Cold. That is what I am aware of first. Cold, and then a sudden, stark brightness burning red through my eyelids.
Eyelids?
Noise. Sound, but not just that – words. Speech. It trickles into my head as the deep, electric cold gnaws on my bones, and gradually the sounds resolve themselves into patterns I recognize.
"… very optimistic… this model… withstand up to…"
The voice is smooth and measured, the inflections precise, and the timbre deep. Male, my brain supplies. Momentarily I wonder at the meaning of the word, but then I remember – or, rather, I know, since remembering requires a previously formed memory – male. Female. Sexes.
And suddenly, it occurs to me: if the voice is male, that male must possess a body with which to produce speech. Which means I must have a body, too, in order to hear it. Of course, I knew before that I was equipped with various sensory receptors, or I wouldn't hear the voice, wouldn't see the glare of bright, white light beyond my closed eyelids, wouldn't feel this terrible chill. But it hadn't occurred to me that those receptors were part of a whole body, nor that I could possess it. Reside in it. Be it.
As soon as I become aware of the body – my body – I begin to feel it. My back and shoulders pressed against a slippery-smooth surface, cold as the air around me. My hands – the fingertips twitch as I mentally catalogue them – and my legs, stretched out and limp.
The voice changes abruptly, tearing my attention away from my skin and muscle and bones.
"… like the others?"
The words are the tail end of a question, I can tell by the tone, although how that instinctual knowledge came to be in my head in the first place is a mystery to me.
"I've made some progress on the calibration since then," the voice replies, and I realize the question must have come from a different voice entirely. A different person, also male, but lacking the slow cadence of the first. "All of the kinks should be worked out by now. Knock on wood."
I'm able to understand most of the words now, individually, but their collective meaning eludes me. Something hot and gritty wells up in me and my hands twitch again. Frustration, my brain supplies, once again providing information of unknown origin.
"She moved," says a third voice, this one younger than the others.
But how? How do I know he's young? How do I know these words?
I search myself, delving into my own mind, seeking any shred of memory. But all that comes is what I've just experienced. That farthest back I can go is to that first moment of coldness and brightness and babbling, meaningless noise.
"Ah. Yes. That does happen occasionally," the first voice says, and this time I'm able to string the words together into a complete thought. I understand the message, not just the words by themselves. Triumphant, I refocus on the voice, hoping it will happen again. And it does. "Its motor control has been limited, up until now, but once in a while it'll twitch. Like a fetus in the womb, really."
This is harder. Fetus. Womb. Unfamiliar words, unfamiliar concepts, but after a moment my brain makes the necessary connections. He's talking about an unborn human child. No, not talking about. Comparing to.
And then, I realize with a sick jolt that snaps deep through my gut – me. He's comparing me to an unborn child. He's talking about me. And it makes sense. It would explain the lack of prior memories… But then, it doesn't explain the information seemingly stashed away in my brain, ready for retrieval at a single thought, nor the apparent maturity of my body. I don't feel small, as I imagine a newborn child would. I don't feel weak. But if not that, then what?
The question that has been lingering in my chest since I became aware now pushes to the forefront of my mind: What am I?
"I expect it'll be moving more frequently, now that it's been initiated," the most talkative voice continues, and all at once the desire for sight takes hold of me. I want to see who these people are, and, moreover, where they are. They can obviously see me, and that puts me at a disadvantage. They could be a threat, and I have no way to defend myself.
Suddenly, I feel vulnerable. Alone. Bare. The sensation trembles through me in waves.
There's a hard, rapid squeeze in my chest – my heart, that mysterious cache of information tells me – as a fluttery tightness coils around me. A steady beep, a noise I hadn't even registered until now, increases in tempo, matching the rhythm of my heart, and the voices fall into an unsteady silence. I can't see, and I want to open my eyes but I don't know how, and that fluttering pressure is winding tighter and tighter and I'm scared – I wasn't even aware of the concept of fear until now, but I am, I'm scared, and –
My eyelids flutter and the brightness pierces my eyes, so white and so much that they instinctively squeeze closed again, the greenish ghost of the light drifting away behind my eyelids. I try again, the muscles of my face contracting for the first time as I squint. There's a series of muffled taps – footsteps – and then the light dims, fading into a comfortable half-darkness, and I can finally see the space around me.
The three males stand several feet in front of me. Each is unique, but my attention is pulled away by the room itself before I can examine them. Small. Gray-walled. Shiny-clean, to a degree that makes me shiver. I am suspended at a forty-five degree angle on a metal slab, head-up, in the center of the room, and my three observers are clustered near a polished steel door. My eyes dart from one to another. The oldest wears a pair of boxy glasses that flash in the light and a long, white coat, pens bristling from the breast pocket. He peers at me down a large nose, lifting a finger to push at his glasses, his eyes sharp and inquisitive. The man next to him is obviously younger, and he stands straighter, his hands clasped behind him. His facial hair is sculpted into some strange design, and his eyes, pale blue and fixed on me with keen interest, are set deep in a pale face. I don't like the way either of them are looking at me, and my heart is still pounding out danger-danger-danger, so I shift my gaze to the last person in the room.
This is the youngest, the one that noticed when my fingers twitched. His own fingers still rest on a switch by the door. He must have turned down the lights when I recoiled from them. Then his lips move, soundlessly, drawing my eyes to his face, and I find myself looking into a pair of wide, blue eyes. Not blue like the bearded man. Not a pale, cold blue, but deep and rich, with tiny flecks of other shades sprinkled throughout. His hair is gold – no, blond, that's the word – and I find myself somewhat fixated on it. The thick waves, unruly despite a light application of styling gel, are the only yellow hue in the room. Everything else is some variant on gray or blue or white.
