PART ONE

GALE AND KATNISS

WELCOME TO THE 74TH ANNUAL HUNGER GAMES,

MAY THE ODDS BE EVER IN YOUR FAVOR.

A/N:

Disclaimer: If I were Susanne Collins, I would own the Hunger Games, but I'm not, so I don't.

Enjoy fanfiction #1, there will be more to come...=)

And I'm open to plenty of constructive criticism, god knows I need it.

It's the morning of the Reaping, and I can hear the autumn leaves crunching under my hunting boots as I head toward the woods. I contemplate the consequences this afternoon will have on the rest of my life: I consider how two children from District 12 will leave forever, never to see the dried leaves gracing the worn cobbled, ash covered streets of their home ever again.

Disturbed, I banish these thoughts from my mind.

I listen, purely out of habit, to ensure that the electric fence bordering the district is turned off. As usual, it is. I swiftly dive beneath the menacing wires, as I have done so many times before, quickly entering the cover of the thick trees. These trees are my salvation, but also forbidden. To hunt in the way we do is illegal – technically, we could be whipped to a bloody pulp twice a day. However, there are some advantages to living in the poorest, most malnourished district: even the peacekeepers are starved for fresh meat.

I approach the ledge near the blackberry bush where I know Gale, my best friend waits for me. I see him first, he seems tense today. With good reason, though, as the reaping creates tension even for those who've never had to sign up for tesserae, and whose names are only entered once in those formidable glass balls. His long, black hair falls over his pale grey eyes, and his brow is furrowed in a way that tells me one thing: he's as nervous for this afternoon as I am. Both of our siblings, Prim and Rory, will be entered in the Reaping for the first time. I agilely climb up to his perch, ready to provide what comfort to him I can manage.

"The baker was feeling generous today," he says, brandishing a fresh loaf of bread, with one of his arrows protruding from the crust. Having both grown up in the Seam, we are both painfully aware what a precious commodity this simple loaf of bakery bread is. "He only charged me a squirrel."

"I guess we're all feeling more sympathetic today," I say carefully, not wanting to send Gale into one of his raging anti-capital tangents, as I lean in to help his strong hands with slicing the bread.

These efforts for peace were wasted. His scowl deepens, and I can see his muscles tense. "Your name is entered in that drawing twenty times, Catnip."

I sigh, well aware how many times both of our names have been submitted to the reaping. We've both made risks to keep our families fed: sneaking into the woods to hunt illegally, risking our status as tributes in exchange for a measly amount of grain and oil. As children who've grown up without fathers, we've had to learn to care for our families.

We treat ourselves to a breakfast of bread and cheese, then proceed to hunt as we normally would. Gale and I both function better as a team, and we've developed a deep bond through our hunting. We can communicate without speaking, easily watching each other's backs, and moving as though we're parts of a whole, rather than two different people. I know that Gale knows me better than anyone else – and I him.

We've gathered a fair amount of bounty, filling Gale's game bag and half of mine. As we venture back into the town to sell the game, we notice the preparations that have been made in the village square for the upcoming ceremony, transforming the one stylish part of the town into the proverbial plank for a boy and a girl tribute….perhaps it will even be someone we know this year. Gale grabs my hand, and squeezes it once, conveying the apprehensive feelings we both have about this afternoon.

We approach one of the finer buildings in the district, aside from the justice building. The mayor, as my father taught me, has an affinity to fresh strawberries, and will pay a fair price for them. However, it's his daughter, Madge, who answers the door this time. She's wearing an expensive dress – one that's worth enough to feed both of our families. I can see it in his shrewd, grey eyes that Gale has already made these calculations.

"I can see you want to look your best for the Reaping," he says acidly. "Not likely that you, of all people, would be chosen." He scoffs, laughing sarcastically.

I cringe as I see tears beginning to form in kind, sensitive Madge's eyes. She quietly leaves us to find her father, who pays for generously for the berries.

After we've left, I grab Gale by the wrist. "That was sympathetic," I scold him sarcastically.

"She's never going to become a tribute. Whereas you…" he trails off, sweeping my bangs back from my face. "Sorry." He says gruffly. "Wear something pretty to the Reaping, Catnip."

Later, after I've been groomed and dressed by my mother and sister Prim, I go to my designated place with the other fifteen year olds to watch the reaping. I observe my surroundings, seeing Prim ahead of me, her shirt sticking out in the back like a duck's tail. Then I see Gale, standing with the other eighteen year old boys. His name is entered forty seven times, an awfully large amount. Catching his eye, I see a look of worry on his face, and I know that he's thinking the same thing about me. Will we ever have the opportunity to just enjoy a peaceful, happy moment, without some sort of evil, stressing thought lurking over us?

