the dress swirl around me. Some of the flaming panic receded and I can feel the smile on my face become more natural, my actions less stiff.

I stand there for a few more photos and then Cinna hands me another outfit, this time a hunting jacket and jeans like I wear on Chef of the Wild and they manage to find me a prop bow and arrow and I hold that, too, taking pretend shots at invisible animals. The next photos are of me sitting in a director’s chair with my name emblazon on the back, legs over the side, clad in just a mini dress.

The shoot drags on and I have to make myself stay awake, not yawn and not rub at the makeup on my face. The music helps, it’s upbeat and peppy, but even it lags after the first thirty minutes. The guy behind the camera keeps saying more energy, more enthusiasm, but I’m not sure I have any left.

As I go to change out of the fifth outfit, I see I have an audience. Peeta has reappeared, sitting in a director’s chair like the one I used in the shoot, casually chatting with the woman with blue hair and Cinna. While one of the bored crew members changes out the table that served as a prop for my last outfit and hauls it away, I go over to them. Cinna introduces the woman as Portia, Peeta’s stylist.

“We’ve been done for a while now,” Peeta says. “Just waiting for you.” He’s slouching back in the chair, his eyes closed, so I finally get a good look at him. Portia must have used something to cover the dark smudges under his eyes because his face looks fresh and his blond hair is styled in that perfectly mussed way beloved by teen heartthrobs.

“We want to get a few shots of you together,” Cinna says. “So, after this, we’re moving over to the kitchen set.”

I wrap up the last of my photos and then Cinna’s taking me aside to redo my hair, unbraiding until it tumbles in waves and then pinning the front up. He alters my makeup as well, applying a red lip and more dramatic eye makeup. The dress is red and strapless with a tight bodice and full skirt that whishes around my knees.

When we get to the kitchen set, I see Peeta has changed as well, into a pair of trousers the same red as my dress and a crisp white shirt. His hair is parted down the side and slicked back. He looks young and handsome and wholesome.

It’s annoying.

I can see it now, him charming the moms who make up a huge percentage of the audience, acting like the guy they’d want their daughters to date. I don’t need Peeta Mellark being any more of a threat than he already is.

I drag my eyes away from him and focus on the kitchen. All the appliances, from the rounded refrigerator to the red and white checkerboard floor look like they're from the 1950's. It’s just like the kitchen in those old I Love Lucy reruns they threaten to play instead of Chef of the Wild.  So that must be why Cinna dressed me like this--to go with this set up.

“Each channel will have its own themed shoot," Cinna confirms from beside me. So we want you two to work with the 50's theme and have fun." Peeta shrugs and I go over to join him in front of the cameras.

Because we’re basically stranger, the first pictures are awkward. We stand beside easy other, rigidly apart, but then the music switches from its insistent, bubbly pop into an equally insistent and bubbly big band swing.

Peeta smiles, cocks one dark blond eyebrow, and holds his hand out to me. I take it, rolling my eyes as I let him whip me into his arms. He twirls me around until I’m laughing and the camera lights are flashing in rapid succession all around us. The cameraman has to yell for us to slow it down.

The shoot goes better after that. Peeta’s a natural at knowing what looks good in front of the camera. He’s so funny, playing up the old fashioned husband thing, showing off his winning smile, that I forget the cameras and I follow his lead.

I serve him prop eggs and bacon while he hides behind a newspaper. I juggles red apples and he catches them, one by one in a straw basket. At some point, they bring in some prop bread and Peeta gets down on one knee and pretends to propose to me with a dinner roll. In a couple shots, I turn him down, but in the last one, I accept the bread and hold it up to my hand like it’s a ring. They bring back the prop bow and arrow and I point it at him as he frantically pretends to wash dishes.

By the end of the shoot, we’re dancing to a slow song, the soft bluesy music wafting down from invisible speakers, my arms wrapped around his neck. As the song ends, a startling impulse seizes me and I lift up on tiptoe and kiss him, leaving the bright red imprint of my lips on his cheek. The camera lights flash one more time, but I don’t really notice. I’ve been transfixed by the questioning look in Peeta’s eyes, before they quickly flit away from my face.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

"Yeah Prim, I made it," I say, talking on the phone as I walk around the expansive room. "But you should have been in bed hours ago." The Capitol is only an hour ahead and it is nearly three in the morning here.

"I couldn't sleep," Prim says. "Not without knowing you were okay. Is the Capitol everything they say it is?"

I open the doors to the balcony and look out over the busy city through the balcony doors at the people rushing about, even at this hour, the lit towers that go on for miles. "Yeah, it is."

"And if you win, you will be a famous chef and we'll all live there together?" I can tell she is excited, imagining this new life with me as victor of the Hunger Games.

"That's the plan," I say, injecting a little confidence to my voice for her sake. My little sister is so sweet, I don't want to break her heart, at least not until I have to. I plan to play to win, for her sake, but the odds aren't in my favor. "How's mom?"

"About the same," Prim says around a yawn. "Some people from the newspaper called yesterday, said they wanted to interview us, but mom wasn't feeling up to it."

