Chapter Two: Blueprints
The next morning, when I feel Peeta stir beside me, I've made my choice. He moves to sit up and I reach for his leg. He watches as I gently touch his prosthesis, then move my hand to my face, indicating my decision to him. His eyes flit back and forth between mine as he tries to gauge whether he's correctly discerned my meaning.
Impatient, I twine my fingers in his and pull him to the bathroom. Every faucet goes on full blast and I decide not to waste the water. Hope has transformed me, I want to feel my skin against Peeta's, have him hold me. I try to be practical, yanking off our sleep clothes, but the best I manage is removing our shirts before I lose patience and yank Peeta into the luxurious, walk-in shower with me, anxious to talk with him.
There's a built-in bench for Peeta's convenience, and I push him down on it, settling on his boxer-clad lap before cuddling up to him. His arms go instantly around me and his expression is surprised and still a bit drowsy. We must look ridiculous, wrapped up together, half-clothed, one of us barely awake as water cascades down on us, but I merely grin at the position I've gotten us into. We absolutely cannot be heard and the most reliable place is as close to the rushing water as possible. And I've truly missed our intimacy.
I pull him closer to me under the spray, nuzzling my face further against his shoulder. He'd been searching for a way to save me when I'd thought he was ignoring me and in denial about my plight. Would I ever stop misjudging him, stop owing him?
"I've been thinking about this all night. I know it's not a decision to be taken lightly, but given the choice, I can't lose a limb." I kiss him hurriedly, mindful of what he's given up for me. "In my heart I'm a hunter and I need to be able to believe that I'll run and shoot my bow and climb trees again." Peeta nods, and I wonder what sustaining an injury like Chaff's, another mentor we've met, would have done to him. Peeta can still paint and bake, integral parts of his life that weren't completely disrupted when he lost his leg. Artistic gifts like Peeta's should never be lost. His ability to pursue them is one of the few benefits of living here.
"I have to make myself ugly to them. I think it will be the most effective deterrent. I have to change my face somehow. That way, I won't lose anything I can't survive without."
Peeta looks at me and nods his agreement. "I thought that would be your choice. I've been talking to Johanna just in case. She...makes a hobby of knowing all the ways Snow torments his enemies. She says she's keeping score. Apparently, Snow is all about hitting where it hurts the most, maximizing mental and emotional trauma."
After my dealings with him before our successful Victory Tour, his threats to my loved ones, I know Johanna's summation hit the mark.
"When someone in the Capitol becomes a nuisance, sometimes he'll taint the chemicals used in their next remake. When the procedure is finished, their faces are frozen into grotesque caricatures of what they used to be. Snow barely has to lift a finger, and the person is alienated and exiled by their own friends and family, who are slaves to the Capitol superficiality. Image is everything here. Appearance is taken so seriously that it's become one of Snow's most effective forms of torment."
"Its popularity as a form of punishment has apparently inspired similar instances of retaliation. There've been rumors of it finding its way even into the remake rooms of Snow's supporters. According to Finnick, it happened to one of his clients. Even though the man was one of Snow's faithful, he was shipped off too. Sent away to the same sort of facility as Eugenia's sister."
I blink up at him owlishly. "Are you saying that there are Capitol citizens who retaliate against Snow?" Shock and nervous excitement bubble up inside me.
"I know it's hard to believe," Peeta whispered. "But Finnick and Johanna both hinted at it separately. They could even be involved in whatever small resistance exists. I mean, look at the information they have."
We both sit there for a while, contemplating a reality in which the oppression and tyranny in our lives had been overthrown.
"I wish I could be a part of it, contribute to a better future somehow."
Hearing this, I think of his bravery and selflessness, his captivating words and altruistic ways. I know Panem and I've grown to know Peeta. He would give too much of himself, risk his safety for everyone else's. Peeta would weave a landscape of freedom and opportunity with his words. The power of his oration would briefly wrap his audience in the contentment and well-being of that world, and they would not be able to give it up. He would show people beauty, and Snow would see and stamp it out. Peeta would be punished, broken if possible. I hug him closer. He's been hurt too much already.
"No."
Peeta raises his eyebrows and chuckles incredulously at me.
"Then you forbid it?"
I nod into his neck. "I forbid it."
