A/N: I've finally decided to crosspost this from AO3. Hopefully it's not too provocative for FF.


.Peeta.

It's been six weeks since the failed attempt on Snow's life. Six weeks since the bombs dropped, killing the Capitol hostages barricading the mansion, and the medics that came to treat them. Six weeks since I've seen Katniss.

I'd miraculously made it to the City Circle on my own, fighting flashbacks and scattered memories tainted by the shiny backdrop of tracker jacker venom, trying to stay focused on why I was there, what my objective was. I remember being burned in the explosion, and being apprehended by Peacekeepers, fighting as hard as I could to get them off of me. I couldn't let Snow's men take me again. I couldn't let them torture me again. Things were only just beginning to get clear, my memories were only just beginning to sort out between Real and Not Real. I was in restraints and the nightlock tablet that Gale had generously relinquished for me was tucked away in a pocket, out of reach, and soon my clothes were confiscated so I could be given a simple white cotton shirt and pants, then I was thrown into a sterile hospital room with the door locked from the outside.

A doctor was sent to tend to my wounds, using the most elite treatments available to ensure a remarkably swift recovery. I wondered why so much effort was being taken to heal my body when I knew I would just be tortured and wounded again. There was no way Snow would let my betrayal slide. My act of defiance by joining the rebels in the face of what I knew he could do to me was likely the utmost embarrassment to him. Hard to forget the first time I'd been captured and tortured, and medics were sent into my cell after each session to heal my body and keep me alive so that I'd be fresh again for the next round. If I passed out from pain, fear, or shock, a medic was always on hand to make me whole again so I would never be allowed merciful escape. And my body adapted, becoming a little more resilient every time, so it took more trauma each time before my brain checked out for the day. A cruel cycle to keep me perpetually in peak condition so I could fully appreciate what was being done to me.

And after being captured as a Thirteen rebel, it was happening all over again.

I repeatedly asked the medics that attended to me the same questions: Why am I here? Why are my injuries being treated? What will become of me when I'm healed? ...Where is Katniss? Always they remained silent. They would only speak to give me simple instruction, how to keep from aggravating any of my injuries, the proper use of medications. I quickly became enraged by their silence, infuriated by the disrespectful nature of how they openly ignored me, and I hurled insults and obscenities at them until they sedated me. I refused to eat the food they brought to me. I tried my best to trash the room, but the Capitol, in all its apparent lack of foresight as far as its own sustainability, still managed to predict the volatile nature of hostages and made everything infuriatingly unbreakable. I weighed my options on assaulting the medics that cared for me, but quickly ruled it out when I realized there would be no hope of successfully killing myself and that Snow would never grant me the mercy of a swift execution for my insubordination.

It became very apparent that the torture chamber was the only future for me, regardless of what I did.

I thought about Katniss, tried to use her as a tether to the real world and my sanity. Tried to recall memories of her, hoping it would invoke the emotions I originally felt before they were hijacked from me. Most of them were still shiny. Under the heavy influence of sedatives and painkillers, I focused on the last moment I shared with her, before we left Tigris' shop and headed for the City Circle. I thought about the way she threw her arms around my neck, causing me to recoil out of the instinct with which Snow's torturers had conditioned me, but I fought the horrific, distorted images of her that they'd planted in my head and reluctantly returned the embrace. A dozen images assaulted my thoughts in that moment, flashing with such intensity that I almost blacked out. A flood of memories tied to the way her arms felt around me, the way her small body felt pressed against mine, the scent of her hair - all invoking a fleeting sense of...something. A vaguely familiar jumble of emotions stirred in a suppressed part of my mind as I tried desperately to grasp at shadowed images of things that happened on the train, or in the cave in the arena, or in her house in the Victor's Village.