"Did they offer to pay?" I ask, holding my breath. If they offered to pay and my mother turned them down, I don't know what I'd do-I'd have to get Prim to go to the newsroom first thing tomorrow and beg them to take the story. With Peeta in the Games this year, it's a miracle that my family got any offers at all.

"They didn't say anything about money," Prim says, her voice starting to sound droopy. "But wouldn't it be nice to have all our names in the paper?"

"It does sound nice," I agree. "But don't talk to any reporters unless they're willing to pay."

"Uh huh," Prim mumbles.

"I'm going to let you go to sleep, little duck," I say. It's a nickname from when she was a baby, just starting to walk. She would waddle everywhere; her bottom wrapped in thick white diapers looked just like a duck's tail.

"Don't call me that!" she says, but she sounds amused. "Goodnight then. I love you Katniss."

"Love you too, Prim," I say before hanging up.

I've finally change out of my traveling clothes and into a pair of pajamas when someone knocks on my door. A look at the bedside alarm tells me it's a quarter to four. I groan, praying this isn't a wake up called from the station and go over to open the door a crack. I step back when I see it is Peeta, holding a large pizza box, a sheepish expression on his face.

"I ordered this pizza from the in-room menu. I didn't think it would be this big and I heard you walking around, so I came over to see if you wanted some."

He says it all in a flustered rush, so different from when he took the lead in our photo shoot. It's puzzling, this change. And with the size of these rooms, I'm amazed he heard anything at all. Only three rooms fit on one floor, so it's me, Peeta, and Haymitch on this floor. The other tributes, who'd started streaming in for their own photo shoots almost as soon as we finished, would be housed on other floors.

For once, I'm more sleepy than hungry and I'm tempted to tell him to go away, but then the intoxicating smell of the tomato, basil, and cheese hits me and my stomach grumbles, loudly.

"I'll take that as a yes," Peeta says, his eyes doing that twinkling thing again.

"If I'd wanted pizza, I could have order my own, you know," I say, irritated that my body betrayed me like this in front of him.

Peeta shifts and I notice his bare foot sticking out from the rolled cuff of his pajama bottoms. "Yeah, but then you'd have to wait for it and it'd be this whole process. This one's already here and I didn't want going to waste." He slides the top off the box, revealing the delicious pizza. "It's still hot."

My door swings wider, like those were the magic words, and I find myself letting him in. I can bet my mom wouldn't like it, me having a boy over to my room late at night, but it's just for pizza.

Peeta looks around for a second, before settling down in one of the overstuffed chairs in front of the huge television screen. I sit in the one next to him, tucking my feet underneath me. He takes a slice of pizza before handing me the box. The wedges of pizza are huge and it takes both hands to hold the hot slice of melty goodness up to my lips and take a bite.

It's so good that for a while neither of us talks. After the first slice, I go over to the stocked refrigerator and grab two colas, silently handing one to Peeta who pops it open gratefully.

"What do you think it'll be like?" I ask after the third slice, my stomach pleasantly full. "The Games."

Peeta pauses for a moment. "It's hard to say. Sounds like they want to mix it up, do things differently. Guess we'll know more when met the other competitors after breakfast in Haymitch's room."

"Breakfast with Haymitch? When did he say that?"

"He didn't, he texted it to me about an hour ago. He sent it to two numbers. I thought the other one was yours." He pulled out his phone, sleek and silver, the newest model of the iPhone and showed me the terse message—Brkfst 9. My rm.

"I'll have to check if I got it, but that's my number."

"Good, now I have your number, too," he says, typing my name into his contacts. "For emergencies."

I narrow my eyes at that casual statement, not sure if I like him having my phone number, but I shrug it off. What does it matter?

After that, Peeta leaves, yawning as he pads out of the room and a few seconds later, I hear his door open and close.

With Peeta and his shiny new iPhone gone, I pull out my phone, an old flip phone, a battered, nearly broken thing I've had since junior high and never found the money to replace. I have three messages.

The first's from Haymitch, the same message I saw on Peeta's phone. The second is from Gale—you can win this. You're better than they are. The third is from a number I don't recognize until I open it—goodnight Katniss, sweet dreams.

Apparently wishing me goodnight is an emergency. I roll my eyes, type Peeta's name in next to the number, flip over, and go to bed.

In the morning, I head to Haymitch's room to find Peeta already there. Somehow, in less than six hours, he has transformed his room, twisting it into a festering hole sharp with the smell of vomit and alcohol. Peeta already has the balcony doors open, but the scent is overpowering. I tuck my nose and mouth into the collar of my shirt, but it only blocks a minimum of the stench.

"Can we do this in the common area?" I ask, my voice muffled by the fabric of my shirt.

Peeta agrees immediately, but Haymitch sits at his table, knees spread, draped in his shorts and a bathrobe and glares at us like he's the one disgusted. "There's nothing wrong with my room," he slurs.

"It's be easier to eat there," Peeta says. "The table's bigger."

