Disclaimer: I don't own settings and characters from The Hunger Games, or anything else you might recognize. I'm just planning to have some wicked fun with them. Song lyrics quoted in this chapter : "I Wish I Had An Angel" by Nightwish.

(PSA: As you may have noticed, this has been left for dead for 3 years. If I ever continue it, I'll edit/rewrite it first, please ignore for now.)

Chapter 1: Identity theft

I'm going down so frail and cruel
Drunken disguise changes all the rules
Old loves, they die hard
Old lies, they die harder

The cake from our last celebratory banquet, a three-tiered thing adorned with white and red marzipan roses, still sits on display in the bakery window. And makes my stomach clench, not with the hunger and craving the goods there used to make me feel a lifetime ago, but with humiliation and fear.

"You suggested it yourself, Katniss," says Peeta, lightly resting his hand on my cheek and turning my head to meet his gaze.

As if I needed him to remind me.

The moment of sheer insanity still haunts my mind distinct and vivid, however fervently I wish to forget it. It happened during our first night after the Victor's interview, when I still believed I could at least try.

Reliving it makes me feel thoroughly disgusted with myself, but I can't keep the images, the thoughts, the emotions from swirling in my mind like a maelstrom, threatening to drag me off the deep end.

The genuine joy I glimpsed in his face before he dipped his lips to my neck implied long-cherished dreams coming true and his tentative caresses are gentle and pleasant, but not intense enough to distract me from the cruel reality of our Capitol nightmare. This shouldn't be happening. Not now, not like this and certainly not here, between the white satin roses thirsting for my blood.

We are alone, but undoubtedly surrounded by hidden cameras; we are still playing, we are still performing and Peeta seems all too keen on forgetting his solemn vow not to become a piece in their Games. My body revolts at the implications and my mind cowers at possible consequences of disappointing the audience, but right now, no rational thought can override my gut reaction. Bile and bubbles from the champagne Haymitch had so generously poured us earlier rise in my throat and fill my mouth with bitter denial.

With strength I didn't know I possessed, I turn us around and find myself atop of him, capturing his hands in mine, the prickly thread of the golden mockingjay embroidery on my flimsy nightdress scratching against my wrist as I pull his fingers away from the thin strap.

"Please not so fast, my love," I whisper, letting fake saccharine drip through gritted teeth and willing my composure to last just a little longer. "I… I don't feel ready." The hurt and guilt in his dilated eyes force my lashes down, in a look that could hopefully pass for demure.

"Why… why don't we wait till we are married?" This idea is very stupid and very dangerous. But right now, I'd do absolutely anything to buy myself more time.

Fear and betrayal flicker on his face, but he forces a smile, fake to match my own. "I will wait as long as you want me to, sweetheart," he whispers in an unfamiliar voice, but he kisses my hand like the gentleman he always professed to be.

I lean down to kiss him, lips tightly closed, and all but sprint from the bed. "Good night, my love."

Seconds later, I'm locked in my own room, safely hidden under thick covers, biting the pillow to muffle my sobs. Only my tears stain the roses now, but my blood will soon follow.

The same fear and guilt flicker in Peeta's eyes now, as he confronts the shadow of my resentment and denial. Weeks passed since our return and the reporters finally skulked back to Capitol, leaving us alone. Leaving us with what?

What have I done? It was wrong, wrong, so terribly and disgustingly wrong, but Peeta was still the best compulsory choice. The choice I could have survived. What happens to me now? What happens to us?

So far nothing happened, but Snow is just bidding his time and I fear the worst.

Whatever it is, I'd rather be dead.

But why does Peeta look at me as if he really wanted to marry me? When he said he loved me long before the Reaping, I believed him… but now, everything we are, everything we have is tainted by the Capitol.

"You know very well I said it just to buy us some time."

And I fear it's already running low.

"I'm sorry it had to happen like that, Katniss. It… I… didn't know what…" he releases me as his voice falters and wrings his hands in his lap. "I'm sorry."

