Katniss just entered the glowing tube to lift her into the next fatal arena.
Katniss. The Girl on Fire.
The image I created. The girl I shaped to be adored and favored in the arena. The friend I have come to know and love over the span of one year.
About this time last year, she was just a mere contestant tossed in a cage to be slaughtered.
Just another helpless tribute, I told myself.
But I was wrong. I am part of a secret organization, aiming to bring down the reign of the Capitol once and for all. And the face of the rebels is Katniss Everdeen. It was my duty to sculpt her this way. To ease the districts into rebellion.
If my performance last night at the interviews just cost me my life, so be it.
I rather die fighting for the rebellion anyway.
It takes forever. Katniss is standing in the concealed elevator, but nothing is happening.
She looks worried. Of course she should be. She is being thrown into the torturous Hunger Games AGAIN.
I stare at her, waiting for the moment where she will rise and I might never see her again in person.
Nothing is happening.
Then, she strikes a rather odd face full of puzzle and terror.
She peers past my shoulder and I hear a big bang.
White garb blurs my vision and I am slugged over the head.
The last thing I hear is the grumbling sounds of disgruntled peacekeepers and the muffled screams and poundings on the glass from Katniss.
I awake to a bright white room.
There is the cot I am laying on and me. That is it.
I barely get sense of my surroundings when the wall slides open.
No. Not the wall, more of a square section in it actually.
Two gruff peacekeepers march in and take a hold of my arms.
I am thrown off the makeshift bed and whisked into the hallway.
Before I know it, we enter a cold sealed room containing a mirror (two-way I expect), a metal table, and a single chair.
I am thrown into the chair where harsh cuffs quickly lock around my wrists in an uncerimonial matter.
The room goes dark and a single spotlight blinds me.
"Cinna," a hoarse voice croaks over the microphone static. Only one person can match the tone. President Snow.
With out pause, he continues, "You have been sentenced to questioning. We are on a strict schedule so here are the rules. We are going to ask questions. You are expected to answer them correctly and truthfully. If not…"
He pauses. I gulp, trying to show no fear and have confidence.
He cackles, "If not, then the world won't mind if there is one less stylist in the Games."
There is a long pause.
"Question one." Calls a women I guess to be fairly young. "Is there, is there not an underground organization planning to over throw the Capitol?"
I can't tell them that!
"I am not at liberty to say." I finally decide.
I can just imagine the anger swelling up in Snow's face.
"No! Is there or is there NOT?" Rises the women's voice.
"I do not agree with these questions!" I reply, lifting my chin high.
The mic is left on and I hear arguing in the background.
What happens next seems to move by so slowly; I manage to shed a tear.
The arguing stoops and President Snow pipes up.
He isn't talking directly to me, but to the researchers.
"Like I told him. The world won't mind if there is one less stylist. Set the bomb."
And the last thing I hear is the explosion of a fatal bomb.