The common area is a sitting space by the elevators, dominated by a large table that I think the studio execs use for meetings.

We haul Haymitch out to the table. Three silent women dressed in white come and lays out several platters on the table—crispy brown hash, oatmeal with various toppings, waffles, pancakes, eggs, sausage, bacon—anything you could want for breakfast. Peeta and I dig in, but Haymitch stares bleary-eyed at the offerings before pouring himself some coffee.

After a few minutes, the coffee seems to have sobered him up a little.

"Today, you two will be meeting the other tributes. Some have been here before, most have not. You'll meet the judges too, so make a good impression. No competing today. They'll be doing preliminary stuff, more photography, more filming, and the interviews. You'll tell Flickerman what you think of the other tributes, your skills, a sob story—whatever it takes to make the audience like you. They do interviews after each round, so find a personality and stick to it."

"How do we know make the audience like us?" I ask. I've never been popular, was always too busy trying to make ends meet to make friends.

"In his case," Haymitch says, pointing at Peeta. "Be yourself. In your case…well, sweetheart…smile and nod a lot."

I scowl at Haymitch, but he pretends not to notice and keeps chugging his coffee. "Your stylists will dress you. Take your cues from that—girl next door, bad girl, preppy—the stylists have an uncanny way of knowing what you can pull of and what the audience wants to see."

I run my fingers lightly over the wood grain of the table. Is it that easy—you are what you wear? Will that get me through the first round?

At the end of the hallway, the elevator dings and Effie Trinket comes out, this time in a fitted dark red suit.

"Morning, morning," she says. She teeters over on five-inch heels, several large pages clutched in her hands, a triumphant smile painted on her face. "They've already started printing off the first promotional posters to put up here in the building." She rattles the pages in our faces before clearing a spot on the table and spreading them out for us to see.

There are four posters. Two of them are of us separately, the ones in the director's chairs, now the background isn't white, but filled with the Hunger Games logo. These both look nice. The one of Peeta is good-natured, his piercing eyes looking direct into the camera. Mine is an attempt at sultry that I halfway pull off; it's mostly the short skirt with my legs toned from daily hunting. But it's our prints together that steal my attention.

They made us look in love.

In one we are dancing and I'm laughing like I never laugh in real life, my head thrown back, as Peeta spins me, his lips brushing the juncture between my neck and shoulder. The second is a close up of us after I kissed him, just our profiles, my lips curved in a smile, his open on a shocked intake of breath, the lipstick bright against his pale skin. Across the bottom of each poster is the Hunger Games logo and a slogan—A New Kind of Hunger.

"There are others, of course," Effie says. "But these will be your intro to the world."

"Why did they make us look like that?" I ask. "Like Peeta and I are some kind of couple?"

Effie frowns. "I don't think they made you look like a couple per se. All the tributes took photos with their channel partners. But the good new—the excellent news—is that the powers that be have earmarked the images of you together as the main promo shots for the season. These shot will be billboards and magazine ads by the end of the week!"

Billboards with this will go up all over the country. I can feel my face heating. For some reason all I can think is that Gale will see this back home. I don't know why he'd care, but it leaves me uneasy. I don't want him getting the wrong idea about Peeta and me.

"Yeah, yeah. That's all good, but why do you care?" Haymitch says, leaning back in his chair. "Why is this excellent news for you? I thought your job was just to bring us here, to the happiest place on earth."

Effie crosses her arms across her chest and fixes her eyes on Haymitch. "If you must know. Each of us junior executives has been assigned to a channel to ensure that everything goes smoothly."

"Junior executives, huh," Haymitch says. "I guess I should have known they wouldn't send one of their real head honchoes out to Twelve." His eyes sweep over her. "You must have really pissed someone off."

Effie brushes her hand down the skirt of her suit, smoothing invisible wrinkles. "Assisting the tributes is a privilege…"

"And what do you get, anyway?" Haymitch interrupts. "Some kind of bonus if one of them wins? A plaque at the annual company picnic?"

"…and if ever two people desperately needed outside assistance," Effie continues, ignoring his words. "It's the tributes under your mentorship."

A smirk appears under the week-old stubble on Haymitch's face. "So, does that make you my personal assistant? Because I definitely have some personal matters that need assistance."

Effie's face flushes a bright pink and, with a deliberate motion, she turns away from Haymitch and toward Peeta and me. "Today is the meet and greet with the other competitors and the individual interviews," she says, her tone very measured and precise. "I need to get you to Cinna and Portia for clothes and makeup. Meet me on the first floor in ten minutes." Then, still very rigidly, still bent on ignoring Haymitch, she strides back to the elevators.

"Hey, sweetheart," Haymitch calls after her as the elevator doors slide open. "You might want to wait up a bit. I have some laundry that needs dry cleaning and a couple errands..."

She shoots him another murderous look before the doors close and she's gone.

Haymitch chuckles to himself, looking oddly pleased before noticing that both Peeta and I are staring at him. "What are you two looking at? You heard the lady—be on the first floor in ten minutes," he says, selecting one of the leftover blueberry muffins from a tray. "Go!"