And then it seemed like she'd released me too soon. I'd felt the familiar swell of her breasts against me, that moment where her body began to yield to me and appreciate my touch, but she'd stiffened shortly thereafter, as if she didn't want to get too caught up in the moment. Didn't want to feel too much, because of the prospect that, yet again, one of us might not make it back alive. It's her defense mechanism, putting up that wall and shutting out everything, maintaining a safe distance so that when betrayal or abandonment or death happens, she's effectively protected. The quickening in my chest immediately subsided. In that moment, I could feel a shiny memory trying to force its way into my conscious thought from the back of my mind, a fabricated image of a monstrous, mutt-version of Katniss, teeth sharpened into fangs. So loaded on tracker jacker venom as I was during initial captivity, my torturers kept feeding me images of Katniss and Enobaria in such rapid succession that my addled mind began to superimpose the images as one, so that Katniss became that feral, fanged monster that consistently haunted my nightmares. I expended every bit of my concentration on forcing the image back into the depths of my mind, feeling the muscles in my chest and shoulders clench as I suppressed the urge to react. Not. Real.

I don't want them to change me in there. Turn me into some kind of monster that I'm not.

Ha. What a remarkable failure that had been. How I'd come to lose myself to hysterical fits of laughter just by replaying that moment on the rooftop in my head. A hazy image of Katniss replaced the false one that threatened to resurface, an image of her helpless and frightened and confused, her throat constricted in my hands as she gasped for air, struggling to speak. My name was on her lips. I barely remember the assault, I was so clouded by the vestiges of venom and altered memory, I don't even remember what I was thinking or what motivated me to react. I don't think I was thinking in that moment, really. It was an impulse that I couldn't control any more than I could control my own heartbeat. A reflex with which I was intentionally programmed. The perfect weapon.

I keep wishing I could think of a way to show the Capitol they don't own me. That I'm more than just a piece in their Games.

Alone and locked in my sterile little room, awaiting whatever fate was to come to me, I let those hysterics claim me, laughing like a lunatic - and by all accounts, I was - at the memory of that night. How innocent of a moment that was, sitting on the rooftop of the Training Center with this girl I'd spent nearly my entire life fantasizing about how I might steal a moment alone with her, finally granted that wish and bearing my soul to her as I frantically weighed the options of impulsively leaning in to kiss her but never quite summoning up the courage to do it. Even as I was being sent off to my death, this trivial urge still dominated my thoughts. There I was, having an existential crisis instead of strategizing my survival. How fucking quaint.

Give my mother my best when you make it back, will you?

Somehow I'd known that Katniss would make it out of that arena alive. She was unpredictable, and petulant, and aloof, and mistrust was second nature to her, so her wariness and ability to work alone would definitely all work to her advantage. I knew that Katniss would give my mother her condolences, but with her trademark edge of fiery conviction. I secretly knew how she felt about my mother, too easily deduced from the furtive glances I'd catch from her in school sometimes, lingering a little too long on my bruises and contusions, that flash of outrage in her eyes before she'd swiftly look away. Or that day with the bread, when she'd stared indignantly at where my mother had struck me. There was no doubt that when Katniss made it back to Twelve, she'd respond with something cutting and passive aggressive to say to the grieving mother of a son that was never wanted. And that's exactly what I'd meant on the rooftop that night. I knew my words carried a significant weight to them, and that Katniss was clever enough to figure it out. I'd always tried so hard to be charitable and forgiving and good, to block out any possibility of turning into my mother, but there was always that potential, that small heat of fury inside me, waiting to be awakened. It would always show a glimmer of itself in fleeting moments, like it did then, in my carefully contained spite.

Who knew that Snow would find out about it and exploit it, use me as a piece in his Games.

I'm silently grateful that my mother didn't make it out of Twelve when it burned to the ground. Even after her death, she's still hurting me. I will always ever have the rage gene, gifted to me by her. Always lying dormant, waiting to be triggered. Snow's torturers must have been expertly trained on bringing it out, because now it's like I'm going through puberty all over again, trying desperately to control the volatile emotions storming inside me, the temptation to destroy everything and harm everyone in my path at the slightest provocation. Fuck you, Mother. I hope you burned slowly.