The man with the glasses speaks first, and I identify him as the one who compared me to a fetus. "Ah," he says, "It's booting up. I wondered if that would be happening soon."
The bearded man says nothing, his eyes continuing to drag up and down my body, but his lips curl up slightly.
I look down.
My hair is long and dark and glossy, falling about my shoulders and past my elbows. And I am female, I can see, although I am sure I would have known that long before if it had occurred to me to wonder. Unlike the three men, I am not covered in fabric – clothing – so in a glance I can take in the two modestly sized breasts, tips stiff and rosy in the cold air, and the soft cleft at the junction of my thighs.
My skin is similar in color to the man with the glasses: a dull olive, like… like… I have nothing to compare it to, apparently. Here and there, a silvery shimmer interrupts the pale brown. Scars, I think at first, but no – the marks aren't raised or knotted, as scar tissue would be, and the color is all wrong. Scars generally fall somewhere on the spectrum between pink and white, if my strange stockpile of information is correct, and these markings are very definitely silver. They swirl over my left hip, spider-web across my right thigh, brush past my ribs and lace down my right shoulder. I slide my left hand to my hip, slowly, and stroke the marking there with my thumb. It feels no different from the rest of my skin. Supple. Dry. Peppered with goose bumps.
Goose bumps. What a strange phrase. And stranger still that I knew it immediately, without having to think.
The bearded man moves, drawing my attention up again, and I find him pointing to that space where my legs converge. "Is it equipped with a reproductive system?"
The oldest man casts him a sharp look, flicking off his glasses to clean them on a corner of the coat. "Well, it has all the other major organ systems. It seemed silly not to include that one. And after all, our goal was to create a specimen as accurate as possible, so as to blend in. But may I remind you, Mr. Crane, that this model was designed for military and espionage application, not for sale."
"Of course," the bearded man – Crane – agrees, tucking his hand into a lapel. "I'm simply trying to keep our options open. If this project goes south, at least we know that models like this little lady will fetch a pretty penny in… other markets."
My head is swimming, their words colliding and meshing in my skull. Sale? Accurate specimen? Military and espionage? Other markets? What is this? What are these men going to do to me?
The pressure in my chest redoubles, sending the beeping into a frantic tempo again, and the man with glasses frowns and approaches me, muttering something about a faulty cardiovascular system.
"What's wrong with it?" Crane sniffs, taking a half-step back. "I thought you said all of its internal organs were stable."
"They should be," the man replies, reaching for my left wrist. I flinch as his hand closes around my arm and he lifts it, revealing a slender needle buried in the crook of my elbow. "Could be an adverse effect from the sedatives."
The youngest man steps forward, tentatively. He's more of a boy, really. His eyes meet mine, something I can't name shining in their depths. "Beetee, she looks…" he ventures, then hesitates. He still hasn't broken eye contact. "Scared," he decides at last.
The man with glasses – Beetee, I suppose his name is – gives a dismissive flick of the hand. "Impossible. Its brain may be half organic, but it wasn't designed for emotional experience."
The boy still hasn't looked away, and I'm not about to, either. He's the only person in the room who seems to care about me in the slightest, even if it's in a distant, non-personal kind of way, and I desperately need something to hold on to. Beetee is fiddling with the needle, sliding it out of my elbow and back in again, feeling my pulse, pushing at different places on my neck, and I'm sick with fear I'm not supposed to be able to feel.
"ID," Beetee says, for once looking me straight in the eye.
"KTNS-12." The answer is out of my mouth before I even register the question, and I regret it immediately. Talking makes me aware of a number of discomforts, primarily the dry, itching ache in my throat.
My answer must have been satisfactory, because he gives a short nod before removing the needle entirely and dabbing at the resulting globule of blood with a square of gauze.
"It bleeds?" Crane says, and I swear I catch Beetee rolling his eyes as he turns away to fetch a small, tan, vaguely oval scrap of… something. A band-aid.
"Of course."
"I thought you said its skin was synthetic."
"No," Beetee corrects, securing the little adhesive patch over the pinprick in my elbow, "Synthetically reinforced, but still mainly organic. The internal organs are similarly augmented. Only the bones are entirely synthetic. Otherwise it's just bits and pieces here and there."
Crane nods, taking one last look at me, and then slaps his palms together brusquely and turns for the door with a clipped, "Keep me updated."
The door swings open with a stream of warm air, allowing me the briefest glimpse of a beige hallway before clicking shut again. A prickling shiver crawls up my legs and through my torso. That split second of warmth on my skin only served to redouble the lingering chill, and my calves tense with the desire to bolt from the room, to leave this cold, gray place behind and… and… what? Where would I go? Now I know that a hallway exists beyond this room, and something else must exist beyond that, but what then?
The feeling of helplessness sweeps over me again and a choked noise rises from the back of my throat before I can swallow it. Two pairs of eyes flick back to my face, one calculating, one concerned. The younger's eyes slide down for one second before he turns away, the skin of his face and neck subtly shifting hues. "Are, um," he stammers, "Aren't you going to get her some clothes now that she's awake?"
Beetee gives an odd, burbling kind of noise. A sound of amusement, I realize. Laughter. "It isn't a human girl, Peeta. In fact, it's more machine than person. Just think of it as…" He presses a button on the side of the metal table and I begin to tip forward. "A very lifelike and intelligent combat android."
