A/N: On my third fic I'd like to veer away from my usual THG-driven storyline and sappy stuff and turn Modern-Day AU. Adult situations; this has bad all over it: bad violence, bad language, bad alcohol, bad romance (hehe jokes), sexytimes, and rock & roll. Everlark-centric; fluff will be incorporated. Rated M, so no little ones! I'd like to summon Gale, Cato, Johanna and the rest of the gang into the party.
The Hunger Games are not mine, they're Suzanne's.
Say "epinephrine" ten times fast.
Another meeting with the boss adjourned. Another task assigned to accomplish. He tries to convince himself that it's not that bad. It's definitely something to fill up his afternoon. He begins to wonder, in between thoughts of grabbing a quick bite to eat for lunch and nagging threats that his life may be ending in a flash at any minute, if he is the favourite. Or if there is another one just like him out there in the field. He carelessly lugs a heavy briefcase in his hand and blends in with the crowd milling on the sidewalks of downtown Corpus Christi.
Peeta recalls Cato's cold hand insistent of a courtesy shake earlier that day before the tapping of his shoes echoed throughout the musty, abandoned warehouse that Cato likes to call his 'office'. It was rough when Peeta first acquired the job. He found himself trapped in a sketchy area of Lexington, Kentucky, being robbed in a garbage-filled alleyway at gun point. The robber's blood-shot eyes could barely keep open as he staggered through his steps, hands wavering as he approached Peeta with a pointed gun. Peeta had his arms up in mid air, eyes darting sideways to see if he could use something to knock the guy out with, and even attempted talking some sense into the robber.
"No! Give me your phone...and your wallet. Cash! Give me cash now!" the robber gestured at the white wire sticking out from his jacket, connecting up to one of his ears. Peeta realized he hadn't blinked since the robber pulled out a gun as he took a step backward, his leg slightly bumping against a box on the ground behind him. The robber closed in on Peeta and started to reach for whatever he could dig out from his pocket, and without thinking twice, Peeta picked up an old baseball bat sticking out of the box and clumsily bashed half the robber's head in. Peeta jumped after the gun as it flew off the man's grasp, astonished that the robber was still standing on his feet, staring him in the eye and giving him a smirk. Peeta picked up the gun on the ground and leaped towards a hanging retractable set of stairs by a huge garbage bin, the robber now furious and gaining in on him. As he felt the robber's hand almost clawing at his collar trying to drag him down, he turned around and extended his arm that was holding the gun. He ultimately pulled the trigger and shot the robber in the middle of the forehead while he was still perched and swaying on the third step of the stairs. A man suddenly appeared from a corner, looking impressed, smiling while shaking his head slightly.
"Hey man, nice shot," he said as he approached Peeta. "But you've opened yourself a can of worms there, prettyboy." Peeta was still clutching on to the hanging stair steps, dropping the gun in disgust, breaths heavy and sweating profusely. He finally let loose and landed on his feet, darting looks between the tall, blonde man walking towards him and the gun below him, emitting steam.
"I personally know the head of the mob this man worked for, so here's what I'm going to do..." the man stopped until the tip of his freshly-polished shoe touched the dead robber's outstretched arm on the ground. "I will ask for a pardon on your behalf, and in turn you have to work for me. You will be immuned. Protected."
Peeta stood frozen, caught up in harrowing thoughts of survival and the rest of his life in general; if he managed to get out of the backstreet alive. His heart was beating in his ear. He was displeased at the condition laid out in front of him, but felt he was running out of options, as if he had much to begin with. The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, handing it over to Peeta, gesturing that his he should wipe his face clean. He had small splatters of blood on his face.
"I hope you like Texas."
And that's how Peeta Mellark met Cato Thorpe.
The infant stage of their working relationship was unstable at best, due to constant clashing of two strong personalities. Sometimes their conversations would end with beat downs on each other rather than conclusions, a result of two stubborn heads colliding. Peeta tends to disobey instructions and goes on instinct, it hooks him into trouble and it sends Cato in a state. But after a day's work, Peeta finishes the task efficiently. In time, through high hell and tribulations they have gained respect for each other. Cato has invited him over a couple of times to his mansion for dinner as they discussed details of a major assignment. And Cato is not the type to just invite anybody over to have a meal with him, especially if he cooked it himself. They went on plenty of unsuccessful fishing trips together, and sipped expensive wine on foldable chairs by the pier. Peeta's cut on the operations is way more generous than he'd normally expect. Cato is his boss, and somewhere along the way he has become his friend.