I'd dashed the image of Katniss' suffocating expression from my mind, tried to bury the memory of the bruises my hands left on her throat. That image haunts me in my sleep, and even in wakefulness too, sometimes flashing behind my eyes without warning if I let my mind wander to thoughts of her for too long. I tried to think about positive memories of her that Snow couldn't know about, things that transpired secretly between only the two of us, memories his hijackers couldn't touch. Comforting moments on the train, passionate moments in her bed, a painfully bittersweet night in mine. They were always hazy and just out of reach, as though I were looking at the world through a foggy window. Any time I could grasp a solid memory that we shared alone, I found it slipping away too quickly, only to be distorted and replaced by another hijacked image, corrupted and left to me as a lingering gift from my captors in the Capitol. Or, more often than not, I'd vividly remember my promises to always ever be gentle with her, immediately followed by an impetuous, accusatory flash of her throat colored by bruises shaped like my hands. Then, in my mind's panicked attempt to retreat from my own self-loathing, the Katniss-mutt would snarl at me from my subconscious and I'd be fighting another wave of panic.

Not real not real not real not real.

After only a few days in my hospital room, one of the doctors came back to check on my progress, only to find me sitting hunched up on the floor of the shower in my tiny little bathroom, hugging my knees to my chest and rocking back and forth, repeating those words over and over like a mantra keeping me alive. Doing everything I could to keep the hijacked images of Katniss out of my head. Every moment spent near her when we stormed the streets in the Capitol, advancing on Snow's mansion, it was a war with myself not to let the Not Reals take control of me. I clenched my hands into fists as I suppressed the instinct to strangle her to death. I tried to remember who I used to be, the charitable, passionate boy with the bread, who would risk a beating from his mother to save the life of the girl he loved. I thought hard about that day in the rain, tried to remember the way the rolling pin felt across my face, the heat of the singed loaves in my hands, the blustery cold sweeping through the door when I opened it to the rain outside, thought about the hollow look of desperation in her eyes when she looked at me. ...And felt nothing. What had I actually felt in that moment? I'd tried in vain to remember, to reinvoke those feelings, the feelings that motivated me to intentionally burn the bread, but couldn't recall them. The memory was replaced by an emotional void I didn't know how to fill.

I tried to assess what I did feel. Anger, confusion, mistrust, contempt, maybe a little hatred. Whether that hatred was real or a fabrication of my hijackers was still up for debate. The contempt was the strongest. I couldn't help but feel used, like she'd made me into a piece in her Games. Like I was merely a tool for her survival.

I think it's unlikely that all three of us will be alive at the end of the war. And if we are, I guess it's Katniss' problem. Who to choose.

Gale and I had settled for a lack of open hostility in those moments. Truth be told, I don't think I ever really hated him. Jealous, sure, but I don't think I hated him. He was blunt and uncensored, speaking casually of the prospect that we could all suddenly die a violent death. The cynical mutt-version of myself that the Capitol produced found some morbid appreciation for it.

Yeah, I wonder how she'll make up her mind.

Even as I'd said it, I knew what Katniss' ideal choice would be. She wouldn't choose, she'd have us both. To hell with convention.

Katniss will pick whoever she thinks she can't survive without.

And there it was. That blunt, uncensored insight of Gale's - that Katniss was always only ever about survival. That was the only thing that ever motivated her, and regardless of passionate moments shared for comfort or publicity, the only real thing to her was survival. I couldn't help but think of her as selfish, and maybe a little monstrous. Was that an idea put into my head by my hijackers, or was that the truth? I'd cursed my confinement in that hospital room, for once wanting my team from Thirteen back so they could help me with our game of Real or Not Real. My anger at her notwithstanding, at least I was no longer consumed with the urge to kill her anymore. The involuntary impulse was still there, lingering in the corners of my mind, but it was no longer the all-consuming objective of my hijacked mind. I could control it, push it back down. I'd wished the doctors would tell me where she was, if she was even alive. Did Snow's men get to her? Was she being tortured? I hated not knowing. I wasn't sure how I felt about our last moments spent together.

