Author's Note: PLEASE REVIEW. I'd like some constructive criticism because I really suck! Peeta's POV by the way, Cato/Peeta slash. :3

I can only pray that this is a nightmare.

A dismal, desolate shadow hangs over my head as I sit in the stylist's chair, getting dolled up for what will basically be my televised execution. Just a few days ago, I was at home, preparing for the Reaping. I wasn't at all expecting my name to be called. Of course, I was afraid of it, but I was shocked beyond comprehension when it actually happened. That shock came before everything else, really. It didn't even hit me until I saw my family, in tears, convinced they'd never see me again. I never even knew they cared about me until that point, but that emotional stuff doesn't really matter up against what I'm faced with now. I'm not prepared for this at all. At the time, I'd never seen the Capitol before, never ridden a train before, heck, I've never even left District Twelve before. Ever since the then, and perhaps a bit before it, my life's been a big domino effect of unfortunate circumstances. I, out of all the boys in my District, was chosen at random to fight to the death in the Hunger Games. If that weren't enough of a dilemma, the female tribute from Twelve that will accompany me is Katniss Everdeen.

Katniss and I are very different people. Polar opposites, if you will. Although we've both been raised in the same poverty-stricken town, she's much more capable than me. In place of her late father, she's assumed the patriarch role in her family, spending her days poaching in the woods with her best friend, Gale Hawthorne. Both of them are the providers of their families, keeping food in their mothers' and siblings' mouths. I, on the other hand, am a baker's son, the youngest of my brothers. I've always lived under the shade of a decent food supply. Although my parents are temperamental, they at least work to support our home. At the Reaping, Katniss nobly volunteered as Tribute in Prim's place. I walked onto the stage alone, apparently no one really wanted to take mine. As long as I can remember, Katniss is the only girl I've ever really noticed. I doubt she's ever noticed me, save the one time I gave her a loaf of bread when we were younger. Even then, she only noticed me because she was starving, and I was the one who made sure her stomach didn't collapse. Afterwards, I took a harsh beating from my mother, but it didn't really matter. I was honored to have given Katniss what she appeared to have needed. If win these Games, she would have to die. If I wanted to live, the odds of taking her life are slim considering how adept and resilient she is in the skills of hunting and survival. But honestly, I'd rather die than let her be killed.

I sigh deeply. I feel like a lamb, without defense, tossed into a pack of wolves. Since it's required for everyone in the country of Panem to watch the annual Games on TV, I've seen the brutality that comes with the death of each tribute. Ever since I was young, one of my most crippling fears was having my name drawn to enter that violent massacre. To prepare for all the television publicity, each Tribute's been assigned a stylist and prep team. My stylist is a bouncy blonde woman with bright orange eyes, named Portia. She's definitely the most down-to-earth and modest person I've seen here in the Capitol, while my prep team is basically an abstract painting. Utopia is a short, plump woman who's dyed her hair candy pink. She seems to be very jovial; her smile never seems to fade. Dima is very tall and lean, and she's pierced every eligible part of her body. Quiet and bitter, she waxed nearly every hair off of my skin during my first salon visit. Wellum is a stout man with purple freckles littering his face. His hair is dyed a corresponding pattern of blue and green stripes. But he's professional for a cosmetologist, never stuttering or mumbling during conversation. I kind of hate the people at the Capitol. All they really care about is the physical appearance. To me, outward beauty is a gift only cherished by the wealthy. Those who actually have money, clothing and shelter really have nothing else to worry about.

Portia turns the salon chair to face the mirror as we both admire my prep team's fashionable creation. My blonde hair is slicked back with gel, and I am dressed in a snug, black leather unitard. I'm not sure how this costume represents District Twelve, but I'll go along with it. I look hot.

"Peeta, you look stunning." She says, brushing some kind of mineral powder over my cheeks.

She takes a step back and smiles, like an artist that has just completed a beautiful masterpiece. She removes me from my chair and escorts me out of the salon. In passing, Utopia, Dima and Wellum enthuse about how "charming" I look. Personally, I think there's nothing charming about how the Capitol perceives beauty. Everything here is either genetically enhanced, dyed, powdered or otherwise resembles a fruit bowl.