Peeta and I round the corner before we both burst into laughter. I don't know why what happened between Effie and Haymitch is so funny to us, maybe it's just stress, but we stand there, wasting five of the minutes Effie gave us laughing.

"I wonder what she did to make him hate her," I says when I catch my breath.

"I don't think he does hate her, not really," Peeta says, giving me a flitting look. "In fact, it might be the opposite."

"You think he likes her?" I shake my head. "Haymitch doesn't like anyone, but he's usually not so virulent about it. Something must have happened on the plane."

Peeta shrugs. "Well, you know him better than I do. So, see you in a few minutes?"

I nod and we both head for our separate rooms.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

Fourteen. That’s the number of posters they have up of Peeta and me between our floor and the auditorium where we will have the meet and greet. There are at least two posters of us for every poster of the other tributes. They must love the one where I kissed Peeta’s cheek because it’s everywhere. 

I avert my eyes from the latest smiling image of myself and try to push down the angry embarrassment rising in my gut.  Cinna is walking next to me. “Seems like they must like the two of you,” he says, eyeing yet another poster. “You two are the new face of the Hunger Games. That will make an impression on the sponsors.”

I look over to the man walking beside me and his has a faint smile on his face. I guess he’s right. They can’t get rid of us too quickly if they plan on using our images as promotion for the entire Games. I met up with Cinna and the prep team a couple hours ago in a suite that was converted into a full service beauty salon where they managed to do even more things to my hair, skin, and nails than they did yesterday. I don’t even know what most of creams and concoctions were, but the end results are velvety smooth skin, flowing hair, and nails buffed and manicured in a nude color. Hands were extremely important, Venia said as she worked, because no one wanted to see someone with grungy, cracked fingernails cook.

The whole process was torture, but the dress Cinna handed me was beautiful. At first glance, it was a white day dress, but whenever I moved the colors shifted softly. It wasn’t flashy like the fiery dress from the first shoot, but soft and elegant. Soft and elegant—two things I could never pull off in an interview.

We finally make it down the long hall to where Portia and Peeta are waiting for us in front of a pair of double doors.

There’s a warm look in Peeta’s eyes as they settle on me and I look down at the pumps Cinna choose for me, that embarrassed feeling growing even stronger. I wish they hadn’t waited for us. With all the posters, going in together will put a huge spotlight on us, especially if we’re as late as I think we are. There’s no one else in the hallway.

Cinna collects Portia and they head towards a bank of elevators, leaving me alone with Peeta.

“Ready?” he asks. I nod and he opens the door for me. When I pass him, I notice that the shirt under his jacket is made of the same material as my dress. I have to let out a calming breath. They’re going to have to stop throwing us together like this. We’re not a team.

I’m so loss in my thoughts that it takes me a moment to notice the room we’ve entered. It’s huge with twenty-four kitchen sets surrounding the perimeter. And bright white lights everywhere. The lights are so hot that the temperature of this auditorium has to be at least fifteen degrees hotter than in the hall.

The tributes gather in the center, chatting in causal groups. The room is loud with conversation until they all turn to the door when we walk in. It’s unnerving. They stare at us for a beat and then go back to talking.

 Some of the tributes I recognize only from the posters in the hall, but others have been to the Games many times before. I see Finnick Odair immediately. With his bronze hair and classically beautiful face, he’s hard to miss.

He’s the star of a channel four show about coastal living, His first time at the Games, the other tributes underestimated him since he’s not a chef, but he blew the judges away week after week. He won those Games…and the next two Games as well. I thought they’d forced him to retire, but there he was, laughing with a chef from channel 10.

Great. I have to beat the unbeatable.

I’m surprised to see Peeta and I aren’t the youngest people here. There are several tributes around our age and sitting on top of one of the counters is a little girl around twelve with huge dark eyes and wavy hair. At first I think she’s the daughter of one of the tribute until I see she has on a tiny white chef’s coat, the uniform of the Games.

 After a moment, a woman with cropped silver hair spots us and brings over our own chef’s coats. Up close, I see that they have my name and channel sewn onto the front. Despite the heat, I go ahead and button the coat up over my dress. I’ve never worn a chef’s coat before and it eases my anxiety a little, makes me feel like I could actually belong in the kitchen.

My first instinct is to avoid the others, but then the woman with the chef’s coats claps her hands, drawing all twenty-four tributes over to us.  She introduces herself as Ali, a producer on the show. “There’s just over an hour before lunch,” she says. “We’ll assign stations. Take this time before the Games to get familiar with the equipment. Take a look at what’s available in our pantry. Fiddle with the settings on the oven. Cook something. Practice while you can because in two days you’ll be up before the judges.”

She then starts calling out names and assigning each tribute a station. Peeta ends up across the set, as far from me as possible. Good.