Not a week had passed after the bombing in front of Snow's mansion that my team of medics came in to undress me, never saying a word or explaining why I suddenly had to be stripped naked. I'd long since gotten past protesting or fighting. They'd just sedate me and strip me down anyway. I was told to lay back and wait, and moments later an aging, heavily made-up woman in Capitol couture entered. She didn't introduce herself or speak to me directly, only approached my bed and stared down her angular nose at me, her eyes sweeping over my body in cold inspection. When her sharp-nailed fingers started moving over my body, I'd cringed so fervently that I nearly fell out of the bed. Her fingers pressed at my throat, along my collarbones, danced over the muscles of my chest and brushed over my nipples, lightly pinching one so that it became hard. I held my breath, wondering if this was the beginning of my torture, remembering that sexual assault was not beneath Snow's methods the last time around. I instantly recalled one of many painfully awkward and humiliating moments where the guards forced me and Johanna together as they watched, throwing things at us as I desperately tried to maintain an erection, hoping it would at least lighten my torture for that evening. I remembered the countless Avoxes that were brutally raped by the guards in front of us, with the warning that our fate would be the same if our performance wasn't to their liking.

The old woman's sharp fingernails pressed into the muscles of my stomach, a quick poke into my navel, causing me to jump, and then she began to work my cock, stroking it with practiced precision, attempting to bring it to life. She frowned slightly at how little her efforts were paying off, clearly not aware that the effects of torture and extreme trauma are a significant contributor to impotence. And why wouldn't it be - my muse for an erection had been effectively distorted and destroyed during the time I was held captive. After a painstaking moment of effort and awakening me halfway, she seemed pleased enough and gave a curt nod of approval. "It will have to do," she muttered, more to herself than to me. "The Capitol has medication for that, anyway. And circumcised as well...yes, this will definitely go for a hefty price."

I didn't have time to process my confusion before her fingers went on to knead at my good thigh, and she frowned slightly at my artificial leg, those sharp fingernails tracing the lines of fiber optic strands that ran just beneath the skin of what was left of my thigh and into the mechanics of the prosthetic. Clearly revolted, she averted her attention back to my stomach and chest, running her fingers over the lines of my muscles, then through my hair, studying its texture and thickness. She then cupped my jaw in her hand with a vise-like grip, forcing me to look at her before turning my head to one side and then the other, running one finger along my jawline, and then across my lips. "Yes, definitely top price, even if you are somewhat of a gimp. A worthy replacement for the Odair kid."

She nodded to herself and stalked out of the room. A worthy replacement for the Odair kid. A hefty price. I knew in the back of my mind exactly what that meant, but for some reason, I was still shocked when President Snow came in the next day and sat down in a chair at the foot of my bed to offer me his proposal.

"Peeta, I think the fighting and the rebellions have gone on long enough," he'd said in his infuriatingly calm voice. "Coin's attempt to overthrow me has failed. Clearly, I'd underestimated you. I didn't know you had such...passion. I'm not going to torture you again - at least, not if I can avoid it. You're still useful to me. As you know, I've lost my most valuable courtier in the Capitol."

Courtier. What a farce. As if there was any use euphemizing what was essentially the Capitol's fuck trophy. "You can fuck right off," I muttered as I rolled my eyes, immediately repulsed by the very thought of what I knew he was about to suggest. "I'm not letting you sell my body to a bunch of depraved lunatics."

"So you'd prefer to be tortured again, then?" he asked serenely. "Because that can be arranged."

I said nothing, finding both options unacceptable. I only sat back against the pillows on my bed, looking down at my lap and grinding my teeth, trying desperately to think of some way to negotiate my way out of this. I couldn't imagine my torture the second time around being any lighter than the last. If anything, I would probably be raped by his guards, now that there was no Johanna to ensure some semblance of protection. The very thought infuriated me, and I realized, there in that room, just the two of us, I would most definitely have the upper hand were I to attack Snow. He was a feeble old man, and I had strength and youth on my side. Along with rage. Which is a hell of an anaesthetic. ...Surely, he'd thought of this. And still he'd come alone, locked in this room with me unrestrained. I could kill him. And then what? Snow had to have realized he wouldn't live forever, that someone would eventually have to replace him. Did he have a successor already selected, waiting in the wings to pick up where he left off? Someone who might possibly be worse than him, who would spare no expense making my life a living hell for impulsively assassinating Panem's intrepid dictator?

But then Snow laid his final card on the table.

"Were you aware that Katniss Everdeen is still alive?" he said quietly.