Peeta toys with my wet hair a little longer, and I can tell he's trying to fight off despondency. If our plan succeeds, we'll be separated, likely forever. There's no way I'll be allowed to stay, and I sincerely doubt that he'll be able to accompany me. The likelihood of both of us having remakes with tampered chemicals is too small to risk trying for.
I relish the friction of his skin against mine and the sensation of water running over the rest of my body. Nuzzling my nose into the wet curls at the side of his head, I press lazy kisses along the shell of his ear, my lips gently kneading at the supple flesh of his earlobe. I've been so lucky to have him. Lucky beyond measure. I hug him closer to me as a fierceness of emotion fills me at the thought of leaving him.
He tells me he'll try to arrange a meeting between Johanna and I, so she can give me some specifics. I tremble in his arms, thinking of the path I've selected. Peeta clutches me to him desperately, and I'm only too happy to cling to his strength. I remind myself that terrifying as it is, the road ahead is of my own choosing. That's more than most souls can say.
...
Over the next few days, I go on several shopping sprees at the most prominent boutiques in the Capitol. As usual, as soon as I'm in public I'm followed and hounded for comments. I gush about how I'm ready for something new, how I want to reinvent myself and come out of my shell with a whole new look and wardrobe to match, now that I've grown more comfortable here. It's almost painful to prattle on about myself to these people, especially when the sentiments are completely vapid and false. But, like my behavior ever since Snow threatened us, it's all a carefully crafted act.
Each day, I begin to panic a little more at the thought of leaving Peeta behind. I guess I didn't realize how integral he's become to my mental wellbeing. Knowing he's safe has been one of my primary concerns for so long now, I can't imagine not being near him and having the reassurance that he's all right. Our existences have become so entangled, each of us depending on the other for survival in the games, on the tour, and in the Capitol, I'm starting to worry that it will feel like a piece of me has been lost.
I can't turn back, though, and I know he understands and encourages my decision.
We make several more appearances at various galas, banquets and parties. The pointless causes for celebration are limitless here. At one such event, thrown in recognition of the biggest sponsors in this year's Games, I'm attempting small talk with an utterly bland couple who nevertheless sponsored me in the 74th. They also sponsored this year's unfortunate District Twelve tributes, which I appreciate, but have difficulty expressing in terms that have meaning for them. To them, it was a gamble for recognition and bragging rights. A high-risk investment. To Twelve's unfortunate tributes, it was a last meal, a warm blanket, or relief from pain near the end. Peeta is luckily at my side to smooth over all my gaffes and fill any awkward silences.
An arm drapes itself languidly over my shoulder and I turn to see Johanna Mason at my side. Like Peeta and I, along with all the other victors present, she is wearing a haute couture interpretation of her respective Game's arena outfit, in keeping with the theme of the party and Snow's request. She's flushed and probably a little drunk, flashing everyone a self-satisfied, coy smirk. She slants her eyes back in my direction mischievously.
"We never talk, Mrs. Mellark. It's time to bury the hatchet and stop dancing around my friendship with your husband. Actual dancing is a lot more fun."
With that, Johanna grabs my hand and drags me away toward the dance floor. I'm so surprised I don't react until we're surrounded by sweaty bodies in motion.
"I bet you're lousy at this," she says snidely before proceeding to sway her body provocatively to the music. The only dancing I've done in the Capitol were couples' dances with Peeta. They were always slow and shuffling and had nothing to do with moving along to the rhythm of the music. I'm beyond lost here.
Johanna snorts when her prediction is confirmed. "You're going to have to do better than that, brainless," she hisses when her body sways close to mine.
I get angrier by the moment. I can dance in the folk style traditional to District Twelve, and from what I've seen, it requires a lot more grace and coordination than the sloppy gyrations popular in the Capitol. Unfortunately, those lively steps would be completely out of place here. My only hope is mimicking Johanna's movements, and despite her exaggerated eye roll, I think I manage as well as can be expected.
Soon though, her dancing becomes even more suggestive and it seems directed toward me. I flush, confused and flustered. She loops her arms around my neck and pulls me closer, forcing me to sway along with her. The music is blaring and I feel overwhelmed and uncomfortable. She's making a spectacle. Glancing around, I can see that the party attendees are watching the scene ravenously. I'm angry that she's forcing me to take part in titillating Capitol pigs. Until I realize Johanna has begun talking rapidly at a very low volume. And not about dancing. Straight to the point, she's giving me a crash course in how to change my appearance forever. I lean closer to catch the rest of what she's been saying.