Peeta shakes out of his reverie and turns on a corner, kicking through a rusty door of a dilapidated building. He whistles as he rolls up the stairs, the sound of his footsteps reverberating off the tight walls. He reaches the top floor and opens another set of stairs and a door that leads to the rooftop.
"Hello, Texas," he says out loud, mostly to himself as he stretches before he opens the suitcase he placed on the floor.
While setting up equipment, he begins to hear static in his left ear. His hand flies up and adjusts the setting of the earpiece while the other tries to click hardware pieces together. His sequences are fluid, almost like second skin to him. The static continues, and then the sound clears out into a low steady hum.
"Hello, sweet pea," a voice buzzes through the miniscule ear device. Peeta snorts, securing the tiny microphone clipped to his breast pocket. He leans his mouth into it.
"Shove it, Gale."
Gale chuckles like a drunk on the other line as he waits for Peeta to settle down. "Any interesting sights up there? Do share. And be descriptive. I'm dying here."
"Bro, I'm five floors off the ground. I can't look down into women's necklines from here," Peeta rests his rifle on a stand, and as a final touch, attaches his brand new gun scope on the top. "What am I, Cyclops?"
"Bro, Cyclops shoots lasers from his shades."
"Yeah that one," Peeta pauses to grab a cigarette stick from his pocket and sticks it in his mouth before he lights it. "Besides, you're the one with all the high-tech visuals, nerd," he mumbles as he tries to balance the stick between his lips.
Gale has a wide smirk as he shifts around in the back of a tinted van, about four streets away and parallel to the building Peeta is currently located in. He is surrounded by boxes of machines mounted on top of each other, knobs and buttons randomly blinking in yellow and green. There is a laptop on the seat beside him, showing a live video feed of Peeta on the rooftop, kneeling on the ground, poised over the rifle.
"Nice buns," Gale comments as he zooms in and out of the screen.
Peeta is growing impatient as he waits for instructions. "Gale, I swear to-"
Gale's tone is suddenly serious as he clears his throat, the tone he usually reserves for when he has officially clocked in to work. He begins to type on the keyboard, the mere motions of his finger on the touchpad directing the motions of a camera that is pointed on a street corner somewhere below Peeta.
"We got your guy. On his way out of Hall Avenue," Gale says into the microphone. Peeta is along McBride Lane, adjacent to Hall. He puts an eye behind the gun scope, and slowly moves the rifle around when he realizes he can't spot his target. There are too many people walking around, which makes the operation more exhilirating for him. He takes a long hit of his cigarette and blows smoke right into the scope.
"Give me stats," Peeta says.
"Blue hat under black hooded sweater. Very tall," Gale describes away as he has an opened folder on his lap, full of papers and black and white photos of the target. He is switching his focus back and forth between the screen and the papers and confirms.
Peeta lets out another round of smoke through his mouth, and right in the middle of the red crosshair on the screen of his scope, closes in on the target. The man is walking in quick strides, both hands shoved into his pockets. He suddenly stops, as if alerted, his head swinging upwards and side to side.
"I'm taking out the garbage," Peeta locks the crosshair in the middle of the man's chest, holds his breath as he winces into the scope, and pulls the trigger. It takes a couple of seconds before he moves away from the rifle and lifts up the cigarette to his mouth again, blowing big puffs of smoke that clouds over his own head as he starts to dismantle his weapon.
Katniss is still in her black blazer and black pencil skirt, the heels of her black pumps clicking against the parking lot of her mother's apartment, followed by a pair of two smaller feet struggling to keep pace with her.
Trying to blend in quicker and growing more familiar in a new city, she is relieved she was able to find a decent job right away, in the financial district of downtown area. She fancied a small, white bungalow in the suburbs with white picket fence and two-car garage, and relentlessly pursued after it. It is her first residential property, and ended up spending more money than she had originally planned on its aesthetics and most appliances. It is located in a quiet neighbourhood with mostly seniors and big families, two huge parks beside the grade school, a daycare across the street from the school, and an abundance of grocery stores a short car drive away.