I tried to hide the hope in my eyes, but I'd glanced up at him so quickly at the mention of her name that I don't think I was entirely successful. I then narrowed my eyes at him and tried my best to suppress my sneer. "Prove it. You'll say anything to ensure your prosperity."

"I thought it went without saying that I'd like the same arrangement with you as I did with Miss Everdeen before the start of your Victory Tour. ...That we'll make this situation a whole lot simpler by agreeing not to lie to each other."

I said nothing as he looked expectantly at me, awaiting some sign of compliance. I merely glared at him, growing more impatient by the second as the blood rushing in my ears drowned out any other sound, the shaking of my hands causing me to clench them into fists before I could let the red rage cloud my vision as it so easily did in those days following my rescue.

"Peeta, I would have no reason to lie to you about her. If I'd killed her, I'd have nothing left with which to leverage you into my proposition. She is alive and safe, and will remain as such as long as you cooperate."

I snorted, disgusted by his candor and the dismissive way in which he admitted to using me and my emotions. Though I couldn't help but admire his honesty. "So you're resorting to extortion now?" I seethed. "I shouldn't be surprised." I gave a small laugh. "I wouldn't have expected anything less of you." There seemed to be a permanent sneer to my voice, and I didn't sound like myself.

The sly lip curl he gave me in response was probably the closest to an approving smile I'd ever seen on him. "My, you have come a long way, Mellark," he whispered, genuine intrigue in his tone. "Such fire in you now, you may even out-burn your darling counterpart."

"I don't even feel anything for her anymore," I said hollowly, wondering if I entirely meant it. A part of me did. But did I want her dead?

Wait. No.

"...I can't even get it up anymore, so I don't know how useful I'd be to you as a courtier anyway." The cynicism in my voice was cutting and bitter. I was angry and defeated. The virility I'd come to pride myself upon for so long...gone, in a matter of weeks. I couldn't realistically imagine myself successfully laying with a woman ever again.

He turned his head slightly to one side, scrutinizing me from the corner of his eye. "Is that a concession, then? Because you know there are pills for that. Pills that would be endlessly at your disposal were you to accept."

"I'm not going to risk a disease or parenthood for your Capitol freak show."

"There are drugs for that as well, Mr. Mellark, things for which you will be inoculated before you are sold to your first client. I guarantee, this is the easiest option for everyone. It keeps you and your beloved Mockingjay safe, and you'll make me and yourself quite a great deal of money in the process. You will never want for anything. My appraiser says you will go for quite a high price. Possibly even higher than Mr. Odair, considering the state of your...endowments." He said this with a sneer, and I had to fight every urge to lurch from the bed and strangle him.

Appraiser. My endowments. How obscene. I was no longer a person, but a product. A product partially constructed by the Capitol.

I swallowed my rage and continued to glare at him. "Fine," I said with a dismissive wave of my hand. "But I require an initial deposit."

"Oh? State your price."

"Not money. Knowledge. Where is Katniss? Tell me where she is and I'm yours."

He sneered at me, his eyes twinkling with what might have been pride. "Such a shrewd negotiator. Did you learn that from her, then?"

"If you're just going to mock me, you can leave and I'll take my chances with your hijackers again." I could hardly believe my own reckless petulance, but my patience was growing thin, and I'd found little reward in the past year in keeping it in check as I had been.

"She's back in Thirteen."

"With Gale?"

"Yes."

I scoffed and looked away. "And her mother? Prim?"

"Her mother is with them. ...Prim, unfortunately, didn't make it out of the City Circle. She was killed in the second wave of explosives."

This, I hadn't expected. I'd suddenly felt as though I'd been punched in the gut, and I knew my face showed it, because Snow's wry grin widened a little as he inspected my reaction. I immediately composed myself, letting my face settle back into a neutral expression and responded simply, "And you thought this was necessary?" I'd surprised myself at how detached and businesslike my voice sounded when I said it.

