I roll over and try to get comfortable, try to quiet the million questions that clamor in my mind and keep me from sleep. If ever I needed my wits about me, it's now. I've been awake since I fully woke on the hovercraft carrying Johanna Mason and I from the arena to the Capitol at President Snow's command. Since I realized Katniss is alive, but in the company of rebels bent on destroying the Capitol. Since I was told she conspired with them to escape, and to leave me behind. The deep, soft bed is endlessly comfortable, but I toss restlessly and stare wide-eyed into the dark.
Once we arrived, we were whisked quickly down a long, richly furnished corridor, past heavy, hand-carved and firmly shut doors. I noticed Enobaria, the tribute from District 2 who was also with us, was taken a different direction entirely, and not shackled as Johanna and I were. I was deposited in a well-appointed room, the door locking audibly behind me. I'd rushed to the windows, but they are barred and held up well against the chair I threw at them. The other door was firmly locked as well and the best I could do was grab a heavy crystal paperweight from a side table and try to conceal it in my hand when the door opened at last.
The uniformed Peacekeeper who entered held an electric prod aimed toward me and I didn't think the armor would even notice if I tried to bash the paperweight at him. Resignedly, I dropped it to the floor and stood warily, waiting for whatever hell he was prepared to visit on me. But I was not ready for what came next.
A tiny, round woman who appeared to travel by bubble bounced into view behind him, all smiles and pink, frothy glitter. She was followed by a pair of tall twins, both with skin dyed ebony black and hair bleached white blond, eyes so dark they seemed to be all pupil. The woman had clutched her hands together and twittered breathlessly what an honor it was to meet me, her greeting echoed by her companions. They were the prep team from District 1, they'd worked with Gloss and Marvel. Their instructions were to clean me up, erase my scars, make me presentable. The guard uncuffed me, but stood at the ready, weapon drawn, to be sure I complied.
It was such a bewildering experience, so completely outside of what I expected, that I didn't resist at all. The bubbly woman was jarringly named Bagda, her team were Sek and Tek, though I couldn't for the life of me tell them apart. They worked with quick efficiency, Bagda chirping that Johanna was "just next door" and being taken care of as well. Disoriented, exhausted, malnourished, and fresh from a catastrophic night of death and loss, I sat numbly while the team scrubbed, primped and massaged, chattering non-stop all the while.
The talk faded into white noise as my befuddled mind tried to adjust, to make sense of what was happening, to be ready for whatever might come next. It wasn't until either Sek or Tek was carefully smoothing my ragged fingernails that I noticed, for all their empty prattling, that not one of them had mentioned the Games even once. The shocking oddity of this drew me up short and I whipped my hand back, staring at the trio with alarm bells clanging in my head. Trembling, Bagda had rushed over and taken my hand, replacing it in the twin's grip, tears beading her lashes.
"Oh, please," she pleaded brokenly, "don't be upset with us. Whatever it is, we'll fix it, we'll make it right, just give us the chance. Oh, please don't tell anyone you're unhappy." Turning to the guard she had gasped a terrified, "We didn't say anything, I swear. Check the tape, please."
"Shut up, you idiot," the guard growled, advancing on her.
"It's fine," I broke in, having no idea what was wrong but my instinct forcing me to defend the petrified and helpless woman. "There's nothing to apologize for, I just wasn't used to how you do it. My team does it differently, that's all."
Bagda had nodded so vigorously her glittering puff of candy floss hair had bobbed forward over her eyes. The guard had backed off, and the treatment continued, albeit more subdued, but I stayed on edge, wondering what in the world I had become entangled with. At the end, I was dressed in soft, light pajamas and brought out to a table laden with a ridiculous amount of amazing food and only one place setting. Left alone, I'd eaten lightly, aware that gorging on rich food after an empty belly was disastrous, and then paced the luxurious cage of a suite I was trapped in until Bagda returned.
I watched her face curiously as she trilled about the wonderful food. She looked somehow different and I couldn't place why, until she turned slightly away from me, gesturing to the bedroom. Her cheekbone was swollen, makeup covering the mark but undeniably puffy. She turned back and caught me staring and the terror that instantaneously flooded her expression made my blood run cold. I'd immediately remarked on how comfortable the bed looked, and how eager I was to drop into it after such an excellent meal. She'd barely held herself back from falling on my neck in gratitude from the look of it, but just nodded, blinking rapidly, and with a wavering smile had crossed to the door and knocked. The guard swung it open for her to leave and she turned quickly to me.
"President Snow invites you to his study tomorrow morning. Rest up." The door swung shut and I stood in the middle of the room silent and alone.
I'd searched the room, rifling through drawers and yanking open closets, but I found nothing, no clues to where I am or why I'm here. I'd been unconscious when taken from the last Games, but this isn't the same. There'd been no victory, no final survivor. Some of us are missing and the arena was blown to pieces. I paced across the polished floor and deep rugs. The need to know what's happening with Katniss is like an itch under my skin. Is she actually safe? Who has her? In desperation, I'd grabbed a deck of cards I'd found in a desk drawer and sat at the table, closing my eyes and breathing deeply. I'd built card houses, one after the other, higher and more complex each time, trying to focus, trying to calm my thoughts. I'll be useless if I panic.