We walk out the back door of the salon, down a discreet back road to the tunnel that all of the Tribute chariots are tucked away in. The cries of what could definitely be the entire population of the Capitol are waiting on the other side, the noise booming through the ground below us. They've waited all year to see the Tributes of the 74th Annual Hunger Games, and all their excitement is explosive. When we finally spot Katniss and her stylist, Cinna, I'm immediately taken aback by her beauty. My word, she's hot. Her long, dark hair is braided as usual, but tied up in a creative fashion, revealing her fair but sullen face. Cinna and Portia assist us up into our chariot, which has the number Twelve shimmering in gold across the front. Katniss is staring straight ahead, her stature frozen in fear. Her eyes are carefully studying the other Districts' chariots in front of us.

"Don't be nervous," I say, offering a kind smile. "They'll love you."

No response. Figures.

Cinna walks up alongside our chariot with a small, silver remote. "Are you two afraid of fire?" We both nod our heads side to side. Truthfully, I'm scared to death of fire, but I can't say that in front of everyone. If there's one thing you can't do during the Games, it's showing weakness. If you show weakness, everyone's going to think you're a sissy, and no one will sponsor you. No sponsors, no gifts. No gifts, more likely of a death.

The fashionable man smiles creatively. "Good, because this will be District Twelve's best entrance yet. I promise, it won't hurt a bit."

Our chariot begins to move. Cinna presses a button on his remote, causing a strange tingling sensation on my shoulder blades. Katniss and I twist our heads to look behind us. He's crafted our costume to resemble flaming coals, fabricated flames cascading off our shoulders. I'm kind of confused as to how they were made, but they're showy and beautiful. Exactly what we're supposed to be. When we emerge from the tunnel, the multitudes of Capitol citizens go insane. Haymitch, our mentor, told us to impress the crowd to obtain sponsors in the Games, so I take Katniss's hand. She quickly jerks it away.

"Come on," I say, pitifully. "They'll love it."

"Fine." she snarls.

Reluctantly, she takes my hand. Her hesitance to touch me hurts my feelings for a brief moment, but soon I'm distracted by the volume of the crowds. Both of us raise our arms in the air, our hands joined together for all to see. The crowds deafen us with cheers and whistles louder than the fireworks overhead. I can't help from grinning as I begin to feel a high from the pride and adrenaline coursing through my veins. I've never been so publically recognized before in my life, and to be holding Katniss' hand in the midst of everyone is something I've only dreamed of. When we ride into the City Circle, I refocus my attention on my setting as our chariots stop before the podium of the frosty-haired President Snow.

"Welcome, Tributes!" he declares in a deep, loud voice, taming the sounds of the city. The sudden silence makes my ears ring. Cinna turns off our flames so the citizens listen to Snow's speech instead of ogling over our costumes.

My eyes dart across the pavilion, drinking in the sight of the other Tributes. None of the other costumes even compare to the uniqueness of ours. The only ones that come anywhere near Cinna's work are those worn by the pair of Tributes from District Two. They are adorned in golden, Roman-style armor, smiling and waving at the cheering crowds. I don't see how it symbolizes Peacekeeper training or masonry, but it is definitely showy. Careers, Tributes from Districts One and Two serve as the Capitol's underlings as the richest districts in Panem. They are almost always the victors of the Games, so usually they're given the most extravagant costumes. The male Tribute glances back in my direction, the look on his fact indicating he's furious at the attention I've just received. I quickly look away, realizing that Katniss has let go of my hand. She was probably more than eager to.

I've tried to block out Snow's explanation to the audience of the sick procedure of the Games. Katniss has scooted a considerable foot away from me, and it makes me feel repulsive. I realize that I really am alone in this dilemma. I mean, it can't get any worse. Here I am, only sixteen years old, about to die for some wealthy freak show's form of entertainment. To make matters worse, this isn't exactly the place to win Katniss' heart, so I'm going to die without any romantic experience. And for a guy, that's a pretty big deal. To die a virgin is almost like dying in a pink dress. Personally, I care more for love and romance than sex, but that just constitutes me more to actually wear a pink dress.

I break out of my state of self woe, trying to grapple onto the President's message. I don't know why, but I tentatively glance back at the District Two boy. To my surprise, his eyes are still locked on me. He shoots me a smirk, accompanied by a wink.

Is he trying to taunt me or something?