She almost kicks the door down when she opens it, one of her hands occupied with keeping a tight grip on her daughter's and the other holding a small pink duffel bag.
"Mom! We're here," she yells into the living room.
Mrs. Everdeen is sitting on the couch watching TV, her hands fiddling with her hair trying to tie it into a bun. She works dayshift in one of the local hospitals as a registered nurse, and has no plans of retiring anytime soon. "You know, there's nothing wrong with knocking on the door," she stands up and approaches them, bending over with wide open arms as the little girl in pig tails hops her way towards her grandmother. She greets her and kisses her cheek, her smile almost exactly duplicating Katniss'.
"Little Willow here has a little present for you," Katniss says as she leaves her shoes dumped carelessly by the door. She ventures to the kitchen with the duffel bag and places it on the island counter, pulling out grocery bags. "She made it in the daycare today. Do you want to show it to Grandma, sweetheart?"
"Yeah!" she exclaims happily as Mrs. Everdeen lets her loose, and goes on to picking up her small bag and almost ducking her head in trying to look for her work of art. It's a cardboard cutout of a teddy bear with a green ribbon that is almost as big as its head. She proudly hands it over to her grandma, looking up at her, face expectant of hearing a compliment.
Mrs. Everdeen gasps loudly and leans down to kiss the top of her head. "Thank you! It's really pretty! This is going on the refrigerator!"
Willow's eyes are almost sparkling, and her full smile has returned. The refrigerator is like a wall of fame to her. She asks if she could already put the teddy bear cutout on the refrigerator herself and bounces off and away as soon as grandma nods in agreement. Katniss and her mother joyfully watch after her, their smiles disappearing as Willow retreats into the corner that leads to the kitchen.
Mrs. Everdeen turns to look at Katniss. "Did the bastard pay in full this month?"
Katniss rolls her eyes as she heads for the couch, blowing out exasperated air as she pulls off the bobby pins in her hair one by one.
"He paid just half. Better than nothing, which was the case in the past four straight months."
Mrs. Everdeen's face sours in revolt. "You should take legal action against him. Take him to the cleaners for all I care!" She begins to pace around the sofa table, hands suddenly needing to be occupied as she controls her growing anger. "He obviously doesn't know the difficulties of being a single mother."
"Mom."
"Did you know your uncle saw him with another one of his whores, driving around in a Porsche?! To the grocery store!" She finally settles on the vase full of an assortment of flowers in the middle of the table and rearranges them in no specific fashion.
"It's a Boxster. It doesn't count," Katniss says flatly. She gathers the pins and puts them in her blazer jacket pocket.
Willow suddenly pops back out into the living room, almost screeching in excitement. "Horsey! Horsey! Neigh neigh!"
Katniss shoots her mother a look before she picks up the tumbling three year old off the floor and dusts some cookie crumbs off her lips. "Yes sweetheart. Horseys go neigh neigh."
The air smells like bad weed and the red lights flashing all around him are starting to make him dizzy, piercing shade of red that make his royal mess of blonde hair appear bleached. He ignores the impending throbbing of nerves on his temple and inhales his jagermeister as one of his friends holler for a cheer. He perches his elbows on the round table so he can bury his head in his hands. The loud music is making his thoughts spin, and he swears he could almost melt and blend into the beats, mould into the heavy bass lines as he winces through the smoke and all the red bulbs. In front of him is a stage bordered with tiny blinking lights. Long, feminine legs stalking the platform back and forth. And stiletto heels. Some are red, and some are black.
He closes his eyes as he scratches at his stubbles currently neglected, now crawling along the strong angles of his jaws. Hands appear in front of him presenting more alcohol, and plenty of words of encouragement from his friends. Someone ruffles his hair with such force that his head lunges forward and almost smacks against the table. He could feel someone place two hands on both his shoulders as he is suddenly pulled back upright.
"Peeta, pull your shit together man, and have fun," Cinna breathes alcohol right into his ear from behind. "Pure, unadulterated fun." He gestures towards the scantily dressed woman gyrating on the stage. He lets go of his shoulders and reclaims his seat beside Peeta, glancing at him. "You look like you're grieving."