Now, lying in bed, I see the card houses rise and fall over and over before my eyes. Outside the huge windows, the sky glows with a velvety, pink tinged glow. My nerves are strung tight and I feel like I must hum with tension. I assume I'm in the President's mansion, but during our lavish Victors' Ball we were never near a wing that looked like this. The rooms where we changed and cleaned up had windows opening onto a large, green square beneath and a little balcony to step out onto. The hallways had been much shorter as well. I wonder where this one has taken me. The last time I slept without being drugged I'd been on wet sand under a steaming dome with friends watching my back so I wasn't killed in my sleep.
Is "friends" right? One, at least. Where is she now? I know she's alive, I know the Capitol is desperate to get hold of her, but after that I'm utterly clueless. I search my memory of that night. I saw her lifted from the exploding arena in the claw of the hovercraft that retrieves dead tributes and had assumed the worst, but apparently the hovercraft had been commandeered by rebels and they had instead rescued her, along with Finnick Odair, and disappeared with their precious cargo. Strangely, it seems the Capitol knows where they were headed, but for some reason is unable to go and get her. Where could this safe place be? How is it that she ended up there, while I am here, waiting to explain to President Snow what I am unable to understand myself? However it happened, I can only be glad Katniss is safe, for the moment at least away from the deadly grasp of the man who sees her as the greatest threat to his stranglehold on power over the nation.
What must my family think, though? I have no idea how much of that last night made it to television. Probably right up until the lightning bolt hit the tree, I would think. My friends and family would have seen me kill Brutus, my brain flicks quickly away from the image of him hurtling against the force field I threw him into, seen me run back toward the tree where Katniss was calling me, seen me not make it when a fleeing Enobaria and I had collided. Did they see the dome shriek out of invisibility when the lightning lit up the tree? Did they see me thrown back, paralyzed and fading, to watch the arena begin to detonate around me? What do they think happened to me? Where do they think I am?
The sky outside lightens to dawn as I lie silently watching. My father used to help me sleep when I was very little and couldn't turn off my whirling thoughts. I close my eyes and imagine his large, strong hand on my head, stroking through my blond curls and down my back. As he would ask me to do, I think of a happy memory.
Katniss, propped up in bed at one end, me at the other. She concentrates on writing neatly, adding a careful description to the painting of an edible plant I've made under her close direction. The sunlight slanting through the windows on the cold, winter morning. Falling across her face and lighting her dark braid, awakening golden glints, auburn and copper. It's soft glow illuminating her curling lashes and making her storm gray eyes shine like smoked glass.
My father would have me pick a detail to focus on. Her leg resting alongside mine, the tight closeness that connected us, content and busy in this work. How it felt like an invisible tether bound us to each other, complete and together. The warmth of the memory seeps up through my muscles, I let it loosen and relax the tension from my frame and my eyelids begin to droop, heavy and relentless. As I fade into sleep, I feel it still, stretching out into the emptiness. I don't know where it ends, but I feel the connection thrumming between us, as strong as ever.
I wake from a dreamless, heavy sleep, the exhaustion still pulling at me and making my eyes burn. Rolling onto my side, I push myself up to sitting and sag on the edge of the bed, head in my hands. My mouth tastes sharp and awful, my muscles ache from the motionless stupor I was in, and my thoughts move with syrupy slowness, tangling together and bumping off one another. I can't face Snow like this.
Scrubbing my hands over my face, I reach for my prosthetic leg, doing up the straps with quick, familiar precision. A hot shower and thorough tooth brushing bring me closer to feeling human. Replacing the comb in the drawer, I pause and contemplate my reflection. The District 1 team know their business. My hair glints and shines in gilded curls over my polished, smooth skin. My eyes, a startling blue against such bright blond, stare out with piercing intensity. There are no visible scars, no dark circles, my skin glows with health. All traces of the arena have disappeared.
I stand straighter and reconsider. Not all traces. My muscles are still hard and tight, my training before the reaping has defined the work my long hours in the bakery started. The cut across my ribs from Brutus' knife is a light scar, but evident. A bite-mark, high on my hip, is a souvenir from our fight with the monkeys, and four blossom-like burns radiate out across my chest, the Peacekeeper's prod while he questioned me aboard the hovercraft.
It occurs to me that the only marks left on me would only be visible when I'm unclothed. I am the only one who will see these reminders of the brutality of the Games. Intentional? I have no idea, but I wouldn't put it past Snow, a master of mind-games.
Shrugging into my shirt, I dress in the outfit Bagda left out for me. Stylish, not overly formal, but lacking the flamboyancy of typical Capitol dress. A dark, open-front jacket fits snugly over the white V-neck shirt, paired with soft, black pants. Even the clothes carry a weighty message, a subtle nod to Snow's more understated style instead of the garish fashion of the typical citizen. Pairing us together? The effort of trying to decipher the hidden meaning from every single second, trying to be ready for the threat I'm certain will come, is draining. Pitched at this tension for this long has made me jittery and irritable. I pick up the card deck absently and flick the cards back and forth between my fingers, shuffling and riffling the cards like Carney taught me. Just when I think I'll jump out of my skin, Head Peacekeeper Thread swings open the door, armed and ready. I clench my jaw and my chin tilts up. It's time to talk to President Snow.