Over the years, Gale and I have become undeniably close, and we care about each other as though we're family. Lately, though, things have changed. At school, Gale has the choice of any of the girls – they're impressed by his roughly hewn good looks and foreboding stature, and lately I've noticed that I mind, although I'm not sure what it is that I'm jealous of, the thought of losing an excellent hunting partner, or something else.

The sound of Effie Trinket's capitol accent draws me back to the present issue. I take in her brightly colored hair and exuberant expression as she shouts out the widely known catchphrase. "Have a happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be EVER in your favor!" I groan, trying to remember the mirthful way Gale had imitated her this morning. With her long, gruesomely pink nails, she reaches into the glass ball containing the girls' names first, as is tradition. With theatrical suspense, she slowly unfolds the piece of paper, and reads the name.

"Primrose Everdeen."

Dear god, not Prim. Not my little sister. This moment is surreal. As a twelve year old, her name had only been entered once. As Effie would say, "The odds were NOT in her favor."

Light, sweet Prim, whom everyone loves, attempts to put on a brave face as she slowly ascends the stairs to centerstage. But then, when I see the duck tail formed by her shirttail, I am snapped harshly back into reality.

"No. Wait. I volunteer. Wait!" I scream, my voice breaking, as I rush forward to take her place.

"Katniss, no!" Prim yells, trying to cling to the fabric of my dress. Then Gale is there, at my side, as he always is. He disentangles her small fingers from me, pulling her back into safety.

In that short moment we have, when the crowd is to shocked to respond to the actions, Gale's lips lightly brush my cheek. "Up you go, Katniss," he whispers to me. I realize that he has abandoned his common term of endearment he calls me by, in this stressful moment. I wonder if he's ever said my real name aloud before now.

Effie Trinket looks slightly surprised herself. It's not often that there's a volunteer in a run-down district such as ours. "Well, moving on then," she says briskly, " we'll now draw the name of the lucky male tribute!"

Once again, her claw-like fingers enter the glass ball, and pull out a slip of paper. She reads the name. "Peeta Mellark."

I see him in the crowd, and instantly recognize him – he stands out among the skinny District 12 population, it's obvious that he's been well fed his entire life. The memory associated with this boy is humiliating – he had seen me at my worst point, after my father had died, when I had been scrounging in the garbage behind his house for any scraps of food. Before I had found Gale in the woods. His charity – the gift of a loaf of bread – was one that I had never understood. It was as though later, he had demanded a return of payment for his act of kindness – always watching me, staring, waiting for me to run to him and thank him. He was the kind of person who always needed something in return, who didn't like to watch debts go unpaid. He made me feel embarrassed, shameful.

"Oh, please, no," I think to myself, knowing I would never be able to face him as an adversary with the weight of the guilt he has bestowed upon me.

As he walks up to the stage, I see something phenomenal happen. A strong hand shoves Peeta aside as he walks forward. The hand belongs to Gale Hawthorne.

"I volunteer," he says, his voice ringing loud and clear in the silent square. Now I am in complete disbelief, as the irrational part of my mind jumps for joy at the fact he'll be coming with, but the rational part considers how much more difficult this whole scenario has become. Now my fearful emotions have been mixed with fury and confusion. Dread. If there was any sliver of anything that could possibly have been mistaken for hope, it's gone now. How can I ever succeed now? Even if one of us does manage to win, we'll still lose the other. And, as is very well likely, if neither of us wins, there will be no one left at home to care for either of our families. That's another five people dead who didn't have to die.

But, argues the small part of me that's managed to retain its sense of optimism, there's nothing that can be done now. All I can do is accept and appreciate my best friend's presence. How could I ever regret having Gale by my side, regardless of the situation?

He reaches the stage, and grabs my hand, strongly, firmly, holding me steady as we acknowledge the crowd. His arms hold me steady, and I lean against his well-built body.

"I'm going with you," he says. "And I'll do all I can to make sure you make it home." I rest my head against his chest, allowing myself to take comfort from him, even though his words frighten me.

Haymitch Abernathy, known both as the town drunk and our only mentor/victor, stumbles toward us, sloshing a disgusting white liquid all over himself. He reeks. He stumbles toward us, and attempts to put his arms around our shoulders, but Gale shoves him away, sending him toppling over the stage and into the humiliated crowd, much to the amusement of the people from the capitol.

Gale and I release each other, but for our hands, and turn our faces toward the cameras. In that moment, we have acknowledged the odds, accepted them for what they are, and promised to rise above them.

Then, something extraordinary happens. When Effie calls for applause, the crowd is silent. Then, they press the three fingers of their right hands against their lips, bidding us farewell. The message is clear: they do not approve, they do not condone. Our loss will be regretted within the district.

