disclaimer: i don't own anything.
my dramatized version of what was going on with Cinna behind the scenes; before and during his death. enjoy~
What he Hoped for
It was a well thought kick in the balls. Figuratively speaking. Snow couldn't very well harm anyone but the man responsible for offending him without giving a good reason to the populace, which suited him nicely. That was his voice. His call for a change, and objection to everything the Capitol stood for. The Peacekeepers can beat him all they want, because he accomplished everything that mattered to him ahead of this. He knew they would come for him anyway, after designing his masterpiece for Katniss during the interview for the Quarter Quell. His dear Mockingjay.
He didn't bother hiding a contented smile as he thought of how President Snow's days were almost at an end, even through the pained moan that escaped him when his tormentor pulled out his fingernails. Cinna couldn't care less what they did to him anymore. His only concern at the time is that Snow would use him again in an attempt to break Katniss, as he did before she was launched into the arena. But she's a strong girl. And better yet, a girl with a purpose. She would never let him down by falling apart before the Quell even started, not while Peeta is there.
It's been a day into his punishment, and he couldn't help but think back to the 74th Games when Katniss was draining all that pus from Peeta's leg wound. He was in so much pain from the hardships of the arena, but very happy at the same time.
"Trust me." she said. "Killing things is much easier than this. Although for all I know, I am killing you."
"Can you speed it up a little?"
He began smiling again, and this time the guards let their uneasiness show, the question of his mental state crossing their minds. However this only encouraged them to continue grudgingly, as orders are orders.
Broken leg, heavy beatings, and now his fingers. After dragging him out of the launch room, he was doused with freezing ice water that snapped him back to consciousness. They had strapped him into a chair and Cinna didn't bother studying his surroundings. He knew he wasn't going to see the light of day ever again. Not while Snow's in charge.
When the guards left him for the night, he almost laughed at their carelessness. After working to remove the nails on Cinna's left hand, the man carrying out the punishment simply wiped his hands on a towel and stalked out, leaving his hand unbound. Probably because he thought the pampered stylist wouldn't be stupid enough to try to run. And he's right. Cinna had no intention of running, even if he could.
It took time, but to the cameras trained on him in his cozy little cell, it would look like he was examining his face with his bloodied fingertips. His thumb detected a small lump in the collar of his black shirt, and his one worry melted away. Then Cinna's arm dropped, suddenly too weak to hold it up any longer. He gave a sort of annoyed huff, so he busied himself with his memories. To the moments leading up to the present.
He looked up, and saw his beautiful mother caress his face and say, "You must always remember, humans are also human."
That was last piece of advice his mother left for him before she ran off, away from the city lights, the never ending parties, the shining Capitol of Panem. He was fourteen years old, and heartbroken.
He didn't understand why she would pack up and leave when she had everything anyone could possibly want. Because even in the Capitol, they were better off than most of its population. Her devoted husband had a booming salon business, with a constant stream of customers eager to keep up with the ever changing fashions. A large loving family that supported her when the salon was still in speculation and when things weren't going so well. And a talented son who adored her.
On sleepless nights, he would stare at the ceiling in a daze just trying to find some clue, some kind of warning, in his memories as to why she would leave them. Leave him. But the only indication he remembered was the constant sadness he would see on her face whenever the Games drew near. It wasn't until the 69th Hunger Games that he began to realize why.
His designs were being recognized by his teachers and he was well on his way to becoming an apprentice of one the greatest stylists in the Capitol. So much so, that he was to have an interview with one of them right after the Hunger Games that year, as everything is put on hold while this exciting event is taking place. And that year, everything changed.
There was nothing distinguishing about any of the tributes during the interviews, in fact, it seemed like it would be a rather boring year. But the Gamemakers milked them for what they were worth. Among the numerous traps and dramatic weather, the Capitol citizens received the entertainment they expected and more, when the victor turned out to be the least expected of the bunch. That year, the victor was Annie Cresta.
