The next morning, my torturer doesn't bring any of the vicious, ugly weapons from his cabinet when he walks over to hurt me. All he's holding is a long syringe with a gleaming, sharp needle.

Instantly, all my senses flare up in warning. This is not good. He's only brought that thing because he thinks it'll be more effective than anything else...

I try to prepare myself and I don't even know what I'm preparing myself for. He's going to inject me with that awful syringe, that's certain. There's no way I'll be able to stop him. But what is it going to do to me?

It's going to cause me pain. Terrible pain. That's the only thing I know for sure.

My eyes are locked on that needle. I can't tear them away. I don't know if I want to. It's terrible because it's such a small, simple thing and yet I know instinctively that it's going to cause me such agony.

It's the most terrifying weapon I've ever seen in his hand.

Such effectiveness in total simplicity. It's like the simple, classic lines of my own designs.

No, it's not! I think in furious terror. No it's not, no it's not, I don't want to think this way!

But I'm too tired and too afraid to be able to hold back this one more horrible comparison. And naturally, it leads right back into the ones I've already been fighting not to think. His weapons and my sewing kits, his cruel assistants and my loving prep team, his expertise and mine...

This awful stylist is going to create me right into a style of pain. And I won't be able to get out of it.

The Peacekeeper just stands over me and stares for the longest time. He doesn't say anything. Finally he steps a little closer and speaks.

"We're going to try something different this morning, Cinna," he tells me. "You might want to prepare yourself. Of course, it would be an even better idea to just decide to finally talk to me. You really don't want to face this one, Cinna. If I do this and you decide to talk, there's no antidote. You're going to be in pain for at least half the day whether you decide you can't stand it or not."

His words send a deep shiver through me. I'm still staring at that needle and now I'm even more terrified. Still, I find the strength to speak. He may be able to scare me half out of my mind, but he can't take my dignity. I'm the only one who's in control of that and I won't let him.

"I don't have anything I can say to you," I tell him. My voice is steady in spite of the terrible shaking that's starting deep inside my chest. "I can't tell you what you want to know, no matter what you threaten me with, because I don't know any of it myself. Can't you understand that?"

Of course, I'm still lying.

I have a feeling my Peacekeeper friend here knows that as well as I do.

He shakes his head and scowls at me.

"Then get ready. It's going to be bad."

I already knew that.

Reaching across my trapped body with his left hand, he pinches a section of the front of my upper left arm between his fingers. The grip is hard and cruel, hurting me in itself.

It would be painful even if there wasn't already a deep, aching bruise there. It's even worse because I know what's coming.

I want to shrink away, but there's no place to go. I'm already pinned flat against this horrible table. Still, I find I'm pressing myself back as hard as I can.

It only gives me maybe a quarter of an inch. It does me no good at all. But it gives him an even clearer picture of my fear. I hate that, but he smiles.

Then, terrifyingly quickly, his smile fades. I'm not even entertaining to him anymore, not for more than a few seconds at a time.

It's a very bad sign.

It's like when a tribute is no longer 'entertaining' in the Hunger Games. That's when the Gamemakers either step things up or make a move to take that tribute out.

Right now, my Gamemaker is stepping things up.

"All right, Cinna," my torturer says in a hard, angry voice. "Maybe this will get you to talk. I'm tired of you playing around."

He stabs the needle into my arm. I feel it biting deep, but that pain is almost trivial. I'm scared, though, and that makes it harder to handle.

He pushes down the plunger, slowly. At first I don't feel anything more. Then there's a slow trickle of liquid warmth inside my muscle. I watch, suddenly even more fearful, as he pulls the needle out and sets the empty syringe aside. He presses hard, cruel fingers against the place where he injected me and starts to remorselessly massage the spot.

Sudden pain explodes from the site.

Then it starts jumping to more and more places in my body. Never leaving one place, but just adding more. I gasp and feel my body going tense, pressing against the table.

Whatever was in that syringe, it's attacking my nerves.

Suddenly my whole body is on fire with searing pain. I'm defenseless, fighting not to scream as the bright, seething wash of pain attacks me from the inside out.

I don't know what it is that he's injected me with. All I know is that it hurts unimaginably.

And my brain just took that as a challenge.

I'm an artist. Of course, my mind tries to find something to imagine that I can relate this to. And I find it, not in my own experience - which holds nothing like this, even now - but in an image from the Hunger Games that Katniss fought in last year.

I can imagine this might be what a massive attack with tracker jacker venom might feel like. I imagine this is what Glimmer might have felt. Glimmer, the girl from District One. I remember how she writhed and screamed on the ground when Katniss dropped that nest of tracker jackers right on top of her.

