am so sorry, I realize that it had been six months since I last updated and almost a year since I began the story but I thank any of you who are still loyal to the story! Please leave a comment! I promise to update more often! Thank you!
Chapter 4: The Man from District Three
"One ticket to District Three."
That's what I tell the District Nine woman who sells the tickets. I'm finally leaving the Capitol, disguised of course. My hair is swept back behind my forehead with a special kind of gel that dyes my hair green only until I wash it next. I'm wearing a pair of large sunglasses and a bit of pink dust on my face that I found in the hovercraft I stole. I would take the hovercraft to District Three, but it's just too far.
My disguise works; no one tries to approach me. I assume that no hospital personnel have reported my absence yet. So, I board the train as it speeds off to the District of technology.
I walk slowly down the street, swinging a backpack over my shoulder and whistling. I need to keep up a carefree demeanor if I'm going to fool this guy.
I keep walking until I find it: a small, rundown repair shop sitting between two newer ones. Since the rebellion, many buildings here have undergone major renovations now that their owners can actually afford it. I stop outside the shop to check my reflection in the window. I am wearing sunglasses with my naturally blonde hair now free of gel and slicked back over my head. I am wearing a tight white t-shirt with the seal of District Four on its front, along with a pair of cargo shorts and sandals, the custom wear of the district. I put on an arrogant, cool attitude and step into the shop, beaming.
As the beeping sound that signals a customer goes off and the flimsy door closes, I stand in the middle of the small shop and look at the man behind the counter: exactly the man I wanted to see.
The place is in bad shape. The man from District Three is sitting behind a semi-circular counter dotted with crudely placed glass boxes containing different electronic devices. There is a desk on the wall behind it, in front of which the man is sitting as he reads from an electronic newspaper tablet. On the wall above the desk hangs a rack of different tools used to fix electronics, none of which I can recognize. But aside from these tiny signs of organization, the place is in disrepair, with boxes strewn about and wallpaper peeling off in shreds. Part of me wonders how he ended up like this.
As I stand looking at him, I make my presence known. "Hey!" I shout.
"Salutations," says the man as he puts down the news-tablet. He doesn't seem entirely interested in my presence, until he looks up and sees my ridiculousness. He instantly falls for my trick and takes me for a prestigious District Four socialite. Thinking that a dumb surfer boy like that would not understand his greeting, he tries again.
"Afternoon," he says in a forcibly informal tone. I have to stifle a laugh at how awkward his intelligent tongue is when it comes to speaking colloquially. After all, he is a man known for his technical vocabulary. But as of now, he doesn't know that I know that.
He is wearing a simple loose brown shirt with worn khakis, and the same glasses he always wore. His dark skin contrasts with the bronze-colored metal of his glasses, which cover a pair of imploring brown eyes.
"It appears as if you're of the marine district." He says quickly. "Am I correct in saying that?"
"Almost," I say, tossing my hair back and stretching my arms before pointing to my shirt with both thumbs and in overly-proud gesture. "District Four!"
He nods slowly, slightly appalled at my apparent stupidity. I've got him right where I want him.
"Oh, very good," he says smiling. "Welcome to District Three."
"Exemplary," I say as I shift my backpack to the other shoulder and walk towards the bar set up around him. I misuse the term to lead him on even further.
"Ah," he says with an interested open mouth. "You've been picking up some of our eloquent District Three colloquialisms, haven't you?"
"Yeah," I say with an arrogant shrug of my shoulders. "I just learned a few this morning." I step closer to him. "Could I get a seat at the bar, man?" I ask.
"Oh, of course!" he replies, instantly gesturing with open, friendly arms to a stool right in front of the bar. "I apologize for not offering a seat more promptly. As you can see, I'm afraid that I've been far too invested in my tinkering with the parts behind the bar."
"It's cool, man, it's cool." I say in the lazy District Four way, giving him a pretentious smile as we both chuckle warmly.
He continues to mess with whatever he has behind the bar, using a variety of tools. His focus is so intense that even I seem to forget that I'm here. He looks up at me rapidly a few times before stopping altogether to slap himself on the side of the head. "Oh dear," he says. "You've been here for almost a minute now and I've done absolutely nothing to assist you as a proprietor."
