It's a typical night at the Mellark household. A rarely peaceful one, at that. I sit with my legs tucked under me on the couch. My daughter sits in front of me, allowing me for once to brush her beautiful blonde hair. Peeta lounges on the far end of the couch, watching me and our daughter with a contented smile. I'm humming happily and maybe that's why he looks so peaceful. Our son sits in the chair, sketching in his notebook. The television is on, but the only one watching it is my daughter.

The music of the evening news report picks up. My son looks up and turns the volume up slightly. Peeta leaves to get a glass of water. I start to braid my daughter's hair.

The reporter babbles on about a slight shortage of goods from District 8, how the tomatoes from 11 have been infected with some kind of bacteria and as such there will be a shortage of those, too. There's some kind of celebration going on in District 4. It's going to rain in 3. Commercial. Travel to beautiful District Four and see the ocean . . . an advertisement for a candy bar . . . a new brand of soap from the Capitol . . . back to the news. It's down to three contestants for a singing show. The one Plutarch started up and wanted me to be the star of. They go on about that for a while before they hit up the big news.

"And finally, we have a very special announcement!" The reporter says. I look up to see him looking unusually excited. He's pretty young. He had to have been born after the war. A slight sheen of sweat has appeared on his forehead and he's practically giddy with excitement. "I have the unique pleasure of announcing the return of the annual Hunger Games!"

My daughter squeals as a large chunk of her hair is ripped out. Peeta breaks the glass of water he's just gotten from the kitchen. My eyes are glued to the television now. Please say it's a joke, please say it's a joke . . .

"No, I'm not joking," says the news reporter excitedly. "The newly appointed president has issued the order last week for the return of the Hunger Games!"

"That's right folks," says the female reporter sitting next to him. "For those of you that don't know, the Hunger Games is an annual event where each District will be able to participate. Two special children, one boy and one girl from the ages of twelve to eighteen will be chosen randomly from each District. They will be brought to the Capitol to be trained in the art of survival, and will enter an arena to fight for the glory of winning for their District."

I grip on my daughter's thin shoulders tightly to stay steady. Peeta topples to his knees, unsteady on his prosthetic leg. His eyes are stuck on the television, his hands bleeding from the broken glass. His eyes reflect the horror I feel.

"Now, I know what you must be wondering," says the male reporter. "When and where do I sign up? I know it's exciting folks, but the tributes are chosen randomly at an event called the reaping. Everyone will get a fair shot. One slip for every year older you are from twelve, no exceptions. The reaping will take place in your local city square on Tuesday next. Remember, attendance is mandatory! We'll see you there!"

"This is Panem news reporting from the Capitol, goodnight!"

Anthem. Seal. Cut out. Fuzz. Silently my son turns off the television.

The room is completely silent. Our children are looking back and forth between myself and Peeta as if they do not quite know what just happened. I myself don't know.

Peeta's the first to recover.

"Naan," he says, surprisingly calm. "Go get Uncle Haymitch."

My son nods, and jumps up quickly. He pauses to help his father up off the floor, then scurries out the front door.

"I'm going to make some phone calls. I'll be right back," says Peeta. He looks at me. "Don't do anything drastic, Katniss. Stay right there."

"Drastic?" I squeak, appalled. "Drastic?"

"Yes, drastic. It's a mistake. It's got to be. I'll fix it. Stay right there."

I'm glued to the spot, anyway. Peeta leaves, goes to the study where the telephone is, shuts the door behind him. I listen carefully, hear the soft tones of his forced calm voice though I can't make out what he's saying.

Haymitch bursts through the front door followed shortly by Naan. I feel a shot of anger when Haymitch starts laughing. Already he's drunk. I guess the news announcement was enough to push him back over that edge. He hasn't been totally wasted in a long time.

"I guess I should have known this would happen," he snorts, throwing back clear liquor straight from the bottle. I stare at him in disbelief. "Things were too peaceful. Can't let us get too happy now, can they? No, of course not. We should have known they wouldn't let us win."

"How could we have possibly known?" I burst out furiously. My daughter jumps. "This . . . this isn't supposed to happen! People died so this would never happen again! We fought a war so this would never happen again! This can't be happening!"

"Well, sweetheart, looks like it is," says Haymitch drily, dropping into a chair. He looks around. "Where's your darling husband?"

"He's making phone calls. He's trying to fix this. That's more than you're doing, isn't it?"

"Hey, you're the one who called me over here, sweetheart. Don't get high and mighty with me. I was perfectly happy drinking the problem away."

"You stupid drunken bastard!" I shout angrily, jumping up from the couch. My daughter barely scrambles out of my way. I approach Haymitch with a finger raised and he has the good grace to at least look afraid. "Did you not just hear what that reporter said?" I point at the blank television. "He said the Hunger Games are coming back! The Hunger Games!"

"I can hear, you know," snarls Haymitch. "I know what he said."

"I'm not sure you understand what that means," I growl. "They said children aged twelve to eighteen. Naan is fifteen and Perilla is seventeen. Don't you get—?"

And all the sudden I'm chocking at the realization. Naan is fifteen and Perilla is seventeen. Their names will go in those glass balls. My children. My babies. The ones I swore I would never have because of this exact reason. They are eligible to enter the Hunger Games.

I fall to my knees, my hands clamped over my mouth in horror.

"Finally figured it out, have you, sweetheart?"

A/N: Hello there, all! So, I had this idea, what if Katniss's worst fear came true? What if her kids entered the Arena? And then, just to make it more interesting, what if BOTH her kids entered the arena and only one could come out? And here it is! There's more to come, I promise.

I hope you like the names I picked for Peeta and Katniss's kids. I stayed true to the books, and named them after bread and plants. Perilla, (nicknamed Prilly) who is their daughter, is the one named after the plant. Perilla is a type of mint plant. And Naan, who's their son, is named after the bread. Naan is a type of (What else?) Pita bread.

So, I really hope you'll enjoy this, and please leave reviews!

~gfg