It takes me a moment to puzzle out that phrase, combat android, but once I do I wither inside of myself. Is that what I am? Not a human girl, not a human at all, but machine masquerading as a person. Synthetic bones covered in reinforced flesh and piloted by a brain that's only fifty percent organic. And made for battle, no less. No wonder they've been keeping their distance.
The boy, Peeta, stares determinedly at my toes. He takes a breath before countering, "You said she was mostly human."
"Mostly organic. There's a difference."
"I still think –"
But Beetee is already striding away, plucking a slim rectangle of glass from a counter and tapping it until it begins to glow, charts and statistics lighting up across the surface. He flips through the information, nods a few times, and then says, "I'll get the prep team. You stay here and run through the initialization procedures."
"What, by myself?" Peeta says, but the door has already opened and closed, mocking me with another tantalizing gust of warm air. He stays still for a moment, staring at the closed door, and then lets out a breath and turns to me.
"Can you stand?" he says, and I stare at him for a minute before realizing that he's actually talking to me. And that he expects an answer.
I try to say, "I don't know," but it comes out as a cracked whisper. His brows sink and he steps away, and panic lurches through me. I don't want him to leave. I don't want to be alone.
Please don't go, I want to say, but my throat is too dry, the delicate tissues swollen. Something in my gut heaves, forcing air through my lips in a short, voiceless bark, and once I start I can't stop. My whole frame jerks rhythmically, my jaw drooping open as my lungs attempt to escape through my mouth. Coughing, my mind identifies the action, but I don't particularly care what it's called. I just want it to stop. It hurts, everything hurts, and the cold air burns inside me with every harsh inhale.
There's a touch on my shoulder, rough and pliable at the same time and warm, and I lean into it on instinct. It slides around to my back, pressing me forward, away from the metal slab. My center of gravity fluctuates with the motion and my legs buckle abruptly. The hand on my back is joined by another on my side, stabilizing me, but it doesn't help much. Everything is spinning and wobbling. My head aches and the floor tilts alarmingly. Another soft, pathetic sound passes my lips as my legs give out entirely.
Gentle, repetitive murmurs reach me through the haze – "Hey, hey… I got you, it's okay… You're okay…" – and the hand on my back begins rubbing soothing circles between my shoulder blades.
Eventually, the dizziness abates and I become aware of my new resting spot. I'm sagging against Peeta, my feet dragging against the floor, limp and useless, my forearms braced against his chest. And, oh, he's warm.
I'm already moving before I consciously decide to, fingers tangling in the barrier of fabric that separates me from his skin. The cloth shifts, parting slightly, and I burrow underneath. There's another cloth barrier there, but it's much thinner, silky under my fingertips. It's not bare skin, but it'll do. I nuzzle against him, soaking up the luscious heat. His chest rises under my hands as he inhales sharply, and his own hands move to my shoulders again, pushing gently, but I won't be dissuaded. I just found this little nook of warmth and softness. I don't intend on leaving it anytime soon.
My lungs expand in a long, lazy breath – a sigh – as his hands return to my back and begin to rub again. Something registers in my brain every time I inhale, igniting the pleasure centers of my brain. It's a scent, warm and fresh, and though I have nothing to compare it to, I'm sure this aroma is a good one.
The tension in my chest is slowly dissolving, now that both of the older men are gone and I've found a reprieve from the chill. The back half of me is still cold, but there's not much I can do about that. It's better than being on that table, at least.
His fingers hit a tender spot at the small of my back and I give a little moan. If I had realized how comforting the embrace of another human being could be, I would have hopped off that table the moment I opened my eyes and gone straight to him. But, no, I remember: I am not human. And anyway, I wouldn't have been able to walk to him in that moment. I was, am, too unstable. I'm not even sure I could walk now.
"Okay," he says, and I can feel the rumble of his voice where my hands lie over his ribcage. "Okay. You're okay." And then, thoughtfully, almost as if he's talking to himself, "You were scared, weren't you?"
I tense against him. Beetee said I wasn't designed to feel emotions. Admitting to experiencing fear would be admitting to malfunctioning. They'll know something is wrong. They'll know I don't function the way I'm supposed to. And then they'll… what, kill me? Disassemble me, crack open my synthetic skull to see what went wrong? The thought sends my heart thudding against my ribs again, the rhythm pulsing in my temples and fingertips.
"Or maybe you were just cold," he reasons, and, relieved, I nod. This is something I can admit to with no fear. I know, somehow, that my body was intentionally equipped with thermal receptors, so surely they won't punish me for feeling cold. Surely that should be a good sign. My body is, at least in that respect, performing as expected.
Peeta leans back, wedging his hands between us, and I duck my head with a whimpered, "No."
He laughs. It's a quiet, breathy sound, not at all like Beetee's dry rattle of amusement. "I'm just trying to get my coat off so I can put it on you. Is that okay?" I don't reply, still unused to people talking directly to me and not just about me, and he coaxes my face off his shoulder with a finger. Those deep blue eyes peer down at me, crinkled with what I think is worry. "Can you understand me?"
Reluctantly, I nod.
Slipping away, even by just a few inches, is difficult. My legs still can't really support my weight, leaving me teetering and shivering in the few seconds it takes Peeta to slide his own long, white coat off his arms and offer it to me. The whole time he keeps his gaze firmly fixed on my face, and I wonder why. Neither Beetee nor Crane shied away from the sight of my body. What makes it so unappealing to Peeta? Is it simply the knowledge of what that body is made of? Is it the swirls of silver skin, so unlike his own pale completion?