For a Career from District 4, she was a timid little thing. She couldn't fool anyone (well, except perhaps the Capitol audience) with the tough posture she would take up when she caught someone studying her, the arrogance and self confidence she exuded with her nose high up in the air. But when the cameras turned their lenses elsewhere, she would visibly deflate. After the bloodbath at the Cornucopia, it became apparent that Annie Cresta was all show because she became a little unhinged at the sight of all the blood, which she only survived because the boy tribute she came with looked out for her.
Even for the audience the death of the District 4 boy was gruesome, much to the delight of the viewing Capitol. As the Career pack scored through the arena they fell into a trap a small band of allies from different districts set up, killing off both tributes from 1. As the remaining Careers retreated, the boy from 4, who was merely 13 years old, became entangled in a snare and fell behind. Annie turned back for him in time to witness a machete hacking away at him, his head theatrically rolled away from the bloody mass and to her feet.
It was the surge of emotions on her face that struck Cinna. After the terror, shock and grief, her expression was wiped clear of everything and she took off, on her own, in the wilderness. The cameras revealed that she hid away in an abandoned beaver dam, and up until the earthquake, she simply did not move from that spot.
Cinna recognized that expression. He never met Annie Cresta personally, but he saw that cocktail of horror on his mother's face numerous times at the rare times she sat to watch this massacre. It was then when he realized how she truly felt about the Hunger Games.
With this realization, everything else slowly became clearer to him. Why she would insist that someone had to watch the salon while the Games were being televised, how she would stay behind whenever she could and avoid it altogether. He didn't understand why she would act so stubborn when everyone else couldn't wait to see what was going on in the arena. The few times her sisters managed to drag her to the T.V. to watch with them like a happy sibling gathering, he spied this mother on the verge of tears, unnoticed by all the others.
The Hunger Games was always something everyone looked forward too, and Cinna never questioned it. He even placed bets among his friends on who he thought would win and choose out favorites, along with everyone else. And then, when his dream of becoming the Capitol's leading stylist was within reach, he backtracked and began to really think about his mother's last words to him before she disappeared into the night.
Humans are also humans. His initial thought was, "Well duh. Why are you telling me this?" but he was too tired, as it was the middle of the night, and he simply nodded as his mother gently kissed his forehead goodnight. It wasn't until the next day when he understood that it was a kiss goodbye.
She was right though. The children in the Games, they are human. He looked around him, his friends and family, and listened to their conversations with new ears. He mentally drew back in shock as they compared each of the tributes deaths, how some were too bloodless while others could have been more exciting if the weapon used were a club instead of a knife. What if it was their kids, their friends that went into the Games? Would they still talk like that? Still make bets, instead of praying to anything out there for some miracle that their child will make it through that hell alive? With the shock and disgust, next came the shame. Because he was no different from them.
He worked studiously with a mentor and finally was about to become a stylist for the famous Hunger Games, and his first year would be the 74th. The district he was supposed to work with was the one in charge of lumber, 7, and he felt very neutral about it. Pleasantly curious about the people outside the capitol. But as he watched the reaping, he became entranced by the show the volunteer from District 12 was putting up.
"Prim, let go." The girl said harshly as her sister clung to her, and something in Cinna immediately clicked. "Let go!"
His eyes were glued to the figure of the girl as she ascended to the stage.
"That's the spirit of the Games! What's your name?" asked the announcer.
"Katniss Everdeen."
Cinna turned to his mentor. "I want District 12."
She blinked a few times before she met his gaze, as they decided to watch the reaping together before going their separate ways. "What?"
He regained his composure and put on a friendly smile, "Is it too late to change the district I have to work with? Because I would just love to whip up designs for those tributes."
Devoid of that hard expression that she's never seen gracing her pupil's brow, she became a little more relaxed. "It's never too late until they arrive. But why?"
"They interest me." he said cryptically.
He's a hard one to understand, and she knew that as well as anyone else who works with him. She heaved a dramatic sigh, "Well since you are one of my favorites," she cracked a smile, "I'll see what can be done."