“Now,” Ali says after we all move to our kitchens. “Have fun, enjoy yourselves,“ she says. She turns around as if to leave then she stops and looks back at us. “Oh yeah, when I said lunch was in an hour I failed to mention that you would be providing that lunch. So while you’re testing everything out, be sure to make enough for your fellow tributes. You have one hour.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

I stare at the woman in front of me, my mouth gaped open. I thought I had at least a few more days to prepare. A few days before I had to worry about actually cooking anything.

Think, Katniss, think! What can I make? It just has to be lunch, I keep telling myself. It's not like this is part of the contest.

But, of course, it is. This isn't some friendly meet and greet luncheon. This meal will represent the pecking order, a way to weed out the weaker tributes before the Games even began. There are almost always group challenges in the Hunger Games; this meal will be the basis of alliances.

And I'm sure the judges are watches us right now.

My eyes cut to the upper levels where there are a number of seemingly empty box seats—the perfect vantage point for the judges to view us. And I know from past Games that they often hide there to watch the tributes.

And of course, the cameras are going.

Okay. I look dumbly around my station, the sound of my heart roaring in my ears. Embedded in the stainless steel countertop is a gas range with an oven underneath it, and a microwave above it. There's a bunch of pots and pans on a rack, a tray with bottles of salt, pepper, and oil. Not much more than that.

I draw in a shuddering breath. What am I supposed to cook?

The pantry.

I look up and I see most of the other tributes have already made it to the pantry, a glass encased room in the center of the set. It's a huge storeroom complete with a couple of refrigerators and rows and rows of shelved goods. I race over to the pantry as fast as my heeled pumps carry me, hating Cinna for putting me in these shoes, but I see that most of the other female tributes are dressed this way, too.

I skid into the pantry, stopping myself just in time to avoid slamming into a tribute with dark red hair. There are dozens of racks of fruits and vegetables and powders. Things in bins, things in glass containers, things wrapped in deep green leaves. Ugh. There's so many things, it's overwhelming. I've never seen so much food in my life.

I snag one of the shopping baskets at the door and plunge in.

Simple. Whatever I make has to be simple. I open one of the refrigerators with hands shaking from adrenaline. They have filled the whole thing with plastic wrapped packages of every kind of meat imaginable. Everything's familiar—I've hunted and skinned most of these animals. I pull out a six-pack of pork chops and a slab of bacon. Everything's better with bacon, right?

I feel a presence at my back. I turn around to see Peeta standing behind me, his eyebrows raised in silent question.

"I'm fine," I say under my breath, before moving out of the way to let him in the refrigerator. I don't wait to see what he's doing; my eyes search the rest of the pantry.

What goes with pork? I think back to the episode we did with that wild boar. They imported one, just so I'd have to hunt it. I argued and argued with Haymitch about it. It didn't seem fair somehow, to ship in an animal just so its death could entertain our viewers, but we ended up doing the episode anyway.

What did he make with it? Some kind of fancy apple compote? I can make applesauce in a pinch.

That seems easy enough. I go over to the hanging fruit baskets and pick up several apples, different kinds just in case one is better than the others. I go over to the spices and pull out the glass canister of cinnamon and another of nutmeg. What else? Maybe some garlic for the pork chops? Oh, and, maybe some butter.

I go over to the second refrigerator. It's full of dairy products. I grab a stick of butter and head back to my station. The clock centered high behind the stations shows that fifteen minutes have already elapsed.

How did I spend fifteen minutes in the pantry?

I raise my hand up to chew at my fingernails, but I stop myself just before ruining the manicure. Focus! I have to focus on the ingredients in front of me. The part of my brain I use when I'm hunting, the cool calculating part that can evaluate any situation, kicks in and I finally calm down a little.

First, I need to get this bacon in a skillet because I want to use the leftover fat to cook the pork chops.

I slice the bacon thick and put it in a huge skillet over medium heat. I hear the sharp sizzle, smell the mouth-watering porky goodness. Great.

The apples are next. I've spent days dicing up fruits and vegetable with Madge and Gale in the kitchen, I can do this, easy. I dice all the apples up into small cubes, throw half a stick of butter and the spice onto a sheet pan with the apples and put the whole thing in the oven. Done.

I go and check on the bacon, but it's not cooking fast enough. I look at the clock again. There are only fifteen minutes left.

I eye the pork chops. They're the thick kind, bone-on. I don't know if I'll have time to cook them all the way through, but it's my only option now. I don't have time to go back into the pantry and I can't just serve apples and bacon.

Using tongs, I take the bacon out of the skillet, spread each strip out on another pan and put it all in the oven with the apples. Hopefully, it'll crisp up in there.

Salt and pepper the chops, done.

I put a couple cloves of garlic in the screaming hot pan with the pork chops and bacon fat. I let the meat crisp until the golden brown crust is picture perfect delicious, then it goes into the oven, too.

Six minutes.

If everything goes perfectly, the chops will just be this side of done.

I pull the apples out of the oven along with the bacon and crank the oven up a little.

I smash the apples with a potato masher until they're chunky and put them in a large bowl. I crumble the crispy bacon and put it in a smaller bowl to keep it crispy, then go check on the chops. 

I notice my mistake almost immediately.