I fumble with the tubes of fabric meant to go around my arms – sleeves – and after a few tries he takes my arm in his palm, guiding my hand into the correct hole. He repeats this process with the other arm, then snugs the coat around my torso and deftly seals the flaps together with a row of little plastic disks – buttons. In the end, I'm swathed throat-to-thighs in thick, if rather rigid material. It doesn't lend nearly as much warmth as Peeta himself, but it does carry his scent, so I'll accept it. For now.
I cough again, cringing in anticipation of more pain in my throat, and he swiftly retrieves a hollow object – cup – from the counter. He twists a nearby knob and there's a low, bubbling rush. When he turns back, the cup is full of a clear liquid.
"Here," he says, lifting the rim to my lips. I look at him, confused, and twist away to cough again.
He waits until I recover, and then he deliberately brings the cup to his own lips and tips some of the liquid into his mouth. His throat moves, and then he's offering it to me again. This time, I copy him, parting my lips and allowing the liquid to flow over my tongue. It's cold and tasteless, but it slides easily over the dry walls of my mouth, turning my tongue and cheeks slick and soft, so I decide I like it.
I choke trying to swallow the first mouthful, sputtering and spraying most of it over the floor and the front of his coat. The second mouthful goes down more easily, but only because of reflex. I swallow automatically the moment the liquid hits the back of my throat, and then I spend the next several seconds shuddering at the bizarre sensation of it travelling down somewhere deeper in me. I'm not sure I like that particular feeling. But the liquid – water, my brain is whispering to me – soothes the gummy itchiness of my throat, so I keep drinking until the cup is half drained. Then Peeta takes it away, saying I shouldn't drink too much at once or I'll be sick. I already feel sick, but it doesn't seem worth mentioning.
"Better?" he asks, setting the cup on the counter, and I tip my head in consideration. I no longer feel the urge to cough, and though my limbs are still shaky, I can stand on my own now, so I nod. He nods back. "Good. Now –"
Without warning, my lungs expand and contract violently, sending air whooshing out of my nose and mouth in a kind of loud, chuffing cough. I startle, stumbling backwards and nearly falling to the floor before I catch myself on the metal table. What was that?
Peeta begins to laugh. I look at him with wide eyes, indignant. Whatever that was, I really don't think it was supposed to happen. Am I malfunctioning – well, more so than I already was? Are my lungs going to collapse? Why does he find this amusing? I huff at him, scowling, and he presses his lips together to silence another giggle.
"I'm sorry," he says, fighting a grin. "It's just, that was really cute."
Somehow, this rubs me the wrong way. Cute means small, dainty, precious, attractive, all things that I am sure I am not.
My frown sets him off laughing again. I find myself crossing my arms, a gesture I've never seen before but somehow am still familiar with.
Then the door clicks open and I jump, scooting away with the help of the counter as Beetee strides back in. Crane isn't with him, this time, but three other people are. Three very brightly colored people. Two women and a man, I think, but their clothes and faces are so ridiculous that I can't be sure. Immediately, one of the women clasps her hands by her face, her heavily lined eyes zeroing in on me, and she squeals, "Oh, look how real it looks! You really have outdone yourself, Beetee, really. It's just precious."
Beetee ignores her, choosing instead to scrutinize the water on the floor, the cup on the counter and the wet coat wrapped loosely around me. Then he looks at Peeta, who avoids his gaze. "You gave it water?" he asks, and Peeta nods. "Do you know what that could do to it? It just booted up not half an hour ago. Its systems aren't ready for liquid intake yet."
I want to protest that I feel fine, relatively, but talking is still hard for me. Plus, the presence of Beetee, not to mention the squeaky, colorful strangers, sends my nerves popping with sparks. I retreat farther into the coat.
"At least tell me you ran through the initialization procedures," Beetee continues, and after a moment of silence, Peeta admits, "Not yet. But I'll do it now."
While Peeta gives me a series of simple commands – touch your nose, good, now touch your pointer finger to your thumb, good, now your middle finger, your ring finger, your pinky, now look up, good, now down, now lift your arms, good, now recite the entire third act of Shakespeare's The Twelfth Night – kidding – sorry, Beetee, yes, I'm focusing – now see if you can walk a few steps, it's all right, I won't let you fall, good – the three strangers pull the coat from my body and begin to rub down every inch of my skin with a thick, waxy goop. The sensation of multiple foreign hands, cool and oily, kneading my flesh, sends me wriggling away in disgust, but they chirp at me to hold still, even cheerfully threatening to put me back on the table, so I stop. Every so often they exclaim over various aspects of my appearance. "Look at the eyes – so realistic!" "Oh, and that hair. It's a shame they wasted it on a synth. It's so pretty." "Strong legs, too – this one will be just wonderful in the field."
The blue woman, especially, takes an interest in my silver markings, most likely because her own face bears twin vines of gold that snake around her eyes. "Such a lovely color, even if it is synthetic," she coos, tracing the curve of my cheek where I suppose another marking must be. "Are you sure you aren't taking offers? I know some people who would just love to get their hands on this one."
By the time they're done, my whole body aches and tingles from whatever was in that salve. My skin shines unnaturally under the white lights, which Beetee has turned all the way up again, and I want nothing more than to lie down somewhere and rest. Not the table, though. I do not ever want to lie back down on that table again.