He beamed at her brightly and placed a light kiss on her tattooed cheek. "Thank you."
Even if she didn't know it, Cinna saw her first act of rebellion for the Capitol at the reaping. Although to Katniss, it was obviously an act of love for her sister, whom she didn't want in the Games to the point of replacing her. Unlike in Districts 1, 2 and 4, where the volunteers were usually kids looking for glory. He wanted so much to rebel against the twisted government himself, and a girl with such spirit is just the kind of girl he wanted as a model.
After the opening ceremonies, he retreated to the roof of the building where the tributes had to stay. It's the quiet, away from squealing enthusiasts and rowdy parties that he feels most at peace. He was pleasantly surprised when a very sober Haymitch Abernathy joined him quietly. He didn't even hear him coming.
The following conversation was a little confusing, even for him. But the older man had started off with some small talk, and Cinna couldn't help feeling there was something clandestine about the way he used his words. He decided to take a small leap as they were on the topic of President Snow, and said carefully, "Yes, I assume the President has seen so many costumes at the ceremonies that a little more variety would be welcome. Being in office for as long as he has…you'd almost think he'd be tired of it."
"Him? Tired?" Haymitch scoffed, and added a little more quietly, so the wind would cover up any bugs trying to pick their conversation, "He's so obsessed with his position that you'd have to kick him out before he'd ever think of giving it up."
Topics like this were never spoken lightly of in the Capitol. Ever. But it's probably different in the districts, where there is more resentment and disdain. So Cinna merely nodded, unsure of where to take it after that.
Haymitch took that as a sign to wrap it up. "Well, it's almost time for dinner so I'll be going."
"I'll see you then." Cinna answered. Just as the older man left, he heard him talking to Peeta at the dome leading up the roof. He turned and beckoned the boy over with a friendly smile when Haymitch ambled on his way. They chatted lightly to kill some time, and he showed Peeta the presence of the force field at the edge of the roof by bouncing a pencil off of it.
They ended up showing to dinner together, where Effie and Porita sat waiting.
"Where's Katniss and Haymitch?" asked Peeta.
"Katniss is probably still washing herself off," said Portia, "girls have it a little harder than boys when it comes to fashion."
Peeta's eyes flickered over the women's feet as they delicately sipped at their beverages, noting the high heels arching their feet forward. "Don't have to tell me twice." They seated themselves.
After the fire cake display and everyone sat down to watch the rerun of the opening ceremonies, Cinna couldn't help picking out the small man clad in white that was the president of the country. He studied the features of his face as the cameras swept past him, but the flashy costumes he and Portia designed contrasted with the dimming sunlight and made it difficult. He wanted to see how he would react to it. Would he pretend to be delighted like the rest of the audience or sit back, quietly taking in the show? Cinna often tried to gauge the man's actions with the few times he can see him in an un-staged setting, to get an idea of how he operates.
His interest in this didn't quite make sense even to himself, yet he still carried on. When the president began with his speech, there was a brief moment when the camera caught his bemused expression gazing down at the tributes. Quietly sitting back.
Once the stars of the night were sent away by Haymitch, the four adults gathered around the T.V. facing each other.
"Oh, those costumes were just stunning!" Effie trilled, her eyes alight, "And of course, the children were perfect as well!"
"But is it right?" said Portia, "To have them pair up like that? It is the Hunger Games after all…."
"The odds of them facing off each other is next to 10 percent," Haymitch said roughly, "and I need sponsors to help keep at least one of them alive for a couple days. Now I actually might have that opportunity."
"That's right." Cinna said quietly, "Last year the District 12 tributes were virtually on their own."
"And we're sure to have them tripping themselves to sponsor our little pearls in no time!"
Haymitch snorted into his glass of liquor at her ridiculous term of endearment for them, given her ignorant reasons for it. This rude behavior was not lost on her. "Yeah," he muttered into his glass, "I'm sure our 'pearls' are ecstatic."