Glimmer must have felt such agony. Her body was twisting and pressing against the ground so hard. She'd been attacked by hundreds of tracker jackers at once, right out of a sound sleep. I remember staring at the screen in horror, overwhelmed by the sight of this young girl being in so much pain.

Even though I was so fiercely hoping for Katniss to win. Even though Katniss had just delivered a devastating strike against her enemies.

It didn't matter. Glimmer was hurting so much I wished I could just jump into the screen and cradle her in my arms to soothe her pain away. I remember having an image leap into my mind, of her family clinging to each other and screaming in anguish for her as they were forced to watch.

There was no way I could imagine the kind of pain Glimmer was feeling. I knew that. I tried, and failed. Now, I think I can imagine it. It would take an experience like this for me to have any chance of beng able to relate to hers.

It's like this. Tracker jacker venom would feel exactly like this.

For a moment I wonder. Is this tracker jacker venom? But no. It isn't causing me any hallucinations. My mind is clear, aside from this awful torrent of agony.

No hallucinations. Just pain.

It's so much pain that I don't feel like my body and mind are able to handle it. And that brings me suddenly face to face with a paralyzing new fear.

Is it possible to feel so much pain that you die just from that? Because right now, I'm hurting so much that I feel like that could happen. I'm so tense. I'm rocked by waves of pain. My body feels like it's about to literally tear itself apart with the awful flaming agony I'm feeling.

All my nerves, all my senses are alive with the need to be free of this pain. Could my body just decide to stop, no matter what I want, just stop breathing and stop living so this slamming rockslide of pain could end? Could my heart just stop instead of beating one more time through this torture?

I'm so scared by that. So terribly scared that I'm almost panicking. My thoughts are racing. There's too much I want to live for! Could I just die right now, in spite of that? No matter what I want? Is it possible?

I don't know. But I won't let it be. Not for me.

My fists are suddenly clenched, and I can feel my eyes blazing with furious determination as I stare at the hard white ceiling. I'm fighting this now with all my strength. I'm fighting so hard that I almost don't feel the pain at all now as anything but a part of my fury.

I'm going to live!

As the Peacekeeper promised, I'm locked in this flaming pain for hours. It's incredibly hard to stand it.

I can't - what am I doing - what am I going to do? My thoughts are fragmented. Dizzy. I can't focus. I feel like I'm being pulled apart.

Wait. This is what... I decided. I'm going to fight like an artist. I have to create something!

Desperately, I try to think of a design. Something to focus my mind. The image of some kind of a fur coat flashes through my mind, then it's gone. A blue dress... a man's formal suit...

I try to hold on to them. I try to pick something and stay with it. But my thoughts are flyaway, scattered and uncertain. Patterns and designs are fragmenting as soon as I think of them. There's just too much pain. I never imagined there could be this much pain in all the world.

Or that I would be feeling all of it.

Don't be ridiculous, Cinna! I tell myself. Of course you're not feeling all the pain in the world!

But right now I feel like I am.

It's hours later, again. At least, I think it's been hours. I'm still in pain. The awful toxin from that injection hasn't abated yet.

My thoughts are getting a little clearer, though. Maybe the pain is fading a little. Or maybe I'm just gradually learning how to handle it better. It's been so unchanging for so long, after all.

Either way, I'm feeling steadier. But the pain is still so bad that I'm only partly holding it back.

The Peacekeeper is still standing over me. He's been standing here all this time, not moving, just looking down at me with a total lack of sympathy for my agony. Which is only natural, considering that he's the one who's deliberately choosing to cause it.

"Well, Cinna?" he asks me. "Are you ready to talk?"

Talk?

I can't trust myself to say a single word through this much pain. Pressing my lips together, I glare at him and shake my head.

There's nothing I can tell you! I'm saying with my eyes. No matter how many times you ask me! I can't talk right now, but I'm thinking the words at him as hard as I can, furious and exhausted from all this pain.

And suddenly I realize there is something very wrong.

I'm making a huge mistake.

This man is carefully watching my face. He's watching my eyes. And I'm realizing all at once what he's seeing there.

Bravery. That's what he's seeing.

And that's what's telling him that I have something to hide.

Because this cruel Peacekeeper, my torturer, is seeing my brave determination to keep silent. Not just silent for Katniss, but silent about the rebellion too. He's seeing it written all over my face and pouring out from my eyes. He must be.

And here I thought I was doing a good job of keeping my emotions under wraps.

Apparently not.

He's seeing everything. Or at least everything he needs.