The plump green woman, Octavia I think, yanks at my hair roughly as she pulls it back into something she calls a French braid, "Too keep it out of that pretty face!" I wince, but she takes no notice. She's too busy complimenting Beetee on how I "turned out." I hate her more with every tug.
The colorful trio dresses me in dark-colored clothing that leave my limbs mostly bare – a tank top and shorts, the purple and orange man tells me with a flourish, before letting loose a trilling laugh and pointing out how absolutely adorable I look when I'm confused – and then, with one last round of appreciative squeals, they leave. And I'm alone with Beetee and Peeta again. And again, I want to run. To see where that beige hallway leads. To escape this incessant cold. The clothes they stuffed me into do nothing at all to protect me from the chill. Not like Peeta's coat did.
They call me Katniss, because of my identification code. Apparently KTNS-12 is a mouthful. I whisper the word to myself as Beetee taps at his tablet. Kat-niss. Kaat-nisss. If this word is to be my name now, I must familiarize myself with it.
It's an adequate name, I decide. Easy enough to say, and pleasing to the ear.
Peeta, who has been taking careful measurements of my torso, limbs and head as per Beetee's instructions, glances up at me with a smile. I watch his fingers as he picks up a glass tablet of his own, typing in what I assume are my measurements. For the first few seconds, all I see is lines. Squiggles, really. Then something connects in my brain and the lines become letters and numbers, like the ones in my ID. I recognize a T and an S, among others. And there – my name!
I extend a finger and place it over the K, looking up at Peeta for confirmation. His eyes widen. "Yeah," he says, almost breathlessly. "Yeah, that's right. That's your name."
Beetee leans over my shoulder to see. "Oh, it can already recognize written words. That's good. That's very good." He makes a note on his tablet, then glances up at Peeta expectantly. "Well? Write it down. I always say, the only difference between science and nonsense is taking notes."
Peeta writes it down. I watch the words as they form under his fingertip: 17:47 – She can read! I crane my neck to see Beetee's version: 17:47 – Subject displays the ability to locate and recognize its own written identification on a page of other words.
"Today we'll stick with the basics," Beetee continues. Not to me, of course – he never talks to me unless he's giving me an order – but to Peeta. "Basic intelligence assessments, gross and fine motor skills, maybe some procedure memorization."
My stomach clenches nearly before he finishes his sentence, producing a gurgling noise, and I clap my palms over my abdomen. What's wrong with me now?
"Perhaps we should attempt some nutritional intake, first," Beetee says with a half-smile. Then, to me: "Stay here and don't touch anything."
Then he's gone, motioning impatiently for Peeta to join him, and the door closes behind them, cutting off the now-familiar rush of warm air. And for the first time, I'm alone.
I stare at the door handle for several moments, unsure what else to do. In the entirety of my short existence, I've never been completely on my own. Even when I felt so alone on that table, at the very beginning, there were others nearby, watching me. Now there are no eyes on me, and the result is a fleeting, heady rush of… something I can't name. I don't know what to do, but I want to do something, here, now, while no one is observing me. I stumble on indecisive feet, first this way, than that, but there's nowhere to go in this gray-walled room.
Then there's a whisper in the back of my mind that stops me mid-motion. Maybe I am being observed, after all. I'm not sure how or why, but I know what a hidden camera looks like, and what it does. And I am a sort of experiment, if my theory is correct, so it would make sense to keep an eye on me even when no one is around.
I begin to search the room. Running my fingers of the walls, opening the cupboards, examining every nail I find for the telltale glint of a tiny lens. But there's nothing. Eventually I get sidetracked in the farthest corner, where the floor slants slightly towards a drain. I poke at it with a toe, wondering at its use, until the door opens again and Beetee reminds me, "Don't touch."
I shuffle back to the center of the room, frustration swelling in me. Why can't I explore? Why can't I look at things and touch things? Why can't I leave this room?
Peeta calls me over to the counter, where he sets down a tray. "Here you go," he says, then makes an odd face. "Not the most… appetizing of first meals, but I guess we gotta start off slow, huh?"
On the tray are three different objects. There's a cup, like the one Peeta filled with water, and two larger, shallower containers – bowls. One is half-full of a steaming liquid, gold-tinted and smelling strongly of… salt, I think. I lean over to get another whiff, catching my braid just before it splashes into the liquid. Yes, salt. The other bowl, which I also sniff at, contains a slimy-looking glob, too thick to be a liquid, too runny to be a solid. I dip a pinky a little ways into it and a translucent rope of gel clings to my nail when I pull it back out. If this is the nutritional intake that's supposed to correct the malfunction in my stomach, I think I'd rather wait and see if the problem fixes itself. But Peeta picks up a spoon from between the bowls and drops it into my palm.
"Eat all of that," Beetee instructs, settling down on a stool to watch.
I'm supposed to eat this? Put it in my mouth and swallow it like I did with the water? No. I don't want to. I don't even know what it is, and while the golden liquid doesn't smell particularly unpleasant, the scent of the colorless stuff makes me recoil. So, instead, I take a sip from the cup to moisten my throat, look straight at Beetee and ask, "Why?"
He blinks, as if surprised, and then makes yet another note on his tablet before saying, "You need proteins and minerals in order to function optimally. The nutritional gel will provide your body with the energy it needs and the broth will help with the digestion."