Effie ruffled up in her voluptuous pink wig and they began bickering back and forth while Portia and Cinna inwardly sighed to themselves. The older man's offhand comment when he asked whose idea it was to hold hands still echoed in his mind. The perfect touch of rebellion? Was it really? It's true how Cinna only thought of the merit of sponsors after he called out this piece of instruction, and the word rebellion sounds so sweet, and so forbidden.
His eyes flickered toward the man. Already showing telltale signs of a drunken stupor as his words slurred together every so often, Cinna wondered if there really was more to him than what everyone thinks he is. It truly seemed like Haymitch was trying to get onto something when they spoke on the roof, but unless he outright says it, the stylist has no clue what that would be. This man is so different from anyone he's met in the Capitol, that even if taking hints is something he usually has no trouble with, Haymitch is completely foreign. Not only his district accent, but his gruff way of talking takes a little getting used to.
When Effie declared that she's going to turn in early and sauntered away, Haymitch turned to the stylists and said, "'S getting stuffy in here, wanna continue this on the roof?"
The two of them exchanged a glance, as he was clearly getting drunk. Portia furrowed her brows slightly to indicate what he wanted to do, so Cinna softly said, "Alright."
Almost as if the man had read Cinna's thoughts back in the room, Haymitch rounded on them when they settled in the roof garden, "What's your real opinion on the Hunger Games?" he blurted in a low voice.
They were stunned into silence. Then Portia said tentatively, "What do you mean?"
He took another swing of the bottle clutched in his hand, having abandoned the fruity wineglass once Effie took off. There was a slight squinting of his eyes that the young man detected, perhaps wondering if this brief trip concealed from other prying ears was a good idea after all. But before he could respond, Cinna pulled them both up short when he said faintly, but audibly, "I find it all disgusting."
His partner gaped at him and Haymitch considered this news with equal astonishment. Cinna continued with a small shrug of the shoulders, "But there really isn't anything to be done. So my opinion doesn't matter."
"Oh, Cinna…I had no idea you felt that way." Portia said tragically.
A loud belch made the both of them jump, and the man scratched at his scalp, "Ah shorry for draggin you two up here. Mus' be tired, stayin' this late…."
And with that the stylists escorted the intoxicated man to his quarters, and went on their way. Haymitch didn't fool Cinna for a second. As he stood under the torrent of warm water in his shower, the young man shook his head. There must have been some amount of drunkenness when Haymitch asked to go to the roof and questioned them like that. But beyond that point, it was obvious to him that the man was pretending to be drunk off his rocker, probably to excuse his strange inquiries. Portia seemed to suspect a little something, but she eventually dismissed it all as a drunk man's ranting.
What could he possibly do with Cinna's confession? Is it because this is his first year and he just wanted to know? No…it looked like he wanted to ask more but couldn't, not with Portia there and her weak response. He turned the water off and stared at his reflection in the foggy mirror. What is it he's hoping for?
The next few days were devoted to making Katniss and Peeta's interview apparel, so Portia and Cinna hunkered down in their studio with yards of cloth and scores of mannequins. There were already a number of dresses and suits designed for this purpose, but after actually meeting the children, the young man wanted to completely disregard them as they didn't really accompany them as well as he'd like. Portia couldn't very well go against him on this because she also agreed to a point, and she respected him and his decisions. So they had a moderate fire in a glass cylinder going from the floor to the ceiling, sucking up all the smoke and feeding it more oxygen. It was as real as they could get, since there wasn't any place to start a campfire in a big city.
Cinna had a sketchbook in front of him as he pinpointed different shapes that captured his attention as the fire lapped at the air, the sunglasses he wore to protect his eyes glinting orange and yellow. Portia was seated on the couch next to him, although she was looking for smaller details in the flames so she didn't have to stay before the fire for long.