Snow chuckled and reclined in his chair. "The bombs weren't mine, Mr. Mellark. As you know, weaponry of that specialty belongs almost exclusively to Thirteen. Unfortunate that so much destruction had to result, but I can't help but admire Coin's acumen for opportunistic warfare. Make the people think I'd wasted my own citizens and their children...it would have been ingenious had the entire Capitol not figured out that I couldn't have a single working hovercraft at my disposal since Thirteen hijacked them all. I don't have nearly the support I used to, but most of the Capitol sees Coin as a bigger threat than me. They'd sooner choose the lesser of two evils any day. The point is, Peeta...you may call me...despotic, cruel, ruthless. But the difference between myself and Coin is...at least I would never lie to you about being those things. A fair bargain, wouldn't you think?"

Every bit of me wanted him to be lying, but I knew he wasn't. All I could do was nod numbly in acceptance. Prim, dead. Katniss would undoubtedly be devastated. It wasn't difficult for me to imagine the state she must have been in, fragile and broken and overwhelmed with emotion to the point where she likely couldn't function. ...And likely seeking solace in Gale's arms.

"Does she know?" I blurted out, grasping at anything to distract me from thinking the inevitable. "That the bombs were Coin's?"

"I would assume the contrary."

"And how do you know Coin won't kill Katniss herself? I imagine Coin's not too thrilled about her precious Mockingjay failing the mission and stifling her rise to power. It became clear to everyone that Coin wanted her dead the moment I was assigned to the squad."

He paused a moment, and his eyes went vacant for a split second before focusing back on mine, as if he were trying to remember something, or was deliberating on a decision. It was only fleeting, but I caught it, nonetheless. "She can't kill the Mockingjay," he said after a short silence. "As much as she would like to. The failed attempt on storming my mansion caused a lapse in the rebellions in the districts. People are losing hope in Coin's promises. Miss Everdeen is still very much needed. She's safe as long as you're compliant and the need to incite rebellion is there."

"And you're okay with this? About Coin continuing to make attempts on your life?"

"Well, they were only attempts. And they failed. But most importantly, both sides are devastated from the fruitless attempt at shifting power. Neither side has any surprises left. It would seem as though we're currently at a stalemate. ...In the meantime, I think you'll find the luxuries provided to you by your new profession quite accommodating."

And he'd left without another word.

Shortly afterward, I was almost pleasantly surprised when Portia entered my room, although she was slightly more demure and reserved than I was used to seeing her. I was to be fitted for my new wardrobe, made presentable for my clients. She was silent as she tousled my hair, taming it and styling it with her fingers, an odd chill crawling over my skin as she kneaded my scalp. I stood naked for her as she reassessed my measurements, closely watching her troubled expression as her fingers tentatively probed my prosthetic.

She'd burst into tears the first time she saw it, when I was prepped before my interview as victor of the Games. She'd knelt before me, whimpering and sobbing, fingers grasping at what was left of my thigh and practically clinging to my artificial leg in despair. It seemed as though she'd been more devastated by the loss of my leg than I was. My perfect baker boy, they've mutilated you! she'd wailed. The only thing that got her to stop was when I'd firmly grasped her hand and hauled her up to her feet, pulling her into a tight embrace as I stroked her back and whispered reassurances to her until her cries subsided. It was slightly awkward because I was in nothing but my undershorts at the time, but I think she was too beside herself to feel whatever excitement she would have otherwise. She'd merely sobbed into my chest for a while as I patted her and told her I was still me, just with some slight augmentations. She still frowned at it every time I was in some state of undress in front of her, and would always turn away just as I could see the tears well up in her eyes. She'd lightened up a little when she saw how easily I could still walk and keep my balance, and that I'd still retained my general aura of positivity. At least until I was taken hostage by the Capitol.

"You're of legal age in the Capitol now," she said quietly as she made me presentable in my hospital room. "I suppose Snow would make the most of the opportunity the moment it presented itself." There was a note of displeasure in her voice.

I stared at the floor and nodded. She suddenly seemed unable to meet my eyes. "I can't let the Mockingjay die, can I?" I'd tried not to sound bitter and spiteful, but it still ended up coming out that way.

Portia was silent for a long moment, concentrating a little too hard as she painted my fingernails black. "She really loves you, you know," she said quietly. "The rumors that it was all an act ended real fast when you hit that force field in the arena in the Quarter Quell. Everyone saw what she felt for you. It's why Snow tried to use you to leverage her into submission. I guess that's where she really messed up. She gave him a weapon that day, with her reaction."