I still don't want to put it in my mouth. But between Beetee's unwavering gaze and Peeta's hopeful one, I don't have much of a choice.
I go for the yellow liquid Beetee called broth first, putting off the gel for as long as I can. My fingers slip awkwardly around the handle of the spoon, and I can't quite figure out how to get it from the bowl to my lips without spilling it, so after a few tries I forgo the utensil entirely and pick up the bowl like a cup. I see Beetee write problem solving out of the corner of my eye.
I thought the broth would be like water, since it sloshed around in the bowl like water, but it isn't. Not at all. It tastes the same way it smells: salty and… meaty is the right word, I think. It's hot, nearly to the point of pain, but I decide this is a good thing. It helps combat the chill, after all, and I could get used to the greasy quality of the liquid for that. I would swallow the whole thing in a few gulps if Peeta didn't insist on repeating, "Whoa, there. Slow down. Little sips."
"If it chokes it chokes," Beetee says after the fourth time. "And then we'll see if the gag reflex works."
"It does," Peeta answers shortly, to which Beetee replies with an indignant, "Why didn't you tell me?"
I almost finish the water, too, before I realize that I might need it to wash away the taste of the gel. And, speaking of the gel, I'm going to have to eat it at some point. I pick up the spoon again, taking more time than necessary to position it between my fingers, and sigh. Here goes.
I dig the spoon into the goop, bring it to my lips as carefully as I can and drop the stuff onto my tongue. And then I spit it back out onto the tray, my face wrinkling involuntarily. Ew.
It takes them seven minutes, according to the timer on Beetee's tablet, to convince me to try again. At last I give in, scooping out as much as I can at once. I figure, the faster I get it past my tongue, the less I have to taste it.
Peeta chatters while I force down spoonful after spoonful. "Just wait until you adjust to solid foods. They give me free range of the kitchen downstairs, when they're feeling nice, so I usually make some sort of dessert on Fridays. To share with the whole building, you know, since they could use some cheering up. Cupcakes, brownies, tarts, pudding. I can't wait to show you."
"Talk less, observe more," Beetee chides. "This is a synth warrior prototype, not a friend."
"You were the one who said she would benefit from hearing a lot of human speech," Peeta counters even as I take a sudden and intense interest in the empty broth bowl, my cheeks heating. I lift one hand to my face, feeling the unnatural warmth under my skin, and add it to my growing list of minor malfunctions.
Once I finish the gel and chug the whole cup of water before Peeta can stop me, Beetee adjusts the metal table so it lies flat, then rolls up three stools. There, with his elbows resting on the metal surface I refuse to touch, he props up his tablet and says, "Start recording." The glass screen blooms with color, and there I see a reflection of the room, as if there's a little mirror cradled against Beetee's shoulder and not a tablet. I see the polished surface of the table, the wall behind us, Peeta sitting next to me and –
Me.
I sway forward, leaning toward the device as much as I can without overbalancing and slumping onto the table. I lift a hand to make sure, and when the girl in the reflection matches my actions exactly, I reach out and tug the tablet from Beetee's hands. He protests for a moment, then relents, and I hold the device at arms' length to analyze my own face. My skin and hair is just as I observed earlier, except now my hair is bound up in a long, woven tail instead of falling loosely around my frame. My fingers ghost across my left cheekbone, where one of those shimmering silver marks curves past my eye.
My eyes are silver, too.
I have a small, round nose and an equally small, round chin, and fierce brows that lend me a sense of seriousness even when I'm not frowning. I am plain, compared to the colorful women. Simple. Not as soft. I smile without meaning to, pleased with my appearance, before I remember that I can't let Beetee know that I have the capacity to feel pleased at all.
Beetee pries the tablet out of my hands before I'm ready, muttering, "Now, now, we have work to do."
For the next several hours, Beetee gives me a series of increasingly complicated tests. First it's "What's fifteen times two minus five?"
Then it's "Put together this puzzle."
Then it's "Solve this cipher."
Solve this, answer this, rearrange this, calculate this. Gradually, as the assignments become more difficult, I begin to enjoy myself. The tests can be frustrating, especially the riddles, since I have so little prior experience on which to base my reasoning, but none of them stymie me for long. I have, according to Beetee, an excellent mind. The compliment nearly makes me smile again, but I manage to keep my face blank. The tablet is useful in this respect – I keep an eye on my reflection, so I'm able to see when I express too much emotion and can smother it accordingly.
After that it's physical tests. Stand on your toes, catch this pen, hop on one foot from here to there, touch your toes with your fingers, throw this cup from one hand to the other. My body is unused to the physical exertion, but the resulting ache is satisfying. The stretch and pull of my muscles, the occasional pop of a joint, the hot flush that rises under my skin, all of it resonates within me, humming somewhere within my bones. I am strong. And, when Beetee tells me to throw an engraved steel pen and it sticks in the wall with a solid thwack, I get the feeling that I am stronger than they thought I would be. Beetee's eyebrows ascend, chasing his receding hairline, and Peeta grunts, "Whoa."
The pen quivers. It struck exactly where I meant it to. A savage kind of delight surges through me, and this time I don't bother suppressing my smile.
He stops having me throw things after that.
"One last thing," Peeta says through a yawn. "One more, and then we're done 'till tomorrow."
Good. I'm tired. And it's not just the lactic acid that simmers through my limbs, keeping me drooped against the wall. My thoughts themselves are sluggish. Something deep and primal urges me to find a sheltered place and bed down. Under the sink, perhaps – the cupboards look large enough for me to fit, if I empty them, and though the tight confines might not be comfortable they would at least be secure. Hidden. Safe.