Maybe it's because she's his senior when it comes to experience, but she couldn't help looking out for him when they met the tributes in person. She knew how he asked for District 12 only after seeing the girl tribute volunteering at the reaping, and that in itself made her worry. He had even admitted to her that he came up the fire theme by observing her actions more closely. And what he said on the rooftop isn't something she can just forget so easily.
"Cinna," she began, "I know that we decided that fire would be our theme, as they are from the coal district…but sometimes I can't help but feel it's a little more than that."
The sound of his pencil scratching on the pad didn't slow down as he said, "What makes you say that?"
"Well, I've no doubt that you already know this..." Portia struggled to find the right words, "but I think you're getting too…I mean it's not wrong, but I think-"
"That I'm getting too 'attached'?" he finished. "Portia, I've only just met her yesterday."
"Sometimes that's all it takes." She said, "And like I was saying before, it's not wrong to actually like the tribute you're working for. But…this is the Hunger Games." And the odds of her surviving are minimal. The last part of her sentence didn't have to be said aloud, they both heard it clearly enough. "I'm not trying to demean you in any way when I say this, because your designs have been recognized as brilliant by all the best stylists out there, and now even the populace. But this is also your first year working in the Games, and it isn't fair for you to get emotionally involved with that girl."
There was a moment of silence, and then he continued with the flames he was working on. "I'll keep that in mind." He said gently.
Well, that's the most she can hope to get out of him at any rate. So she dropped the conversation there and said a few more little tidbits that neither of them will remember later, then got up to start on her design for her boy tribute.
But it doesn't matter how fair it is for me. He thought to himself, the least I can do for Katniss and Peeta is to make them as unforgettable as possible. To show everyone that they are also human.
Everyday was going by way too fast, and Cinna found himself dreading the day when Katniss would have to leave all of them for the arena. So young, so vibrant and full of life…this is not a place for someone like her. But then again, when has that ever mattered? There were plenty of children like her slaughtered in the Games, and the crowd would cheer the murderer on. Despicable.
All the more as he walked the busy streets of the Capitol. Everywhere, there was talk about how exciting this year was going to be, because of some of the particularly big tributes like Cato and Thresh. He continued on with a blank expression and as he was visiting an old friend toward the edge of the prestigious area of the city and into the less tidy and rundown sector, he found a surprise. There were dark alleys between the tall buildings, and he saw Messalla emerging from one of them. Their eyes met and his face broke into a big smile as he waved him over.
"Hey man," he said happily, "how've you been? I haven't been able to see you at all in forever, and I haven't even properly thanked you yet!" Cinna had introduced him to Cressida, a small time director who was looking for an assistant with talent. He didn't know Cressida very well, but he and Messalla were old mutual friends and whereas Cinna never had a problem looking for a job, his friend did. It wasn't until his father wanted to advertise his salon further out to the Capitol that the young man met Cressida. She was an interesting woman, and when she mentioned fleetingly that she'd like a little help, he gave her Messalla's number.
The stylist returned the smile and they embraced. "It's good to see you, Messalla."
"I know you're super busy with the Games going on and all," he said apologetically, "I really appreciate you coming out here over something like this."
"Not a problem. To be honest I was a little curious about how you're making out." He said.
They chatted a while longer as they gravitated to the young man's house. Messalla always knew there was something under the surface of the calm collected stylist, just from the way he talks about certain subjects. He was intuitive, just the kind of person he wanted to consult with on a matter like the one plaguing him. Also, he kept recalling the one conversation he had with him that held sustenance, when they talked about the districts. It was Cinna who made him realize that without the districts, they would have absolutely nothing.
"Our team was given an assignment to cover what new gadgets are coming out, to get people excited." He said as they settled down in his modest living room, drinks untouched on the coffee table, "So we went to District 3 to check out the new products rumored to be awesome, and we did get some pretty good stuff."
"Like those music chips?" Cinna said.
"Exactly. But there's something else." He began telling him how clear the unrest from the workers in the factories is. How they're beaten to pulps by Peacemakers if they so much as sneeze out of turn. He had even caught a young girl being whipped for stealing a little extra food before the team was hustled off elsewhere. "I never imagined life in the districts is so hard. I mean, they should get some credit for making all that stuff you know?"