"Hey, no worries, man," I reply coolly. "Don't stress yourself. I'm just cooling it here for a minute before I start looking at all your cool gadgets."
He seems almost relieved, as he goes back to his work. But he surprises me when he chuckles loudly and warmly, shaking his head as he does so. Before I have the chance to ask why, he explains, "It's comical to me, you using the word 'gadgets.' Have you taken the time to learn any of our other native technical terms?"
"Oh, let me think," I say in an exaggerated pondering tone, staring at the ceiling in false concentration. I act as if I'm searching my entire brain until finally I find a word. "'Circuit-board!'"
"Oh!" he says, smiling at me like a proud parent and clapping his hands.
"Oh! And what about 'electromagnetic'?" I say excitedly, making sure to use my real voice in order to pronounce it correctly this time.
"Yes, yes!"
I make another exaggerated search for this next one: "Technocological?" I say, almost like a question.
"Ah," he says, a tad excited to be able to correct me. He puts his hand up with his fingers fixed in an almost-pointing gesture, shaking it with each syllable. "Tech-no-lo-gic-al," he sounds out slowly.
"Tech-no-lo-gic-al?" I repeat slowly.
"Ah," he says satisfied. "Repaired. You say those big words very well."
"Oh come on, man," I say smiling, leaning my head back. "Now you're just making fun of me."
"No, of course not!" he counters, putting a hand over his heart. "My response may have sounded slightly condescending, but I am not kidding at all about the fact that your pronunciation of those words is...exemplary!"
"Well thanks man," I say laughing.
Once again, there is an awkward silence, followed by a guilty look from him. But this time, he actually does something.
"I'm terribly sorry," he says. "I'm supposed to offer you a drink while you browse my technological merchandise. We haven't had a customer in a while, as you can see." He gestures to the messy state of the place.
If only he knew that I couldn't care less.
Then he sits up and clap his hands. "Enobaria! We have a customer! Grind the coffee beans!"
Enobaria? There's no possible way. Why on Earth would he ever let her come work here? Last time they had contact, he was busy coming up with a way to kill her.
"I'm doing my workouts!" she shouts back to him, sounding out of breath.
The man from District Three shakes his head. "Still stuck in the games…" he says to the countertop, then shouts, "Enobaria, please just do what I asked of you. We have an agreement."
There is another silence before Enobaria begrudgingly trudges out from a door to his right, her tan skin glistening with sweat. She looks me up and down, baring her teeth in a way that is probably not intentionally threatening, but rather a way in which she has just become accustomed to greeting people. The lack of expression on her face confirms that she doesn't recognize me either. Upon her entering, he looks back down at the gadget he is tinkering with, satisfied at her assent.
"What do you want?" she asks me rudely.
I pretend to be intimidated. "Uh...can I just get a cup of hot chocolate?"
Instantly, he looks up at me in affectionate surprise. "Hot chocolate? Very good! Would you mind grinding the cocoa beans, Enobaria?"
She looks the tiniest bit taken aback at my request. "Hot chocolate? It's summertime. And aren't you like twenty-one? You look like twenty-one."
He shoots her a disapproving look. "Enobaria, let's not judge the customer on his dietary habits. Everyone likes a nice hot chocolate every once in a while, no matter what their age." He smiles at me good naturedly and returns to his work. But Enobaria is far from pleased by this whole situation. And I don't think she's angry about the hot chocolate.
"I'm getting very tired of the orders, Volts," she spits. "Our deal was that you would let me live here with you out of the public eye, and in return I would help your crippled ass run this shit business. Not anywhere in our agreement did either of us mention that you would tell me how to run my life and deal with people!"
"Enobaria!" his voice raises in a very out-of-character fashion. "Please refrain from using foul language in the presence of a customer!"
"Put a power cord in it!" she retorts, shifting to my right side and practically talking to him over my shoulder. "For three years now, you've been urging me to 'settle down,' 'put away the past,' and 'be courteous to our customers.' If we were still in the games, I would have ripped your throat out in your sleep by now!"