I'm starting to think this man is as good at his job as I am at mine.

That's a very terrifying thought. Considering the circumstances.

Finally, my pain starts to gradually ebb away. The Peacekeeper is still standing here. He must be able to see the difference, because his face suddenly gets even harder and more alert.

"All right," he says harshly. "Now would you like to try making sense and just answer my questions, Cinna? It's not that complicated. Who are you working with? What is going on in the rebellion?"

He's firing the questions at me really fast. He seems angrier than I've ever seen him. I can't help wondering if it's all about my continued defiance... or if there's something else going on.

Have the rebels done something, and he's angry with me for not telling him about it?

The thought fills me with a surprisingly vivid hope, even as my torturer continues to hammer me with his relentless questions. If the rebellion has done something to make him this angry... then for me, that's a very good thing. It may not help me personally, but it means that my side is striking a blow for victory.

And that does help me personally. A lot. Because now, I'm feeling more than ever like all of this is worth it.

Apparently, my Mockingjay dress really has inspired people to fight back!

I wonder what they're doing?

Because that's the ironic thing here. If the rebellion really has made some dramatic move today, I really don't know about it.

Just like Haymitch said. Just like we all planned. And I'm glad I don't know. Because the less I know, the less there's any risk of my torturers finding out.

Not that I'd ever let that happen anyway.

When the Peacekeeper pauses in his rapid, angry questioning, I just look at him for a second before I answer.

"I don't know anything," I say quietly and calmly, even though my body is still shaking and tense with a considerable amount of pain.

There's no point in saying any more than that.

The Peacekeeper's face contorts with rage. For a moment, I wonder if he's going to strike me with his fist again, like he did the other day. But he keeps control of himself.

"Very well," he says coldly. "I am tired of you for now. My men can handle this for a while, I think."

As if on cue, his two assistants walk in the door. And of course, undoubtedly they were watching from outside and waiting for him to call them. I suddenly envision a small television monitor, mounted on the wall just outside the door to this awful room, so they can watch me and decide exactly when to come in.

There probably is.

The Peacekeeper nods to his men. His face is still hard and angry. "Take over," he tells them simply, in a voice that's just as hard as the look on his face. Then, without another word, he turns on his heel and leaves.

Without wasting a moment, the other two men get out that horrible drawer of weapons from the tool chest. Coldly and uncaringly, they start to attack me again.

Leaving the Peacekeeper free for whatever else he might have planned for this afternoon.

Apparently, I think with a shiver of sick horror as always at the comparison, it's sometimes very convenient for him to have a prep team.

The Peacekeeper's been gone a lot longer than I expected. It's still just his cruel assistants torturing me. Not that they need any help. They're almost as good at viciously causing me pain as he is.

But what is he doing? I only expected him to leave for a little while. Instead, it's starting to look like he's taken the rest of the day off.

Not, I think in hollow frustration, that I get to do that.

But I wish I could. This is just taking so very long. And on top of the pain from my actual torture, my back is starting to really hurt again from lying on this table. It's gone beyond stinging and aching, into this sharp, grating sort of pain that I've never felt before from anything.

Who knew this horrible table was going to start hurting me almost worse than everything else?

I'm starting to get very, very tired from all this pain. I'm getting so tired that I almost can't keep my thoughts together.

No, it's more than that. I'm not just getting tired. I've been tired for a while. And I still have far too much of this day left to face. How many hours has it been? Not enough for the day to be over, surely. I'm starting to learn that it's always so much longer than it feels like it should be, before one of these horrible days really ends.

Still, even though I'm learning to expect it, the awful length of this day is hard to accept. And even harder to deal with. It feels like this is taking so much longer than it possibly, really could. There just can't be this many hours in a single day.

It's all right, I tell myself. I can handle it, and then it will be over.

Over? But what about tomorrow?

I can't think about that. I just can't. Because if I start thinking like that, I might get too discouraged and frightened to keep fighting. And I won't let that happen.

There's too much at stake here. This may be some bizarre kind of an arena, and I may be a tribute, but I'm fighting for more than just my own life. I'm fighting for the lives and safety of all my friends in the rebellion. The lives and freedom of everyone in Panem.

And I'm fighting for Katniss. Because of that horrible, horrible plan with the jabberjays. The Gamemakers and my torturers really think I'm going to allow them to do that to Katniss?

They're completely wrong.

They're not going to use me to hurt her! There's no way! I won't let them!

So I won't cry out. I won't answer any questions. And I won't think about tomorrow until it happens.

I just won't.

I do not like violence. It's bothered me ever since I was little.