Cinna held onto every detail of this account, as this is the first time he ever heard of the outside world. And just as Messalla, he was appalled by the harsh conditions. "Yes, you'd think that."
"I don't know man," he said, "it just seems so wrong. I don't know what to think anymore, or who to tell. I mean, since no one really wants to talk about anything but themselves. Which is why I left that message for you, because I thought you at least would want to hear this."
The stylist wanted to know absolutely everything about his experience there, so he asked more questions about the people, the conditions, if he talked to any of them. By the time the sun went down, they had to say their goodbyes, and Cinna had a grim picture of life in District 3.
He didn't know what possessed him to ask Haymitch out to the roof another time. There was just this kind of…nagging at the back of his mind that wanted to know more of what the man almost says. He still wasn't quite sure what, but if he could in some way help him with his wish, then he wanted to find out. And something about the way the man didn't question his request, and simply led the way without another word just screams there's something beneath that drunken surface.
They started off lightly, congratulating each other on their hard work. The interviews would start later that day, and this is the only chance for them to talk at length so the conversation picked up quickly. The stylist mentioned the new knowledge he acquired the other day about the abuse in District 3, how surprising it was. The older man just scoffed at his ignorance and answered that Peacekeepers aren't known for handing out flowers to citizens, but for cracking down on the law. Yet Cinna insisted it didn't matter who it is, a child should be scolded first before bringing down a whip as Messalla had claimed he saw.
Haymitch chugged a mouthful of liquor before he said, "What's your point?"
"It's just…" he faltered, not knowing exactly how to put it right, "I want to help."
"Gwa!" He sputtered, and choked on his drink so bad that Cinna had to pound on his back until he could breathe again. But the choking was replaced by such loud guttural laughter that Haymitch had to hold himself up on the railing. The younger man was at a loss until Haymitch slapped his shoulder rather hard. Repeatedly. The man finally was about to get out a raspy, "So even you have those stupid moments!"
Cinna scooted a couple feet away from him and massaged some feeling back into his shoulder, and simply stared at him reproachfully until the man collected himself. "I mean-" he chuckled, "after all that praise and fame you got from those clothes you made, clothes that let them shine from the very beginning mind you, and now you say you want to help? Ha ha! It's a bit too late for that!"
"So all I'm good for is designing shrouds for children to be fed to the Capitol?" he said cynically.
This halted the man's obnoxious guffaws, and looked at him quizzically. "Well, well." He said under his breath.
This went unnoticed by Cinna and he asked, desperately almost, "Why did you ask Portia and me that question earlier? You had a reason, didn't you?"
Haymitch shrugged, "Humph, you're new, and I wanted to know how well I'd be able to get along with you."
"Then what about Portia? This is her second year working with you."
"The moron working with her before wasn't the approachable type, if you get my meaning." The woman who had the tributes dressed up as coal miners year after year, with little variation. As the epitome of a superficial Capitol citizen, she wasn't the easiest person to talk to for sure.
"If that's the case, then why did you feel the need to ask me? Am I that much more approachable?"
This seemed to strike something in Haymitch that made the features on his face go hard, and there was a pause in the air that held them both in place. He quickly recovered, then said cautiously, "Was I wrong?"
Cinna answered with a puzzled look, as he didn't quite understand what he was getting at. "Wrong about what?"
The next few moments Haymitch seemed to be having a heated debate in his head. To say or not to say? Cinna suspected that it's because he is born and raised in the Capitol, which isn't a merit when in contact with a person from one of the districts, especially when one drags him to a place where they are sure no one can interfere. But there's no ill will etched onto the man's face, and he is not a person to back down when his attention is tuned on. Needless to say, with all of Haymitch's efforts to be subtle, he can't hide the fact that he's trying to tell the stylist something without actually saying it. And Cinna with his burning desire for change, although in his mind that's like trying to capture the moon in a bottle, is going against all his instincts and believing there is more to him than a drunkard whose only love is drink. This man is his hope, and he knew he was being unreasonable. If he betrayed that hope, would Cinna act as if nothing happened? Would he brush it off and continue on with the show?