But then I remember cold and light and noise and I make myself stand up straight, shaking myself to remain alert.
The one last thing, as it turns out, is another person. A girl, much younger than the colorful women. Barely more than a child. I take her chin in my hand as soon as she gets close enough, tipping her head this way and that to get a good look at her. Her coloring is similar to Peeta's, but paler still, her gold hair so bright it looks silver where the light hits it. Like mine, it's braided, but into two tails instead of one.
She stands still for my inspection, her eyes flicking over my face in turn. When I step away she introduces herself as Prim. Her nametag reads Primrose Everdeen, Junior Medic, and I have to wonder why they brought in a nurse-in-training, rather than a fully fledged doctor. Maybe I'm just a chance for her to practice. Maybe they figured they didn't need a real doctor for someone only half organic.
"And you're…" She glances down at her own small tablet. "KTNS-12?"
"Katniss," I correct her quietly, and she gives me a smile as bright as her hair.
"That's a flower, you know."
And as soon as she says it, I do know. My brain conjures up the image for me: Three small, white petals daubed with spots of deep red at the center. Long, spindly stalks. Arrow-shaped leaves. Edible tubers.
Suitable for consumption during survival missions, something in me whispers, but I disregard the information as useless.
After all, I think to myself wryly as Primrose wriggles her hands into a pair of stretchy, blue-tinted gloves, who needs tubers when you have nutritional gel?
As it turns out, Primrose is here to conduct yet more tests. She holds up a small, bright light, which I flinch from, and flashes it in each eye. Then she tries to make me sit on the table, and when it becomes clear I won't go near it, she instead guides me to the counter to tap at my knees. She wraps something black and crinkling around my arm and tightens it, watching a creeping dial, then has me take deep breaths while she holds something round to my back and chest. It all seems so pointless, and my eyes are growing itchy with the urge to close, but I like Primrose. She smiles at me, though her halting movements make it clear she's tired, too, and she chatters about little things while she works. I don't want to upset her by being uncooperative.
Beetee, meanwhile, is having a field day. He circles me with his tablet held out in front of him, recording every moment, and whispers observations into the screen. Peeta taps a note into his tablet every once in a while, when he remembers to pick his chin up off his hand and open his eyes. At one point, while Primrose presses two fingers into the soft spot under my jaw, where my blood pulses near the skin, he leans far enough forward for me to read what's on the screen.
I'm too sleepy to take notes, I've been up since four a.m., please just let me go to bed, it reads. A snort of amusement escapes me before I can stop it. Thankfully, the snort sticks in my throat, sending me off on another coughing fit and disguising the sound.
Peeta drags himself from his stool to bring me a cup of water.
Finally, Primrose says, "Nearly done," and leads me to the corner with the drain. There she helps me out of my clothes and rolls up her sleeves before popping open a panel in the wall and twisting the knob within.
A shock of cold liquid bursts from the ceiling, licking at my legs, and I jump back with a squeak.
"Oops," she says, twisting the knob further. "Sorry. Hold on. There, that should be better."
I'm reluctant to step under the stream of water, but once I do, I don't think I'll be leaving. It's warm now – so warm, and engulfing my whole body, front and back and sides all at once. The water rinses away the last traces of the goop they rubbed into my skin, and Primrose helps the process along by scrubbing down my body with another kind of goop, this one much less waxy and much more fragrant. It froths into tiny, white bubbles as she rubs, then rinses off easily, vanishing down the drain and leaving a sweet, earthy smell behind. Lavender.
Once I'm thoroughly rinsed, the water shuts off, much to my disappointment, and a panel on the floor blasts hot air at me, drying me within seconds. My hair remains damp, the braid loosening and fraying with every movement.
"All done," Primrose announces, sliding the tank top back over my head and the shorts back up my legs. She collects her various instruments and tucks them into a small, white case. "Thanks, Beetee. And thank you, Katniss."
Beetee inclines his head, and I chance a smile in her direction.
Once she's gone, Peeta pulls himself up from his seat, arching his back with a groan. "We done?" he asks, and Beetee flaps a hand at him with a short, "Yes, go, go. Be back here at six tomorrow."
Peeta says, "I know," and tugs open the door.
I've taken barely half a step before it closes again. Leaving me in the room. With Beetee.
I don't know why I assumed I'd be going with him. It was a silly assumption, really. I have yet to leave this room, and Peeta obviously has somewhere else to be. A safe place of his own to rest. He never made any indication that he would stay with me, and yet this abandonment stings.
The dull twinge lodges itself in my chest, refusing to fade away even as Beetee sets aside his tablet and starts fiddling with something at the counter.
"On the table," he says, turning, and I balk. After a moment, he repeats, "KTNS-12, lie down on the table."
"No."
I expect his eyes to harden with annoyance, or even anger. Instead he tilts his head and mutters, "Interesting."
Then he takes me by the elbow and pulls me to the table anyway. My pulse flutters somewhere in my esophagus, choking me, and my legs wobble, but I don't resist as he guides me onto the icy surface.
I'm not afraid, I tell myself as he adjusts my arms and legs and tilts the table to a forty-five degree angle. I'm not afraid. He rolls a tall, slim, hooked pole out from behind me, taking a moment to check the bag of liquid that swings from it. I'm not afraid. I guess what comes next before it happens, but the sight of the needle still makes my lungs heave.