We are herded by peacekeepers into the luxurious justice building where we will say our final goodbyes to the people close to us.

I see my mother, Prim. They're tearful, but I make them promise to be strong and wise in my absence. I advise them that if they make the right choices, they can keep from starving. I command them to sell the resources from Prim's goat wisely, and tell my mother to reopen her apothecary business. I must do all that I can to secure their safety in my absence.

As they leave my room, little Prim turns back and says one more thing to me. "Katniss, promise me you'll win." And I nod, promising her just that.

Next, Madge arrives, handing me a golden pin with a mockingjay engraved onto the surface. I appreciate the sense of rebelliousness, as the mockingjay was one of the Capitol's most infamous failures during the dark days of rebellion. While I know that it's the perfect token, I wonder at exactly why Madge has presented me with this gift. I contemplate whether there may be a deeper, hidden meaning behind the kind but simple gesture.

Next, I see the bakers, including Peeta. This comes as a bit of a surprise to me as well. They give me a box of cookies, and wish me well. They promise to look after Prim, and see to it that she remains in good health. I am reminded that everyone in the district loves Prim, and will take care of her. The boy, Peeta, looks shaky. I try to imagine him, his weak, emphatic eyes scanning the horizon for a danger, or better yet, a meal, and I can't place him. I know that he would never have stood a chance in the games.

I watch as they leave, carefully tucking the cookies underneath the couch where I sit. As delicious as I'm sure they'd be, they would taste like dirt in my mouth.

And I'm thinking of how I might lose Prim, my Mother, Gale, and everyone else I love in one stroke. Then, an epiphany comes to me. I consider the idea that if two minds and bodies were working toward the common goal of getting one of them home, they would have a chance of making it. Gale would care for my family if he were to come home – and let's face it: I could never stand for him to die. I decide, in that moment, that he will be the one coming home from the hunger games. Suddenly, I feel a rush of protectiveness about me. I must know where Gale is.

"Gale!" I cry. "Gale!"

I hear footsteps on the polished wood floor. And then there he is, sprinting toward me, grabbing me by the shoulders, looking desperate. "Are you alright?" He demands of me. His eyes are wild with fright. "Did they hurt you?"

"Yes. I…I just needed you. I needed to know you were safe."

A capitol attendant approaches us, asks us politely if we're done with our goodbyes. When Gale shoots him a menacing look, the man backs off quickly, leaving us be.

"I know what you mean. But don't worry. Even if I have to kill myself doing it, you'll get home safely. I'll protect you." He promises.

That was not what I meant at all.

Now we've boarded the train and are speeding through the various districts of Panem, all of which we've only heard about in school. Instinctively, my mind slips into survival mode. Gale and I gorge ourselves on the rich food, trying to gain as much weight as we can before the games. We work out constantly, hoping to build muscle and endurance that will provide us an edge over the careers in the arena. But we know that there's still one thing holding us back.

And that thing is our mentor, Haymitch, who has just walked in, in his typical hung over state.

The only way I know what Gale is about to do next is from the years of hunting together. An instant after his eyes flash with anger and his muscles tense, I prepare to defend him from any sort of counter attack Haymitch might provide.

Gale leaps up, knocking a bottle of expensive capitol wine out of Haymitch's fist. The disgusting alcohol spills on the lush carpet, leaving a dramatic red stain. With his other hand, Gale lands a punch squarely on Haymitch's nose. I hear a sickening, bone crunching snap.

In his drunken rage, I see our mentor begin to reach for his knife, but I'm ready. I grab a bread knife from the table, and stab it a good three inches into the table, a mere centimeter from our mentor's outstretched hands.

Unexpectedly, the man starts to laugh. "So, 12's actually produced a pair of fighters this year," he chortles. "Think ya can hit anything real with that knife, sweetheart?"

I try to ignore the irritating term of endearment as I throw the knife into the opposite wall. It's a good hit, and the knife fits well between two boards. I back into Gale, who defensively wraps his strong arms around me. His cold eyes challenge Haymitch to attempt attacking us.

Instead, he asks, "Can either of you do anything else impressive?"

After exchanging a quick glance with Gale, I decide that this is the best that we're likely to get from Haymitch. "We can both hunt. Gale's exceptional with snares. He can wrestle. He's strong."

In turn, Gale says, "Catnip can hit anything she wants to with a bow. She climbs trees like a squirrel. That is, if it means anything to an ugly drunk like you."

Our mentor agrees to stay sober enough to help us, if we swear to do as he says, and not interfere with his ludicrous drinking habits.

It's a decent offer.