"Oh, you would?" he asks sardonically. Then he pulls out the contraption he's been working on and points it at Enobaria. Instantly she receives a short shock that startles her and makes her jump back. "Then I would be sure to sleep with an auto-electrocution device so that we would both go down. And then you would be forced to 'settle down' and 'put away the past' in the afterlife. Do you understand, piranha-mouth?"
"I'm not a piranha-mouth; I sharpen my teeth. Do you understand?" she asks me sarcastically before another jolt from the man from District Three sends her back to the kitchen, presumably to make a very awful cup of hot chocolate. But I did not come here for refreshments.
"I am dreadfully sorry about all of that," he says to me. "I pray that you were not offended by any of what was said."
"It's cool, man. It's cool," I respond good-naturedly and gesture to his mild electrocution device. "At least we know that thing works now."
He looks down at it and laughs heartily. "Yes!" he says between chuckles. "I believe we do!"
We share a laugh that gradually dies down before he begins arranging his technology.
"So," he implores. "What brings you to my district? I'm confident that you did not come to look at my unimpressive collection of inventions.
I wave my hand and shake my head to both dismiss his self-depreciating joke and confirm his thoughts.
"No," I say smiling, and then grow serious. "I came to see a man."
He doesn't notice my change in tone.
"Oh," he says, not looking up from his work. "You have a friend in District Three?"
"More than a friend," I answer. "An ally, I'd say."
"Oh, an ally!" he replies. "Who is he, may I ask?"
"Beetee Latier," I reply sternly and quietly, looking directly at him without wavering.
As the happy mood breaks, so does whatever contraption he has just dropped on the floor, which produces the only sound heard in the room. His eyes wide, he slowly looks up at me with a look of surprise and hostility on his face. He studies my face a bit, before his own softens and he nods his head.
"Peeta Mellark," he says. "What do you want with Beetee Latier?"
"I need District Three technology," I reply ominously.
"Why do you need District Three technology?"
"I have mutts to kill."
"They must be some pretty big mutts, if you need Beetee Latier's technology."
I lean in close and pull my sunglasses down over my nose so that we can finally see eye-to-eye.
"Huge."
OoO
Upon ascending the top of the ramp, I am hit with quite a musty smell. Though it could never compare to the coal mines I grew up seeing or the pig sty where I tossed the burnt bread behind our bakery, it is still pretty musty. This is probably owed to Beetee's failure to open the door to this attic room in all the time he has been here since the end of the rebellion.
However, my smell disappears along with all three of my other senses, excluding sight, as I take in what I am looking at. I am in instant awe as I behold the rows upon rows of high-tech weapons hung on the long wall before me. Bows and crossbows that hum with life as I walk in front of them, gun-like contraptions that buzz with electricity, and machines capable of firing a multitude of different bullets dangle in my vision. Beetee is truly a master of weapon design and a skilled builder as well. I approach a large knife that literally begs me to pick it up. Just before I touch it, I snap out of my funk and look back to Beetee, who watches me, amused, from his position halfway up the ramp.
"May I?" I ask timidly.
"Please," he answers warmly.
Instantly I look down at the weapon. Slowly, with two hands held parallel to one another, I lift the knife from its bar on the wall and hold it up to my face, almost inhaling its greatness as I back up and turn to face Beetee. With a menacing smile, I swiftly spin it to hover horizontally before my face and remove the sheath just enough to see my reflection. I have long since removed my sunglasses, and the knife is so clean that I can see the blueness of my eyes in its metal.
I rapidly remove the entire knife from its sheath and stand threateningly with the knife held at my side, inviting Beetee to attack.
So Beetee does the closest thing to attacking as he is capable of. "Funny," he begins, pulling something out of his pocket. "You like knives, I like fire."
Before he even finishes the sentence, he hurls a lump of coal at me. Without blinking, I slice the coal into two perfect halves. Upon contact with the coal, the knife senses them and ignites itself, setting the two halves aflame as they land on either side of me.