I look away, but I still feel the stab of pain, over as soon as it begins. "This will help you sleep," Beetee says, and it's so unexpected, this explanation, that I look back at him. I don't recall him ever bothering to explain anything to me, except for the time I asked him.
"You're at war," I say. It isn't a question. I don't know much yet, but I do have a fairly strong grasp of logic, and it wouldn't be logical to create a prototype for synthetic warriors unless you had need of them.
He gazes at me for a while, silent and unmoving. And then he says, "Yes. We are."
Then he leaves, turning the lights nearly all the way down as he goes.
I count to ten, to make sure he isn't coming back in, and then I reach down and tear the tape off my elbow. The needle comes with it, ripping a few millimeters of flesh along the way. I freeze, shocked by the pain and the bright red that wells up and runs over, trailing a ruby path down my arm. Then my pre-stocked brain kicks in, deciding it's too small for stitches and too deep for a band-aid. A bandage it is. I swing my legs off the table and push away from it, going to rummage in the cupboards for more squares of gauze like I saw Beetee use the first time a needle left my vein. I know it's impossible, but I can still feel the unyielding press of slippery-smooth metal against my back.
I tape a thick square of gauze over the wound with little trouble. Then there's nothing left for me to do but pace. My feet scuff against the floor. I'm exhausted even without the help of whatever was in that IV, but I can't let myself sleep. It's too foreign, and at once, too familiar. I was asleep before I woke up here, or at least I must have been. Or was I dead? Can one be dead before they are alive? Could they be the same thing, death and sleep, the only difference being that one is temporary and the other is forever?
No, I cannot sleep. At least, not here. What if I open my eyes and I'm back where I started, cold and vulnerable all over again while Beetee and Seneca and Peeta watch my systems initialize? Or, more disturbing yet – what if I simply don't wake up? I only just became aware today; I can't die yet. There's so much I want to see, so much I want to discover. All I've seen so far is this small, gray room.
And then it hits me, and it's so obvious I wonder how I didn't think of it the moment Peeta left. He never said I wasn't supposed to follow him. In fact, he probably meant for me to. Yes. Of course he must have. He's been with me since I opened my eyes, only leaving to fetch food. He kept me warm. He defended me when Beetee said something harsh.
Warmth, food, protection – these things mesh in my mind, triggering something in that deep, primal, definitely-organic corner of my brain. Peeta is my… The word won't come. Caretaker? That's almost it. Oh well. The word doesn't matter, only what it means. And it means that I'm in the wrong place.
Anyway, Beetee never said I had to stay here.
My brain – the synthetic part, probably – is already supplying me with the steps to picking a lock by the time I set my hand on the doorknob. But, as it turns out, I don't need to. The knob turns with a chorus of soft clicks, the door eases open and the rush of warm air flows over me.
Something new is singing through me, staving off my need for sleep. It's bubbly and light, as if it might lift me off my feet and into the air. I think it's excitement.
With an anxious little hop, I step out into the hallway.
Tracking Peeta was surprisingly easy. Although, not all that surprising, if I stop to think about it. I knew how to assess and dress a wound and how to pick a lock. It shouldn't strike me as strange that the skill of tracking, of hunting, of following and finding is in me as well.
The path was simple. I saw him turn right when he left the gray room, so I turned that way as well. When the beige hallway ended, after countless closed doors and plastic-curtained windows, I had three options: turn right, turn left or step onto what my brain identified as an elevator. My gut said he wasn't on that floor, so I tapped at the button beside the closed doors until they slid open.
I knew that was the correct path as soon as I entered the gently humming space. His scent lingered there, faint but unmistakable.
The buttons proved to be a problem. Which floor did he choose? There were so many buttons, all bronze and gleaming. Part of me wanted to simply push them all and see where I ended up. Another part of me was, thankfully, more sensible, and I settled on squatting on the balls of my feet, scanning the buttons with a careful eye. Each and every one of them was pristine, shiny, very obviously recently scrubbed free of fingerprints. All but one. Floor twelve.
Now, I skip down the dark hallway, nearly laughing out loud. They couldn't have made this easier for me. The plaque next to the elevator read Staff Quarters, confirming my choice of floors, and every single door is labeled with a name. The alphabet falls away behind me, and I'm starting to wish I had found out Peeta's last name when I reach the Ms, and there it is. Mellark, Peeta.
This door isn't locked, either, and I didn't expect it to be. He probably anticipated my arrival and left it unlocked accordingly. It swings open soundlessly and I slip inside, being careful not to make a noise when I close it behind me.
The space I find myself in is nearly pitch black and blessedly warm and begging for exploration. But now that I'm here, I'm reminded of why I came in the first place. Sleep. Safe sleep, not drugged sleep. A cozy nook in the darkness and another breathing body to snuggle up to. And all at once, the burst of energy is gone, drained away to nothing and leaving me wearier than I was in gray room. The promise of a comfortable nest urges me forward, longing softening the backs of my knees until I stumble. I can hear his breathing, see the vague outline of the table he's sleeping on. Table? No, something else. Bed. I put out my hands and the heat of his body touches my palms.
Moving as cautiously as I can, so I don't wake him and deprive him of a few precious moments of rest, I lift a corner of the coverings and slide underneath, and, oh. Oh, it's warm, and soft, and the smell of him is everywhere. I wriggle closer, daring to touch my feet to his calves, and my head sinks into the pillow beside his.
Already I can feel myself fading away into unconsciousness, and this time, I don't fear it.