As if I needed him to remind me.

"Too bad I can't really blame you," I sigh exasperatedly.

Sometimes, I wish I could.

"But I love you, Katniss. If you were willing… we could gather whatever is left of us to salvage and build on it."

"We still are a part of their Games, Peeta. Camera fodder."

The fear in his eyes turns to pain.

"Love is beyond their Games and cameras, Katniss."

"Then our relationship doesn't fall into that category."

"I hoped it could. For years."

Does he still hold onto the vain hope to make me share a fantasy I never harbored? And perhaps even fill his Capitol-appointed house with beautiful little Mellarks, waiting to be reaped like golden corn for Snow's depraved pleasure in the years to come? The mental image makes me wish I'd swallowed the nightlock berries at the count of two. But I didn't do it, because survival is too deeply ingrained in my nature.

Why do I have to keep regretting it?

I avert my eyes and stand up abruptly. "Nothing good will ever come of it, Peeta. They want us to play on and it makes me sick."

He rises along with me and grabs my hand.

"Katniss…"

Shaking my head violently, I break free of his grip, turn on my heel and run back up to Victor's Village.

If I just tried to sprint to the Cornucopia and got cut down on; none of this would have happened…

Why the hell did I even bother to stay alive?

When Haymitch Abernathy so graciously offered us the advice, I should have known not to take it. Judging by his famous tendency to render himself unconscious for extended periods of time, I should have figured that he obviously regrets having survived himself. Now I almost understand him and feel that he could almost understand me, but visiting him proves the usual waste of effort.

Gingerly navigating between piles of glass shards and other garbage, I make my way towards his senseless form slumped at the table, pry a bottle from his numb fingers and take a swig. The vile liquid burns my mouth and I end up choking and spitting half of it back out. The champagne was better. If I really wanted to knock myself out, I'd probably have to try morphling, and I like to believe I'm not on the verge of stooping that low. Yet.

So I return to my own cage of concrete and strange devices and head straight to my room to seek relief in dull apathy, not even bothering to switch on the garish electric lamps. To me, darkness holds no more horrors than the light, because nothing compares to the corruption forced into my very own body and mind.

What has become of me?

I am not yet seventeen and not yet insane, but uncomfortably close to both marks.

After being Reaped, trained, styled, presented, burned, bloodied, Remade and touched, I don't recognize myself anymore.

People address me as Katniss Everdeen or The Girl on Fire or Co-Victor of the 74th Hunger Games.

Lacking the slightest inkling how to correct them, I decide to humor them and react to the name. That is, when I accidentally feel inclined to acknowledge anyone.

Unfortunately, Peeta Mellark is not to be ignored. I have to meet him every day, even with shifty eyes and guilty conscience, at least to exchange few pleasantries for the microphones. As far as the audience is concerned, we are presented as two parts of a whole, two Victors with one crown, the Star-crossed Lovers that changed the rules in their favor.

Match made in the Hunger Games.

For my part, the very notion feels horribly wrong, but he seems to handle everything Capitol throws his way with almost admirable grace, one unhinged Katniss Everdeen included.

Despite his best efforts, things remain awkward between us. Since I prefer to lock my memories from the Capitol away and stubbornly refuse to mention the Games myself, we run out of comfortable conversation topics quickly and our prolonged silences ring with unspoken inquiries.

When his respectful patience falters and he asks me just that, looking at me with his unbearably bright hope and sincere love that ignores even the fact that we are still just pieces their Games, I wish I were dead all over again.

Why the hell does he have to remind me of the worst part of the deal?

Sometimes, my attempts to converse with Peeta still have the same effect as acting my part and delivering my lines in front of the reporters: they exhaust me to the point of mental collapse and send me running to my empty room, when I can pretend I don't exist anymore.

Damn, if it were act on both sides, we'd get along better. I need someone to fully understand my resentment.

A series of sharp knocks on the door interrupts my thoughts and I hurry to the half-curtained window for a furtive peek. I know who the visitor is and try to catch at least a glimpse before he'll have to leave again.