He nods and smiles, impressed with my still-existent skills. He wheels himself around the room, admiring his weapons for the first time in a long while, and speaking to me kindly. "I wanted to show you these. What I have here is my life's work. From my days as a street rat tinkering with things to my days as Panem's inventive Victor to my days as District Thirteen's technological expert, I have kept track of all of my inventions, both good and bad. However, someone as wise beyond his years as you are, Mellark, must know that I no longer make instruments of death. Too many innocent children have died at the hands of my inventions. What I have here I only keep for their personal value." He approaches me, retrieves the knife, places it back in its sheath, smiles, and turns to hang it back where it belongs.
"Then give me one of these," I say back as he hangs the knife.
"These are not for sale," he says sternly.
I laugh. "I didn't say 'sell me.' I said 'give me.'"
He laughs back, harder, and wheels around. "With all due respect, my boy, we may owe each other a few things, but why on Earth should I help you kill whoever it is you're planning to kill?"
"Because," I say slowly. "My mutt is a former ally of yours." I lower my head to glare at him from beneath my brow. "And considering the ally, I'd say you have a rather large obligation."
For the first time I can remember, I see Beetee truly and utterly surprised. He crosses before me without a glance and goes straight to a foggy window overlooking the newly-paved street. He slowly retrieves one hand from his lap and hesitates before carefully etching the name of my target into the condensation.
K-A-T-N-I-S-S.
He lets his finger fall limp on the final "S," looking at the name as if he hadn't written it himself seconds before. He turns toward the ramp and begins to speak to me with no emotion in his voice.
"You can sleep here. It will take me a month to make you the knife." He turns to me before descending the ramp. "I suggest you spend that time practicing."
With him gone, I walk to the window and glare at the letters there, before using my forearm to rub the entire name off of the glass. When one corner of a letter stays, I use my fingertip to take care of that as well. Soon this girl will be as gone as these letters.
***ONE MONTH LATER***
Beetee sits before me, his District Thirteen clothing clean and pressed for what I can only guess is a very symbolic ceremony for him. His face looks grim as he looks down at his lap and then at the two metal bowls each filled with burning coals at his sides. Enobaria kneels formally behind him, clad in her favorite battle suit. But she is not proud, as her expression much reflects Beetee's. In fact, she looks at him sympathetically. Evidently, her only weak spot is to rituals involving weapons. Not surprising.
I kneel before Beetee, in a simple gray uniform that he loaned me for this exact occasion. It is a bit odd, but I assume that there is more to it and I am not going to argue with the man who is giving me a free knife.
Calmly, with eyes looking toward the ceiling, he retrieves a huge, beautiful knife from under his chair. The handle and sheath are covered in yellow, probably symbolic. It hums just like most of his other weapons, but the humming grows louder when it sees me, so it must be made for me especially.
As he begins to remove the sheath, Enobaria instinctively rushes to hold the sheath as he pulls the knife out and examines it, holding it horizontally and vertically before himself. It is impossibly shiny and sharp, with flame designs licking it. He rubs the designs softly, and the blade immediately bursts into flames. Enobaria and I jump a little bit at this, but Beetee just stares stoically into the fire before sighing and speaking.
"I have just finished doing something that I swore on the memory of my deceased district partner and inseparable friend Wiress that I would never do again. I have created 'something that kills people.'"
Enobaria looks at him with what almost looks like genuine interest as he closes his eyes to fight the emotion.
"I have done this because, Peeta, I am sympathetic to your aim. I can tell you with no ego that this is my finest invention." He takes his eyes off of the knife and its flames go out. He turns it sideways, signaling Enobaria to return and help him sheath the weapon.
"If you should encounter Wiress on your journey, her spirit with be cut far worse than her throat was." He carefully sheaths the rest of the knife before holding it in his hands and admiring it for a moment. Then, he leans forward and offers it to me.
"Fair-haired warrior," he says. "Go."
I slowly accept the weapon. I look down at it as my fingers coil around it, and all I can see are the faces of the ones who will soon be at the mercy of it.
"Exemplary," I reply.