The Hunger Games- What If's (Fan Fiction)

Chapter Twenty-Three

   The show opens with a bang and a pow. The people love me; they throw gifts of flowers and animal figures and chocolates. They chant my name to a beating of a drum; but something is wrong. I am not the only one they are cheering for.

   Who is the other person? Not one other person is on this familiar stage, not even Caesar. Not yet, anyway. I'm sure that he'll come out to interview me and the other survivor.

   And then a curtain appears. It's a deep blue, so deep that it looks almost black. I'm positioned so I can't see who lies behind the curtain, but the Capitol's live audience roars. Some cheer, some boo, so break out into tears.

   I try to hide a scoff at the crying people, but I'm not quite sure if I was successful. I could feel the tug on the corners of my mouth. I pull my eyes away from the audience and look back to the curtain. A very bright light flashes from the other side and I can see a silhouette.

   Unfortunately, I can't tell if the other person is a boy or girl; they're sitting, and they're facing me. Or maybe they're facing away from me. Either way, I can't make out any hair or facial features, since their shoulders are scrunched up to the person's ears. Their legs sit together; no lines telling me that they're wearing pants or a dress.

   Somewhere, a screen must be showing a countdown, because everyone in the audience immediately begin to count down from thirty.

   "That's an awfully high number," I think.

   Ten . . . nine . . . five . . . two . . .

   The curtain falls. I close my eyes for a brief instant, not believing it. Then I feel arms close around me. Strong arms, arms that have been muscled from years of carrying around bags of flour. My arms find the boy's neck. I'm stunned. This isn't real. No, it can't be real.

   Peeta was behind the curtain.

>>------------>X<------------<<

   I knew it wasn't real.

   I let my mind wander again, because for some reason, I think that everything in the world of reality will fall away, leaving only foolish hopes and stupid wishes in its place. I should know better. Me, of all people, should know better. I should know by now. . . .

   I hope sincerely, from the bottom of my heart, that Peeta is not the other survivor as I am rushed from the train station into a very tall building. I don't have enough time to process where I'm going, or the questions continuously shouting at me, or where Cinna is until the thick doors of the building shut behind me and Cinna takes my hand.

   My gaze finds his. He smiles politely and squeezes my hand. I smile back, but I can't find the strength to move my muscles.

   Diving back into my thoughts, I realize that if Peeta were really the one to survive, I would have to kill him or he would have to kill me. There's no doubt in my mind that the Capitol wants to throw me back into the arena with the other tribute. Why wouldn't they? Why shouldn't they? After all, it has been a whole month since the Hunger Games. The audience is growing bored: all the discussions of it in the Capitol have already been discussed; they words they could speak have already been spoken; the bets that were placed and the money lost has to return to the gamblers.

   If it's true that there is another surviving tribute, then a real Victory Tour couldn't be held, anyway. Not according to the Capitol's "standards." I find it hard to believe that such a barbaric ruler even has standards.

   "Where are we?" I ask Cinna quietly. He does not let go of my hand.

   "I've already prepared you for your big re-entrance. That's where we're going now," Cinna tells me soothingly as we begin to walk down the hall, escorted by bodyguards all around.