Gale Hawthorne moves into my line of vision, waiting for my sister to join him outside, beyond the range of the surveillance.

Few quiet words and forlorn headshakes are exchanged, then-

"So she still can't handle a visit from her damn cousin?" his voice rises enough for me to discern the words, laced with pain and anger. His patience is wearing thin.

The lamp on our porch illuminates his profile, highlighting the chiseled contours of his face, so familiar, yet so striking. Even coal-dust and heartbreak suit him, but I don't want him to wear them.

I step away from the window before he decides to glance there and sink to the edge of my bed.

Why do I have to miss him so much?

Soon I hear the door slamming and Prim's quiet footsteps ascend the stairs and stop right in front of my door.

This time, I'm not getting away easily.

She knocks, but enters without waiting for an invitation, knowing with certainty that I never answer, but wouldn't refuse her presence.

How could I decline my dear little sister?

"Katniss, Gale tried to see you. Again," she says softly, approaching closer.

"I know. Heard you talking to him," I mutter, bowing my head to hide my shame and… what? Some other feeling I can't quite place, but it's definitely not pleasant.

"He drags himself up here all the way from the mines and you never even acknowledge him. Why don't you want to meet our cousin?" Her expression sours, but her voice rings chipper and a bit louder than necessary.

"I… I," can't tell you, not really. "What did you tell him?" I ask, trying to change the topic and get the worst over with by means of one question.

"That you were visiting Peeta and probably Haymitch too and retired early," she says brazenly, pursing her lips.

That's my sister. I killed for her and she wouldn't even lie for me. The most genuine person in the world.

"Thanks a million, Prim." She notes my half-hearted sarcasm, but appears unfazed.

"I also told him that you returned even more miserable. As usual," she adds in a barely audible whisper as she leans down to my ear. "Why do you refuse to see him? You know how much he cares for you. Maybe he could help-"

Her words hurt like a gentle trickle of salt seeping into an open wound.

"I want to see him, Prim. But I don't want him to see me… not like this, not after…" my own breathy whisper fades into a defeated sigh.

With both sorrow and relief sparkling in her eyes, Prim leans forward, poised to embrace me.

Prim.

I experienced everything to spare her and I would do it thousand times over. But I replaced her to shield her from pain I can't share with her now, not the entire burden that's mine to bear.

Oh, how I love her.

Refusing to let the taint of the Capitol touch her, I lean forward until my forehead rests on my knees. Undaunted, Prim sits on the bed, wraps hers arms around me from behind and lays her head on my back. Her soft breath and steady heartbeat pervade my senses. She is alive.

My Primrose, my precious golden flower. Worth every sacrifice in the world.

Not even her proximity can entirely diffuse the wretchedness implanted so deeply inside me, but her affectionate reminders that my own debasement is a meager price for her life and safety never fail to placate me.

"Tomorrow is Sunday," she breathes into my ear. "Meet him. Please."

Nodding, I choke out something between a sigh and a sob.

"Thank you, Prim. Goodnight." Nice and resounding.

"Goodnight, Katniss," she answers loudly, releasing me with a soft, guilty smile, because we both know that my nights are no longer good.

Not even attempting to sleep, I watch the shadows play in the corners. My thoughts keep straying back to Gale and this time, I don't even attempt to stop them. However much I missed him, I avoided him like the mirror ever since my arrival; hiding, shunning familiar routes and never venturing into the forest on Sundays. But with my misery stubbornly growing to unbearable proportions, I do feel increasingly tempted to meet him.

He might still remember me.

He is the only person who truly knew who I was before I left, even better than Prim, because I told him things I never dared to tell her. He was my best friend for almost four years, standing strong and silent by my side, watching my back and comforting me when I needed it most.

Even now, I'm sure he would let me seek consolation in his arms without asking questions or demanding assurances.

But what then?

How would he react upon learning that I'm not his beloved Catnip anymore, just some strange Capitol creature invading his personal space?