Instead of turning the oven up, I've turned it down, down so low it might as well have been off. I hike the oven up as high as it can go, but I know it won't be enough. I grip the countertop until my fingers turn white. It's too late.

Ali drifts back onto the set. "Thirty seconds, tributes. And then we can have some lunch!"

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

I pull the chops out of the oven and stack them on a plate. I look at the whole meal: apple sauce, bacon crumbles, chops. It looks plain, but edible.

Maybe I can tell them we like rare pork back home.

I rub my eyes and then blank my face. Now's, not the time to wilt. I can do that later in my room. The judges respect resilience.

A gong sounds from somewhere over my head as the digital clock blinks to zero. Ali gathers us all back in the center of the set. "Let's have a tasting party, shall we? And to help us, we have a special guest..." She gives a long pause here. "Caesar Flickerman!"

The chefs give a round of surprised clapping as the man bounds out from behind a door in all his gaudy glory. He dresses like an extra from Grease: slicked back hair that never changes, spray tan, fifties-style suit. The man has to be sixty, but he acts more like a teenager.

Usually he just interviews the tributes and tells corny jokes before commercial breaks. I can't figure out what he's doing here.

"Thank you, thank you," he says giving a bouncing bow. "I hope you guys used your time wisely because I'm starving!"

We form a little tour group. Caesar makes a show of covering his eyes and spinning in a circle then leading the twenty-four of us to the station of his choice.

He starts with the woman from Channel 1. She's from a show called Chef to the Stars. She does cooking segments with various D-list celebrities. I think her name is Cashmere Reigns or some such nonsense. She's blonde and tall and gorgeous.

She has made an elaborate dish of beef wrapped in crispy sheets of filo dough. How she did it in an hour is anyone's guess, but from the look of ecstasy on Caesar's face, she did it well.

After Caesar finishes moaning, they cut tiny portions and pass them around to the rest of us.

The teeny bite isn't enough. The meat is tender and rolled in a creamy sauce spiked with pepper. The delicate pastry shatters in my mouth.

Next we head to the station of the man from Channel 5. His is a nondescript cabbage dish that's turned slightly gray. Caesar makes a lot of chatty remarks about the presentation, which isn't anything special.

The tributes from the top star channels, 1 and 2, pretended to gag.

We circle the set and every time Caesar does his little bit, I will him not to choose me. I'm so nervous I lose track of who made what. Only a few people stand out.

Finnick Odair makes a stew with leeks, tomato and perfectly cooked fish. Caesar couldn't stop saying that it tasted like a taste of the sea.

The little girl I saw earlier, made delicious peach dumplings and whipped cream. Turns out she's the daughter of a former victor from Channel 11. Her name is Rue. She beams when Caesar says her dessert is almost as sweet as she is.

Peeta has made an apple and goat cheese tart. Spirals of apples melt into savory-sweet goat cheese and flaky crust. Caesar proclaims it perfection.

Peeta takes the praise good-naturedly, but his eyes are on me as we taste his food. Of course, Caesar is right, the tart is perfection—the best thing I've tasted all day. Peeta's propelled himself to the top of the pack.

His dish was second to last…which makes me next.

They surround my station. Caesar plucks one of the pork chops from my haphazard stack and adds a dollop of apple sauce. My stomach dips and I'm regretting all the different food I've crammed into it.

Caesar looks at the crumbled bacon and then at me, "Serving suggestion?"

I reach down in myself, looking for my voice. It's gone AWOL. I swallow and try again. "Sprinkled on top?" The words come out a question.

Caesar smiles his million-watt, bleached white smile. "This is the first time I've ever had bacon sprinkles!"

Scattered laughter.

He cuts into the pork chop and my sight narrows until I only see the sawing of his knife. My breath comes in irregular pants. I wait to see the fleshy pink of undercooked meat.

He cuts the chop in half so everyone can see the center. "Medium-rare—just how I like it." He takes a bite. "The moistest chop in town!"

I stare at the meat. Back home, I may have liked it a little closer to medium, but it's not raw. And I know it wasn't done when I took it out.

Ali is cutting the chops up to give to the others and there is a murmur of pleased sounds from my fellow tributes. I don't understand how this happened. And then I get it. The chops must have kept cooking while we tasted everything else.

If I'd been first, we would have been tucking into meat with a raw middle.

"It's a bit simple," the female chef from Channel 1 says. "You can't get more homespun than pork chops and apples."

"Ah, but it takes a master to make something simple," Caesar says. "Every detail has to be flawless. And this is."

After a few seconds of silent eating, Caesar's finger pops up. "You know what would be amazing with this?" He walks all the way back to Peeta's station and grabs the single remaining piece of tart. He lays a slice of my pork chop on top of the tart and takes a bite. "A match made in heaven!" he says around a mouthful.

I don't know why, but his words make my cheeks warm.

Caesar starts the interviews after lunch. Each tribute is called into an adjacent room bright with lights and cameras. They go by channel, so I'm slated to be second-to-last, right before Peeta.

