Author's Note

Disclaimer First: I obviously do not own the Hunger Games franchise. If I did, I would hardly be publishing here.

Explaination Second: As an out-of-practice writer, I'm looking for an exercise to get my brain going again. Rather than frustrate myself with my own original work, I am taking a few of someone else's characters out to play for a while. While thinking outside the box is my ultimate creative goal, thinking creatively inside one is a good primer. Also, this story will be written from alternating points-of-view; I dislike labelling sections "X's POV" or "Y's POV" because I believe it insults my readers' intelligence. Further, if I need to tell you who is speaking, then I have failed as a writer.

Apology Third: There is a lot of "shipping" in fanfiction, so I guess the basic premise isn't all that original. However, I find small comfort in 1) the interesting possible dynamic between Gale's and Madge's characters, who had such potential but were left ultimately undeveloped, so there is the possibility for originality, 2) the existence of quite a few other Gale-and-Madge stories, proving that I am not entirely alone, , and 3) the fact that I can publish anonymously under a pen name, so if it turns out badly anyway no one will really know. :)

Finally, Request Fourth: If you like what I am doing, please kindly take a moment to review and let me know to continue.

...

"Pretty dress." The moment the words come out, I wonder privately at my complete and deliberate lack of manners. I'd swat any of my siblings if they behaved that way. My mother would swat me, if she were here to hear it, despite the fact that I've long been twice her size. Generally, I've always subscribed to the rule if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all, at least in public. It's a practical kind of rule, and I'm a practical kind of person; keeping your mouth shut makes your life a lot less problematic. The un-nice things – the sarcastic, mean, cynical, angry, bitter, and treasonous things – well, there's a time and a place. Alone with Katniss in the forest. Chatting up Sae in the Hob.

Not Madge Undersee's back porch. To her face.

Katniss at least has the grace to look annoyed at me as Madge falters for a split second. A tiny, infinitesimal part of me almost feels bad, both because it is rude enough that Katniss (who usually approves of the sarcastic, mean, cynical, angry, bitter and treasonous things I say) disapproves and because Madge did nothing to deserve it besides open the door. However, my pride gets me over that. I will not pity the mayor's daughter. Even if it's for something that I said.

"Well, I want to look nice if I'm going to the Capitol, don't I?" she answers with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

I keep my face carefully set as she pays Katniss for the pail of strawberries. I want for a moment to throw another cutting remark her way. Yeah, like you'll ever get Reaped. Your name probably isn't even in the damn ball. Except there was nothing sarcastic, nothing mean-spirited, nothing condescending in her tone. If anything, she sounds sad. Hurt, even. If I'm willing to be fair I'd have to say she has the right, but I'm not, so I push the thought away. Besides, it'd do her some good to hurt a little. But it shuts me up.

"Good luck," Madge says, and it is clear that she's addressing both of us. And just to twist the knife little more, she's genuine. I'm an ass, and she still wishes me luck. Not just Katniss, but me, too. It irks me. See what I mean about keeping your mouth shut? Hating Madge just got a little more complicated.

"That wasn't necessary," Katniss says flatly as we walk away. I make a noncommittal noise in response, and she lets it go. Which is fine with me. I don't want to dwell on the fact that even though Madge was nice to me, it doesn't mean a damn thing – just that yes, she is that nice, which is infuriating. I don't want to dwell on that fact that the comment on the dress wasn't entirely snide. Or that it wasn't entirely about the dress. Or that no matter how nice she is, she'll never, ever look at me the way I look at her.

….

I don't even bother to take the strawberries to my father like I always do; instead I plunk them down on the kitchen table like a bucket of rocks. I march directly through the parlor and up the stairs to my bedroom, because I will be damned if I let any of them – my father, the Head Peacekeeper, the imported Capitol idiots milling about my home – see that he made me cry.

After I lock the door behind me I turn to the full length mirror that hangs on my closet door. I inspect my white dress critically, then my hair (which I had for once styled instead of pulling it into a plain ponytail), then my face (onto which I had actually dusted a fine layer of makeup, something that I've done few enough times in my life that I can count them all on one hand). Thankfully, the image blurs as the tears well so I can't see so clearly the ridiculously pointless effort I had put into myself this morning. Trying so hard to be beautiful and almost believing it until those silver eyes settled on me with nothing more than thinly-veiled contempt. Not even thinly-veiled, really. I sink to the edge of my bed, weeping as quietly as I can.

I think I ought not be so bothered by his scorn. After all, he doesn't realize that my family's large house is a glorified hotel; if it weren't for the fact that the Capitol's so-called ambassadors would never deign to stay in anything smaller or plainer, it would be no different from the other government-assigned homes in town. He doesn't realize that everything in this house is drenched in blood, that most of the things in it were supplied by the Capitol, and the things that weren't (including his overpriced strawberries) were purchased with a paycheck signed by Snow. He doesn't realize that I have a ghost for a mother. He doesn't realize the risks my father takes. He doesn't realize that they could deliberately draw my name on Reaping Day if they found out.