When the President concludes and deserts his podium, the Tributes step out of their chariots. Haymitch and Effie assist Katniss and I out of ours, gushing at what a great reputation we've given the Capitol. Their conversation fades into the grilling of Katniss about her experience at the salon. Even since the Reaping, she's absorbed most of the attention from our mentors. A burning sensation pricks the back of my head, and I look back. The District Two boy is studying me from his chariot. The expression on his face is a sarcastic smile, and it's nonverbally beckoning me. I look back at Katniss and my mentors to find they've began walking away, back toward the Tributes' Tower without me. I was definitely right about being alone. I look back at the District Two boy, who begins to huskily walk toward me through the bustling crowd. His stature is incredibly muscular, and the plummeting neckline of his armor accentuates it. He is taller than me by about six inches, and I conclude that this guy's likely going to rip me to shreds in the arena. Being approached by a Career Tribute makes the hairs on my neck stand straight in a combination of fear and reverence. Why is he even paying me any mind at all?

"Looks like you're expecting sponsors in the arena." he says, arrogantly. "The name's Cato."

I try to act cordial and composed, but I swear my face is flushing a bright shade of vermillion from nerves.

"It's nice to meet you Cato. My name's Peeta."

I shake his hand politely, but his grip is firm and abrasive. He smiles slyly. "Enough small talk, when we start training tomorrow, you come find me."

"Um, I'll see if I can find the time-"

He narrows his gaze. "You've got just as much time as I do tomorrow. Come. Find. Me."

"Um, alright." I'm appalled by his boldness, because I've never met someone so arrogant. I'm not sure if I just made an ally, or if I've just screwed my life over. Most likely the latter.

He turns to walk away, smiling cockishly. "Good."

Why in the world would he want me to train with him? I can question his motive for long periods of time, but instead I sigh, relieved the short and awkward dialogue has ended. I watch as he confidently strides back to his chariot, where all of the Career Tributes seem to be mingling. Since Katniss and my mentors have already left, I realize that I should probably get back to the our floor, the Penthouse. I sprint back toward the salon, which neighbors the Tributes' Tower. I run inside the lobby, then into the elevator, replaying the initial route I arrived there in my head. I catch my breath as the transparent tube propels me up to the twelfth floor, thankful I've remembered this much. As I watch the city shrink below me through the glass, I wonder why Cato wanted me to seek him out while training. I mean, all I did was look at the guy's costume. Heck, I even thought he was attractive. I imagine dying at his strong hands, and it chills me to the bone.

When I walk into our room, I find that everyone's began partaking of dinner without me. Definitely not the first time that kind of thing has happened. The place is beautiful, I must admit. It's like a painting that just came to life. A banquet-sized mahogany table sits beneath a crystal chandelier, adorned with bowls of ripe, plump fruit for ornament. The furniture is shaped asymmetrically, and the color scheme is a relaxing shade of periwinkle. I guess this is a nice place to basically wait on death row.

"And where have you been?" questions Effie, in her stuffy, mannerly Capitol accent. Her hands are placed on her hips, like a teacher upset with a student.

I quickly choose from a handful of excuses. "I-I was just people-watching."

"Well, make your timing better next time." she says, believing me and returning her attention to her lamb stew.

Hesitantly, I sit down and slowly consume dinner without a word. The food here is succulent, rich in every nutrient that Katniss and I are probably lacking. The rest of the table is silent, as everyone is likely just as engrossed in this meal as I am. Haymitch is enjoying a tall bottle of white vodka, guzzling it at the speed of light. He's known for constantly drinking himself to stupor. His sunken cheeks and harsh face indicate that he's suffered quite the quantity of hangovers. Effie, on the contrary, is mannerly and proper, powdered from head to toe. Her voluptuous hair, dress and facial features all glow a fluorescent pink, which is sickening to look at for more than a few minutes.

"What suggestions do you have for us, Haymitch?" demands Katniss, while stirring her food with her spoon.

Sarcastically, he takes time to ponder an answer. "Um, stay alive. Or at least try. You don't really stand a chance."

Katniss' eyes narrow. "But you did it."

The alcohol seems to be wearing Haymitch's mind, causing his words to slur. "Look, we aren't talking about me. And it's a little soon to be discussing this, right? Enjoy yourself."

I can tell that Katniss is fuming, her eyes narrowing on Haymitch like prey. She angrily consumes every bit of her stew in silence. When dinner is done, I say good night and depart to my room. I lay in my luxury bed, weighted down with emotions. I wish that Katniss would stop being so aloof. I understand that she's nervous, but at least she's got a chance of survival with her hunting skills. Haymitch was correct, I've got next to nothing, except the disdain of a powerful Career that intimidates me like a schoolyard bully. But as apprehensive as I am about this entire situation, I promise myself to stay strong for Katniss. It's all I can do.