The rest of us are stuck out on the main set. Most of the others sit chatting in small groups—it looks like Peeta's made friends with the guy tributes from Channels 10 and 11. Both of them have barbeque shows and they're having a semi-friendly argument about the merits of beef versus pork. I don't know how Peeta got involved, being a baker and all, but it looks like he's moderating. Figures he would be sociable.

I generate a smile for anyone that's brave enough to say hello, but I'm too agitated to relax. My nerves are still jarred from the surprise competition and I still don't know who I'm supposed to be in my interview.

The channels dwindle down until the barbeque guy from Channel 11 is disappearing behind the interview room door. It's only me and Peeta left, but I don't go over to him. I pretend to be busy at my station, reading the labels on all the mystery ingredients and guessing what all the gadgets do.

I jump when my name is called. I shrug out of my chef's jacket and smooth down my dress. I make my way to the room. Two plush burgundy chairs, almost big enough to be loveseats, dominate the space, behind the furniture is a fake brick sheet tacked to the real concrete wall. Caesar stands up when I walk in and we shake hands.

He points to one of the chairs and I take a seat. He settles in his own chair. "We were thinking we might do something a little different with our tributes from Channel 12. He nods to his assistant and the man leaves for a second and then returns with a confused looking Peeta. "I was just telling Katniss, that we're going to do our interview with you two together. It's been such a long time since we had any excitement out of that channel and both of you are so young and talented. I thought why not double the fun?"

I have to work hard to keep my face pleasant. Why do people keep throwing us together? This isn't a team competition. We're rivals. If I win, his family will lost its show. I shift over to make room for Peeta in my chair. It's a tight fit and we end up knees touching, jammed together.

A guy comes out with a pair of microphones to pin on us and Caesar starts asking questions.

What's home like? Peeta makes growing up in a small town sound fun.

How many siblings do we have? I talk about Prim and Peeta mentions his two brothers.

How is Haymitch as a mentor? We both side-step that one.

Cooking style? Of course, Peeta says French-inspired. I remember what the snide woman from Channel One said and answer homespun.

"So, how did the two of you meet," Caesar asks. I go completely stiff and look at Peeta, but he looks laid-back, unworried. "We meet at my family's bakery. I'd seen her a few times and then one day I gathered up enough courage to talk to her."

More like save me from getting busted, I think, but I give him a relieved smile.

"And you two have been dating ever since?" Caesar asks.

My mind sputters and churns on Caesar's question. It's so off the wall, for a second I can't find the words to refute it. In the seconds it takes me to formulate a response, I hear Peeta say. "Yeah. We really weren't going to tell anyone, but I guess it's obvious, huh?" He interlaces his fingers with mine.

I look down at our joined hands and my mind stops working completely….He couldn't have just said what I thought he said. He didn't just say we were dating.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

“I think the pictures from your photo shoot were a little telling.” Caesar gives a short laugh. He waves his hand to the camera guy. “We need to put up those photos during this segment. Especially that kiss, whoa!”

“I’ve never been great at hiding my feelings.” Peeta said, lifting my hand up and brushing his lips against my knuckles.

Oh, it’s a good thing that I’m great at hiding my feelings, because right now, I’m feeling murderous. Why would Peeta lie and say we’re dating? To make himself look better? To make me look worse?

Either way, I can’t correct him now, not without making both of us look insane. I keep my eyes down, trying to look demure and not furious. My mind is churning. Why, why, why is he doing this?

 It’s going to be tough isn’t it,” Caesar continues. “Competing against each other?” He’s all pity for us now. He reaches over and pats Peeta’s shoulder.

Peeta swallows hard and lets out what I can only guess is a fake shaky breath. “It’s really hard, because we both love our television families and they’re counting on us to save our shows. What we want for each other and what they need are exact opposites.”

Caesar turns to me, “And Katniss…anything to add?”

The hand holding mine squeezes tight even though I’m sure my palm has started to sweat. Caesar is looking at me and Peeta is too. I know I can’t say anything—I’m not great at lying so anything I say now will sound utterly fake—so I give Caesar a tremulous smile and shake my head before leaning into Peeta’s side. Peeta automatically wraps his arm around me.

“Well, I’m sure the hearts of our audience are with both of you. I personally salute your bravery for facing this challenge head on.”

“Well, it’s not like we had much of a choice,” Peeta says. It’s a joke and both he and Caesar laugh, but I sense a hard edge concealed in those words. We didn’t have a choice and, for the first time, I’m wondering what emotions Peeta Mellark is hiding behind that easy smile and those twinkling eyes.

Caesar shakes both our hands and then we’re ushered out of the room and to the elevators. As soon as the doors close I turn on him.

“What the hell was that?” I yell as the elevator lifts us into the air.

Peeta holds his hands up, warding me off, and I’m satisfied to see real alarm in his eyes. “I was just giving them what they want, Katniss. All the posters, the matching clothes—you’ve got to see that they want us together.”

At his words, my anger fades a little, and I start to think. They have been very matchy-matchy with us. They aren’t treating the other tributes that way. I’ve yet to see another poster with both channel partners on it.