"He should be, if you ask me," Haymitch pipes in from across the table, a pile of empty shot glasses accumulating in front of him. "Oh it's over," he overemphasizes each word in misery, then switches his focus of interest on a blonde stripper on the stage.
"Boys, calm your panties down, I have a headache," Peeta says as he pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers. His hand comes up to refuse another shot of tequila being shoved in front of him. "I'm done!"
"No...this is Peeta's...," Marvel cuts in and pauses to let out a high-pitched hiccup. "Peeta's last night of freedom, man. This is it. Mellark is...!" Another hiccup. "Mellark is finally gonna get freakin' hitched!" he blurts and hoots, swinging his mug of beer towards Peeta and spilling some of it on his face too. Marvel is not officially drunk until he hiccups.
"Are you, Peeta Mellark, prepared to be stuck with only one woman for the rest of your life?" Haymitch mumbles, imitating a priest, eyes still glued to the dancing bodies on the platform.
"I plan to get married when I'm twenty-six as well. Kids by twenty-eight. Won't wait that long," Marvel takes a swig of his freshly restocked beer. "I would you know, like to be able to still play ball with the little ones, be able to run after them and stuff." He drops his mug on the table with fury and flashes everyone a smile.
"Dude you sound like a chick," Cinna glares at him with an amused look.
"Let me guess, you proposed to her on a gondola during a tender moment in the middle of the Venetian lagoons?" Haymitch asks Peeta.
"Actually, no, we were in Paris on the Eiffel Tower," Peeta responds seriously, studying the rim of his glass. He turns up to look straight at Haymitch. "It was raining in drizzles. She loves Paris."
The group suddenly bursts out in half mockery and half approval. "You're a sucker!"
"Well that's what she's always wanted to do! I was about to kneel down on the floor in The Keg!" Peeta tries to talk over the hollering. His friends continue to laugh and offer him more drinks.
As soon as a new set of music starts to play, a new group of strippers take their turn. Cinna stands up again and grabs Peeta's arm and drags him off his chair, leading him to the stage. Peeta stumbles and knocks into Cinna as he tries to grab chairs along the way for support, not hiding the trouble he is having with balance. They stop right below the stage and Cinna folds a fifty dollar bill and jams it into Peeta's hand. They eye a leggy stripper wearing fuchsia tie-front one piece outfit, all her hair tucked underneath an oversized cowboy hat, with her back turned to the stage as she works the pole in front of her.
Cinna grins at Peeta and slaps his back. "You know what they say about saving horses!"
Peeta looks up at the stripper, mainly the curves of her ass and hips swerving side to side, his head unsteady from alcohol consumption. He is immobile, and looks mesmerized, as the stripper rubs herself up and down the pole, working the muscles of her back. He could hear Marvel making an embarrassing variety of noises in the back.
"Well, come on! I gave you the power of Ulysses Grant, buddy," Cinna goads him on. Peeta takes another swipe at his stubbles as he takes a step forward closer to the stage.
He starts to breathe heavily, the sounds beating into his head as he shakes it back and forth. He has had more than enough mix of different alcohol he could handle, and now he couldn't even keep the lids from dropping over his eyes. His hand curls into a fist as it comes up to cover his mouth when he clears his throat.
The stripper still has not turned around and keeps one hand on the pole and the other pulling down the cowboy hat over her eyes, lowering herself and squatting on the stage. She sticks her ass out even more in Peeta's face, and he is entranced by the amount of skin ready for him to be touched, dangerously close to his reach. He scrunches the fifty dollar bill in his grasp and starts to reach out towards the fluid bodily movements in front of him, aiming for the spot on the round of her hip. The stripper's back arches majestically as she remains squatting down, one hand still on the pole, her head tilting up and backwards to look at Peeta until her cowboy hat falls off and long, wavy hair pour down her back and almost grazes the floor. Peeta blinks as she locks her gaze on him, both exchanging a short flicker of recognition, the cowboy hat now forgotten. His eyebrows furrow as he recalls those eyes. Those lips. His breath hitches in his throat. "Katniss?"
She intakes a sharp fill of air as her hand loses its grip around the dancing pole and falls completely and gracelessly in reverse, her back making a sickening loud thud against the platform and the tips of her long hair brushing against Peeta's shirt.