"-fools can't stand a little pain. Even the smallest remakes involve extremely potent injections that numb the target area. Extensive procedures use massive amounts of Polacaine, even if the patient is being put under. It wears off, but if you mix it with the right chemical, Petrilinum, it can end up causing spasms and permanent paralysis in the affected area. Not very pleasant, I'd imagine." She raises her eyebrow at me challengingly.
"I'm no stranger to discomfort." I hope Johanna heard me over the pounding song. I'm not going to back out of this.
"Usually the Polacaine and Petrilinum toxin are mixed before the procedure, so it's the application of the numbing agent that actually causes the damage. That won't be the case, because no one is actually plotting against you. You're going to have to inject yourself with Petrilinum before you go into the remake room," Johanna informs me. "The Petrox alone won't be noticeable until the doctor adds the Polacaine, as long as you don't attempt much facial movement beforehand. But you never show any emotion anyway, so that's business as usual. Oh yeah, and it's going to fucking hurt. As long as they think it was mixed in with the Polacaine before you got there, you're off the hook."
"Is there really a resistance?" I can't help asking, hopeful.
"Think I'd tell you, brainless? All you need to know is some people don't think it'd be a bad thing if the star-crossed lovers stopped enthralling everyone with their sickening sap story," she sneers. "Then everyone might notice the world they live in is a stinking pile of shit. Snow wouldn't look so in control if his key player, The Girl who Burned Out, was ousted either. Maybe people would feel bold enough to do something.
"And it just so happens that one of the few who feel this way is a doctor, with access to all sorts of chemicals," she concludes smugly.
Johanna abruptly swings around and starts swiveling her hips against my backside in a lewd grinding motion. Before I can move, she grabs my braid tightly and yanks my head back and to the side. Then she latches onto my lips in the most unexpected move yet. Before I can squirm away, I feel her fingers slipping below my waistband in the back. I feel something cool and cylindrical placed carefully between the fabric and my skin.
I'm pretty sure I can guess what it is. She lets go of my hair and ends the kiss. "You've got all the sensuality of a dead slug. I hope you do a better job with Baker Boy. And despite your pathetic performance, I guarantee you the only thing anyone saw in that little exchange was the kiss," she whispers with a wink.
Before she moves away, I grab her arm, holding her in place. Although I dislike her, I want to know her opinion. "What would you do?"
"You mean what did I do. Like you, I decided I couldn't lose so much of myself to Snow. Unlike you, I underestimated him and how far he'll go to prove a point. Now there's no one left I love."
"If someone had come along and presented me with a cunning escape plan, would I have sacrificed my pride to keep my dignity? Accepted stares and solitude and repulsion to save myself and my family?" In her eyes, I can see intense pain, and anger at having it revealed. "I hope so."
Johanna steps away and disappears into the mass of bodies writhing to the obnoxious music. Careful not to dislodge the object from where it rests, gripped by the small bit of elastic along the waistband of my outfit, I make my way back to Peeta. We walk out of the party hand in hand, grip firm with resolve.
The next morning, I schedule a consultation with Panem's preeminent remake specialist.
...
I'm so nervous my hands are shaking, but Peeta, considerate as ever, wraps his own around mine to offer comfort and hide my tremors. I brainstormed for days about the most outrageously invasive remake that would make sense for Katniss Mellark, darling of the Capitol. I take a deep breath, and explain to the creature sitting across from us.
"I've been dying to show my love for Peeta on the outside. We're the star-crossed lovers and I want to look the part. I need diamond implants, so when people see me, I sparkle like the starry night sky."
The doctor, whose skin shines with such a high-gloss finish that it looks like he's been encased in glass, proceeds to discuss the arrangement and exact number of oversized diamonds I want surgically inserted into the skin of my face. This has to seem legitimate, so I ask several questions about the recovery time and maintenance of the finished product, which should never come to pass, luckily. After he suggests a number, I even pretend to be disappointed that more shiny rocks can't be crammed onto my face. To make it up to me, the specialist promises to schedule my remake ahead of several others, since I'm such a prestigious client.