A memory from years ago comes to mind, surfacing through the pain I'm feeling now. I was eight years old. I remember sitting cross-legged on the carpet at home, watching that year's edition of the Hunger Games with sick fascination. It was the same every year, once I got old enough to figure out what was going on. I hated it, and it scared me. Not for me, but for the kids in the arena.

Because they were kids. Like me. They were people, like me. And they were being hurt so very badly, and in the end, each year, all but one of them was killed.

I hated it. I hated it passionately. But I could never look away. I was glued to the screen every minute, hour after hour, unable to tear my eyes or my mind away from what was happening to those frightened, angry tributes.

And my dad seriously did not get it.

That day, we had several adult guests who'd come over to watch the Games with us. It wasn't unusual. The Hunger Games, for the people of the Capitol, are a favorite opportunity for fun, socializing, and even parties.

I hated that part too. Not the parties or the friends coming over, but the fact that it was for such a horrible reason.

But apparently, my dad had completely missed the fact that I hated the Games at all. He mistook my horrified absorption for something else entirely.

"Cinna loves his Hunger Games!" he said, sounding as if he was proud of me and thought I was being really cute, all at the same time.

Everyone in the room shared a big laugh. Everyone but me.

I looked up seriously, turning to face all of them. They thought I loved the Games? That wasn't right. That wasn't it at all!

I knew it wasn't a good idea to say too much about how horrible the Hunger Games were. My mom had taught me that years before. It scared her too much when I said anything about that, and I didn't like to scare her. But still, I couldn't let this one go.

Staring up at my parents and our friends, I tried to explain. "I don't. I just want to know."

They all laughed again. "Try to figure out an eight year old!" one woman said, not with any kind of meanness but just as if the whole situation was cute.

They completely didn't get it. There's nothing cute about the Hunger Games and there never has been. I've known that since I was three years old.

Unhappily, I turned to face the screen again. And spent the rest of the evening watching those terrified children hurt and kill each other.

No, I've never liked violence. It's completely sick and horrible. I wish there was no such thing as violence in the whole world.

My breath catches in my throat as my torturers' weapons cut sharp lines of pain across my body.

Violence.

It's ironic that so much of it is happening to me now.

But in a way, it's not ironic at all, is it? Because this is what I decided. I'd rather the violence happens to me than that it keeps happening to other people.

I'd rather face this pain myself, by choice, than watch another year of tributes being forced to face pain and death in the arena.

Or another twenty years of tributes, or eighty. Or live a comfortable, easy life and then die of old age, knowing that there will be hundreds of years of more Games. Knowing that there are still dozens of faded envelopes in that old box, with dozens of horrors for an endless string of Quarter Quells. As if the ordinary Games weren't already far more than bad enough.

There's no way I could have lived with myself if I'd just stood aside and let all that continue. If I hadn't joined the rebellion. If I hadn't made the choices that I knew would lead to my being here and probably to my death.

If I hadn't made my Mockingjay design, even though I knew what it would cost me.

No. I made the right choice, and I don't regret it.

Because I just can't value my life above the lives of all those children.

Of course I can't. But I do still really want to survive. And to reach the end of all this.

And I desperately wish I could reach it now. It's getting harder and harder for me to stand the thought of being here even one minute longer.

It just hurts so much.

If only I could just get out of here, I'm thinking now. Just get up off this table and walk right out through the door. And not be here any more.

Not be hurt any more. And not have to keep being scared that I'm going to die.

Now there's a realistic thought.

Getting out of here? Just like that?

Not very likely.

Of course getting out of here would be wonderful. Not being trapped. But I have to face reality. It's not going to happen, at least not anytime soon. The only way I'll get out of here is to survive all this, and who knows how long that could take?

I can't let myself think like that. Besides, I'm not going to just wait and survive. I'm going to escape.

But how?

Author's Note:

Cinna's right. The rebels did just do something major! At midnight last night, they sabotaged the Quarter Quell and pulled Katniss, Finnick, and Beetee out of the arena.

But Cinna doesn't know that. Why would his torturers tell him something like that? So he still thinks Katniss is in the arena, and he's still afraid for her because of it. :(

On another note: I also have a very short oneshot, Mean, that tells what I think happened when Cinna first started to understand what the Hunger Games were about. He's three years old in that story (which I've briefly referred to in this chapter). If you're interested, look it up on my profile! Mean can be read as a stand-alone story, but goes along with the continuity of Into My Work. In fact, I originally composed it as a flashback scene for this novel, before I decided to post it as a fic by itself. So, check it out! It really is a part of this same storyline.