So he said earnestly, quietly, "Just tell me this," the wind accompanied his words, echoing his turmoil as it wiped about them, stealing their body heat, "Do you know of a way to end it?"
Haymitch held his gaze, and the young man almost had to lean in closer to hear him. "Yes."
In the dark cell, Cinna was able to detect a widening sliver of light until there was a gaping hole before him. His mind was in a haze from too many fists colliding with his skull, but not enough to dull the feeling of smug satisfaction that hey, he pissed the president off so much the man himself came for a visit. The pasty little man was accompanied by three burly men to carry on the torture at a snap of his thin fingers, and the huge rings they wore glittered in the dim lighting.
One of the muscle heads pulled up a chair for the president to sit in front of the bloody stylist, and he delicately took his place and lounged there, glaring daggers into him. "I don't know what possessed you to do that to the wedding dress." He said calmly, "But by now I'm sure you've learned your lesson."
Cinna wanted so much to stare at him full in the face, so show how satisfied he was with himself. But all he could do at the moment is to lift his head to lean on the backrest of the chair. His voice cracked in a raspy whisper as he said, "Is this what the President of Panem wanted to tell me?"
His underlying message that he certainly didn't regret what he did was obvious to both of them. And the president wasn't one to dawdle on false pretenses, so he went straight to the point. "Do you know what a mockingjay means to me?"
So. Snow thinks that Cinna is a normal Capitol citizen with no way of knowing that the mockingjay is the symbol of the rebellion. And how could he? Even with the Victory Tour his, as well as the other stylists, whereabouts were strictly monitored to prevent exposure. This is also the only thing keeping Haymitch, who isn't on camera 24/7 like Katniss and Peeta are, alive. Since really, who else is there to enlighten him on these matters? The options he's faced with now is to act dumb, which doesn't have guaranteed results, or confess as little as possible. If Snow catches on that Cinna knows a least a slice of information that he doesn't, then his family is as good as dead.
"President Snow," he said, "it's only a bird on Katniss's district token."
"Well your fashion statement went too far this time." he said sweetly. "Why did you decide to turn the dress into that bird?" he asked in a condescending tone, "And the fake fire? That's a bit too much." Snow had no intention of leaving until he's sure Cinna isn't a rebel, which means he's gonna be here a while.
Two can play that game. "I don't understand t it," he said hoarsely, as if on the verge of tears, "All this because you didn't like the dress?"
The little man stared evenly at him, and answered, "Well there couldn't be any other reason, could there?"
Cinna tried to furrow his brows in frustration, but only managed a grimace as his bruised face refused to comply. "I won't do it again." He said at length.
"Oh I'm sure of that."
He looked up at Snow's derisive response. Suspicion was laced inside and out of his being, and there was no way the president would be convinced of his ignorance. Nevertheless, he pleaded with the president to know how sorry he was, how he only wanted to show everyone what he can do with a dress. He pretended to have no idea what Snow was talking about when he mentioned the districts' negative reaction to the transformation, and painted himself into the generic picture of a Capitol citizen. This went on for hours, and Snow became visibly bored toward the middle of it. Cinna was sure that the president left him without a definite answer because he thought he would have him prisoner for as long as he liked.
The mockingjay outfit he made for Katniss was wrapped up tightly in District 13, and his hands still were a little sore from the continuous sewing he did before the Quell. He set the stage for her, and now there was only one thing left for him to do.
Before anyone else could figure out why he kept fingering the collar of his shirt when he was alone in his cell, Cinna ripped it open and a deep violet pill dropped onto his palm. His teeth crunched down on it just as the guards burst through the door.
reviews are always appreciated :)
-zak