“So why us?” I ask. I lean on the little rail in the elevator and look out as the people on the ground floor get smaller and smaller.

Peeta slumps down next to me. “I don’t know. Maybe it did start with the posters. Maybe it’s just part of their new, edgy programing.”

“You should have told me what you were going to say.” I’m still a little disgruntled about that. Peeta may have figured out what the network wanted, but he should have let me on it. But, a little voice whispers in my mind, when would he have told you, since you’ve been avoiding him all morning.

Peeta shrugs. “I didn’t know Caesar was going to ask us that.”

“So what do you think we should do, now?”

Peeta looks at me, pinning me with those guileless blues. And then he smiles and there’s something a little sharp there that I wasn’t expecting from someone who usually seems so laid-back. “Milk it for all it’s worth.”

We update Haymitch and Effie when we finally get up to our floor. We find them talking almost civilly in the common area dominated by the executive table. It’s dinnertime and the staff has brought up more food.

“Do you think it’ll work?” I ask Haymitch. I pick at the food on my plate, trying to catalog the different flavor combinations for later; chicken with thyme, peas with lemon; but I’m too distracted. Part of me wants Haymitch to veto the whole idea, say it’s stupid or unnecessary or, better yet, against the rules. Pretending to be Peeta’s girlfriend makes me nervous. I’ve never been anyone’s girlfriend; I wouldn’t know how to act.

“Any angle’s always good,” Haymitch says. “Long as it keeps people watching.”

“So, how should we do it?” Peeta asks.

“Doesn’t look like you have to do much. The promo, the interview…they’ve done most of the work for you.” Haymitch leans back in his chair and looks from me to Peeta, sizing us up. He’s only slightly drunk right now, more alert than I’ve seen him in weeks. I wonder what’s changed. He doesn’t care about saving Chef of the Wild, at least he didn’t the day before yesterday. It’s almost as if he’s enjoying this, mentoring us, moving us around like little chess pieces.

“And you could stop scowling at everyone, sweetheart. Smiling goes a long way to making people think you’re in love.”

I give Haymitch a smile, a vicious one that shows most of my teeth.

“I liked the scowl better,” Peeta says and I turn to scowl at him and he laughs. “At least I know it’s real.”

That laugh hitches something in my chest and my scowl falters just a little, loses some of its intensity. But I don’t let go of it completely. The last thing I need is Peeta Mellark thinking he’s funny; he already takes the boy next door charm thing too far.

“There is one thing you need to do,” Haymitch says.  “The Games start tomorrow and I can guarantee that the first round will have some version of The Switch.

Both Peeta and I groan. The Switch is a first-round classic, but the game has gone through several incarnations in the last twenty-five years. The premise is that they choose a dish that’s been featured on your show. Most years, they make you switch with another tribute and you have to finish their dish instead of your own. If you’ve never seen their show or don’t know what the dish is, well that’s too bad because you’re getting judged on it.

Sometimes, when they’re feeling really sadistic, they make you switch stations several times like a game of culinary musical chairs.

Sometimes, for a twist, you end up making a dish you know and they judge it, easy. It’s all a little tricky for me because I’m not the chef on my show, but I remember most of Haymitch’s dishes, helped Madge prepare them, too.

“I want you two to practice each other’s dishes. It’s something you’d already know if you were really together. The test kitchen is on the level below the set. Work until you get it right.”

“Isn’t that against the rules?” Peeta asks.

Haymitch shrugs. “A gray area.” He pauses. “Just don’t get caught.”

Haymitch waves us off and we head around the corner, toward our rooms. I’ll need to call home before the interviews air, tell my family and Gale about the romance angle. I wouldn’t want them to be surprised—or worse tell some reporter it’s all a lie. I’m dreading it. The conversation is going to be awkward, especially with Gale—You know the guy from the show we hate, the one I’m supposed to beat in the Games? Well, I have to pretend to be in love with him, so don’t be surprised if I kiss him.

“Katniss? Did you hear me?” Peeta’s voice breaks through my thoughts. He’s looking at me intently, pale eyebrows half-moons over deep blue eyes.

“What?”

“What time did you want to meet up? To practice?”

I close my eyes and suck in a breath. I’d forgotten about the Switch. And with all his French training, Peeta’s dishes are going to be miles outside of my comfort zone. “Midnight. Let’s meet at midnight.” If we’re breaking the rules, might as well wait until the rest of the tributes are asleep.

Peeta nods. “I’ll meet you then.” He drifts down the hall to his own room and I go to mine.

Sitting on the bed, I pull out my phone and check for recent messages. No one’s called since last night. I stare at the tiny screen for a moment, then scroll through my contacts until I see the pixilated photo of Gale flashing one of his rare smiles. I stare at that image then flip the phone closed, toss it on the side table. I’ll tell them later when I’m not so tired and worn out, when I have something less insane to say.  I crawl up into the bed and pull the comforter around me. It’ll be midnight in a couple hours and this will probably be the only sleep I get tonight.