I breathe deep and hard for a moment to quell the tears, blot my eyes carefully clean, smooth my dress and hair, and wipe my runny nose in a most unladylike fashion on the nightdress I had taken off this morning. Ha, if only he could see me now, I think with half-hearted bitterness. Snot on my pajamas. I practice talking to my mirror to make sure my voice doesn't crack. "Thank you, Daddy. Good morning, Mr. Cray. Your pink hair is lovely, Ms. Trinkett." This last one is tough to say with a straight face, but at least I'm not crying any more.

When I come downstairs again, I put on my best winsome smile and try my very hardest to be charming to a roomful of people I can't stand. Luckily, I'm the mayor's daughter and not the mayor, so they have little use for me and nothing especially substantial to say. A tall man with pale green skin and jewels in his teeth thanks me for the fresh berries that he and his cohorts have just polished off, and I assure him that it was my pleasure while I leave out that fact that they were firstly not for him and secondly illegal. Peacekeeper Cray watches me a little more carefully than necessary, which makes me slightly uncomfortable. I try not to stare at her candy-colored beehive as Effie Trinkett tells me that I look fabulous in my dress and that her tribute stylists would love to have someone like me to work on, which makes me slightly more uncomfortable.

The old clock by the staircase chimes noisily, and everyone is whipped instantly into a frenzy because it's finally time to go down to the square. I'm relieved, because though the Reaping is about to begin it means that I won't have to endure these people any longer. Especially because every time Effie Trinket and her gaggle of assistants compliment my outfit, all I can think is you're not the ones for whom I took the trouble.

….

"Primrose Everdeen!"

It takes a minute to process. I think it's because, deep down, no matter how angry the Reaping made me, how cruel and unfair it all was, I never truly believed that one of us – my family, Katniss' family – one of us would be chosen. I mean, it comes down to math, right? I terms of numbers, the odds really are in our favor; even for those of us who take out Tesserae, the probability of being Reaped is small when you're in a pool of over a thousand. Hell, I've got more entries in that Reaping Ball than anyone in the district save five or six of my classmates, and if I hadn't been picked yet….

Then, without thinking, I am shouldering my way through the crowd and ducking under the rope that separates the boys and girls, which is expressly Not Allowed (though I've never been especially concerned about what is and isn't), because Katniss is clawing frantically toward the stage and screaming "I volunteer!" I see a few peacekeepers move toward us, but they give pause when they see that I'm only there to hold Prim back, and give Katniss a hand climbing up on the platform. They let me get away with it because I am personally delivering my friend – my best friend – into the jaws of hell. It is excruciating, but it is the single comfort I can offer her because I know that she knows that if it were Rory's name called I'd do the exact same thing.

"Up you go, Catnip," I say evenly as Prim starts to sob. I watch the girl in the flowing blue dress with the elegant hair and she is a million miles from the girl I know. She is pretty, no doubt, but delicate, almost fragile. Not nearly as beautiful as the strong, fierce, defiant Katniss that walked the woods with me this morning. She is afraid, but not for herself. For Prim, if they don't accept her as volunteer. Though it only takes a moment, it feels like a century before we all realize that yes, Katniss Everdeen is going to the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games. I crush Prim to me protectively while she cries, and glare at the crowd because I can't look at Katniss and I can't look at Prim. But when I see them I realize I can't look at Katniss' pale, unsteady mother, or at my own who always thought of my friend as an adopted daughter. I can't look at the crowd of boys because they've not been drawn yet and they are all terrified because they know no one will volunteer for them. I can't look at the girls, because shameful relief has settled on their faces, and it makes me angry. My eyes fall on Madge as I try frantically not to look at anyone – hell's teeth, how does that happen so often? - and she is beautiful and her eyes are wet and it makes me angrier.

And then Haymitch Abernathy, our one and only Victor from Twelve, unceremoniously plummets off the stage. Our pride and joy, right there. The attention swirls quickly away from Katniss – which also means away from Prim, and by extension, myself. Who'd have ever thought I'd be go grateful that someone was vomiting messily a mere stride's length from where I was standing? I scoop up Prim's tiny frame and carry her to the back of the crowd to give her back to her mother. Also expressly Not Allowed, since the corrals of boys and girls have not yet been formally dismissed, but I dare any Peacekeeper to stop me now.

….

I run to the Justice building the moment we are released. I run hard, and I feel as if my heart might either burst or quit altogether. I run harder than I ever have before, because I know the clock is ticking. They will only give her so much time.

Katniss is the only person I can call a friend, and she has just been sentenced to death. But if there is anyone who can defy the odds, who can subvert this game, it is she. My fingers flutter over the gold Mockingjay pin at my shoulder as I think about how she will endure the gauntlet they have prepared for her. Because she will endure. In the moment she volunteered, she showed them that she is no creature of their making, not bound by their control. She will fight for the one thing the Capitol never banked on – not glory or fame, not money or prizes, not pride or even survival. No, Katniss Everdeen will fight for love.