That night, I stare into the mirror. I've never had the resources, time, or inclination to fret over beautifying myself. Even now, with the technology of the Capitol at my disposal, I care nothing for such pursuits. I don't dislike my looks. They're passable. I know I'm no great beauty, but I wouldn't want the attention that would garner, anyways. Peeta has always seemed overly pleased with my appearance, though I suspect he's prone to exaggeration in that department. He's certainly found more enjoyment in my countenance than I have, though the features of my face have served their purpose adequately-I could see far enough to shoot, use scent as an aid in tracking fauna and identifying flora, and rely on my hearing enough to keep my family alive.
But my face is my own, and it's familiar, and I'm attached to it. My looks aren't essential to my survival, they're not even essential to who I am. I know this, I've chosen, and I have no doubts, but I'm not sure that I've come to terms with losing the most personal, identifiable part of me yet. This is the face I was born with, the one my parents gave me to get me through life. And with that thought, I can see my mother's sharp cheekbones, a nose shaped like Prim's, and oh, my father's skin, his eyes, and his smile...
Why did I have to see myself this way, when my choice is already made? How can I give the reminder of him up? How can I afford not to?
I fly out of the bathroom and into Peeta's arms. He's reclining on the bed, reading some medical journal about remake side effects. He looks at me, startled, as I break away.
"Draw me."
Understanding and sadness fill his eyes. "Alright," he acquiesces softly.
It's almost unbearable, sitting still for Peeta while my thoughts ensnare me. Like how I'm the only one in the family who looked like my father. How I'll never have children, so the only hope of an Everdeen resembling him lies with Prim. How lovely it is that Peeta thinks I'm beautiful.
Why did that never please me, never matter to me before, even a little? I focus on him, diligently sketching across the room. He's the one that imagined this possibility in the first place, but how does he feel about it? I'm not sure I'm brave enough to ask him.
I've been staring at him for a while when he gently places his sketchbook down in his lap. "Finished."
"Is it right?"
A corner of his mouth tilts up, as if I've asked something naïve. "Katniss, I've drawn you so many times…" He looks down, his cheeks tinted pink as he thinks better of continuing whatever he was going to say. He looks up at me again, eyes sparkling. "It's right," he affirms with assurance.
I'm glad. But I don't want to see it. Maybe someday, if I need reminding, he could send it to me and it will be a familiar surprise. We're both quiet, sitting there together. The silence between us has returned as we get closer to my remake. I don't think either of us knows how to breach the topic of our upcoming separation. I doubt Peeta will handle it well, but then neither will I.
"Just- don't forget, okay? How I am now." I'm not sure where these words are coming from, but I can't stop them.
Peeta lets out a disbelieving breath.
"As if I could."
"What if I do? What if I forget my own face? I know how I look now, but the way I looked as a child is only vaguely familiar. What if it's like that?" I end on a whisper. I'm mortified to feel my lip trembling. The fear of what's ahead seems to be hitting me all at once.
Peeta sets the sketchbook aside and approaches, sinking down on the bed next to me.
"You know I've been watching you from afar since we were five. And you're right, everyone's face is constantly, subtly changing. But you're too worried about changes in what others see. Enjoy your face the way you experience it."
And Peeta shows me how, as he gently draws a finger over the furrows in my worried brow, smoothing the lines there. His fingers trail along the sides of my temple, soothing me. As they graze the edges of my cheeks, I can't help but smile. The sensation of his touch on my face is singing through my skin, and when he sweeps his thumb up the curve of my chin to my lips, barely grazing the outline of each, I can't breathe for the tingling bliss shooting through me. His index finger playfully slides down the length of my nose and dips along the indentation in my upper lip before tracing the arch of each eyebrow.
Languidly, my eyes close and I lean back on the bed, my head finding one of our pillows. Peeta follows me down, leaning over me. He gently caresses across my closed eyelids, his fingertips trailing in a whisper across the sensitive skin, and my body is flooded with calm contentment. As my mind settles and I drift in the limbo right before slumber, he draws back to plant a small kiss on each earlobe. Clicking off the light and nestling at my side, his hand entwines with mine over my midsection. Peeta's warm breath stirring the loose hairs at my neck is the last thing I notice as we both fall asleep.
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