I was stricken by her words, conflicted into speechlessness by disbelief and doubtful revelation. I remembered the moment she spoke about, of excruciating pain and the smell of burning flesh and plastic, then waking up to an extremely aching chest and Katniss' hysterical wet kisses, the way her arms were a vise around me as she clung to me and lamented that my heart had stopped. The memory was hazy though, another foggy window image, and I was about to dismiss Portia's comment when I thought about the videos that were used to hijack my memories. That one wasn't among them. I couldn't help but wonder why. It was a particularly pivotal moment for audiences. Everyone saw it. I had to push the thought out of my mind, because the harder I thought about it, the more the Enobaria-Katniss fanged hybrid lurked in the shadows of my memories, just waiting for the perfect time to trigger a violent episode.

Do you think we would have ended up like this if only one of us had won? Just another part of the freak show?

Sure. Especially you.

Oh. And why especially me?

Because you have a weakness for beautiful things and I don't. They would lure you into their Capitol ways and you'd be lost entirely.

Having an eye for beauty isn't the same thing as a weakness. ...Except possibly when it comes to you.

It seemed as though Katniss Everdeen would forever be in my head. Always morphing from mutt to muse. And what would she think of me agreeing to Snow selling my body? I couldn't much say no. The Capitol needed me. Losing a valuable asset like Finnick Odair, only to be replaced by the innocent, romantic boy from District Twelve. Only I wasn't that guy anymore. How would I ever be able to fake it. I couldn't preen the way Finnick did, I couldn't seduce audiences the way he did. I'd seduced Katniss, and by proxy, the audience as well. But Finnick reminded me of those vapid fools from the romance novels my mother used to read, and I had no intention or ability to become like that. I couldn't even fake that shit if I tried. I hoped no one expected me to be another version of him.

"What am I supposed to do, Portia?" I said softly as she slid a signet ring on my right ring finger, then another silver band onto my thumb, then began fussing with my cufflinks. "How am I supposed to fuck a bunch of strangers when I know I won't fancy any of them?" A dreadful thought lingered in the back of my mind as I deduced that some of those strangers might possibly be men.

A little crease formed in the center of her brow as if she were stifling a sob, but her face immediately went smooth as she held herself together for me. "There will be pills. Lots of pills. ...Just think of her."

I huffed out a half-hearted laugh and merely nodded. Clearly Portia hadn't been in on recent developments, as she surely would have been privy to the fact that thinking of Katniss most assuredly might make things worse. I'd merely stroked her hair and given her some trite statement of gratitude for her advice, my voice so hollow that even I didn't convince myself. Portia looked up at me with big, innocent dark eyes then, and I felt a pang of something in my chest that I hadn't felt for a very long time. I wasn't sure what it was. I think it might have been sympathy. Or gratitude at how devastated and defeated she seemed then, that someone I'd always considered to be a shallow Capitol puppet and something of a creep had been harboring such care and empathy for me this whole time. It was mildly comforting, and I think I was just grateful to be in the company of someone familiar from before that I didn't see as a threat. She'd looked so pretty and vulnerable as she looked up at me, the tears welling in her eyes as she bit her lower lip to keep it from quivering, and I think old me would have kissed her. Mutt me merely stared down at her with a tense smile, my heavy, jeweled hand absently stroking the side of her face in a feeble attempt at providing comfort.

Hard to believe that was only weeks ago. It seems like it's been years. Taking clients almost seems routine now, and I know it's with the help of the diluted tracker jacker venom that Snow's doctors subject me to on a regular basis. It's nothing like when I was being tortured. It's not being used for the purpose of hijacking now. It's administered in its mildest forms, its composition slightly altered so that it doesn't target the part of the brain that controls fear, merely alters one's perception just enough to make the world shiny and bearable, so that I can escape inside my head if a client is particularly undesirable, but still be aware enough of my surroundings that I can at least marginally fake it.

There's only one caveat: it's highly addictive, like morphling.

But I'll worry about that when and if the time comes.