"But it's the look in [Peeta's] eyes—angry yet unfocused—that frightens me the most." ~Katniss Everdeen, Mockingjay
Chapter 7
My guards station themselves stoically on each side of me, come to take me back to my room. As I'm escorted out of the auditorium, I catch sight of the Capitol man, the one who threatened Katniss. He watches me with an expressionless face, and I can't tell whether he's happy with my show or not. I called for a cease-fire. I know that's what he wants. He can't possibly condemn me for defending Katniss, can he?
"Come on," one of my guards grunts. He has a face that looks as if it has never known the pleasure of smiling. He takes my arm, and I want to yank it away so badly, but I know he's stronger than I am.
We've only turned down a few hallways when I realize what's happening. "You aren't taking me to my room," I say slowly. My escorts don't respond. I feel sick to my stomach, and a spasm of pain rockets up my shoulder just from thinking about Hanshaw.
We stop at the same room as before, where he tortured me. I try to dig in my heels but it doesn't do any good, the guards don't even have to work to drag me inside. Dr. Hanshaw is at the sink, washing his hands and humming cheerily to himself. He turns his head to give me a too-wide smile, and I feel like I've forgotten how to breathe.
"Ah, Peeta, welcome back," he purrs. "I was told that you might be paying me another visit."
I fix him with a cold stare. "I didn't say anything yesterday," I tell him. "And I won't say anything today."
Hanshaw's smile doesn't fade. "Oh, you told me plenty, Peeta," he says, and for a terrible second I wonder if I blurted out every one of my secrets without realizing it, when I couldn't bear the pain any longer.
Hanshaw turns off the sink and takes his time drying his hands on a towel. When he turns to look at me, he has a little amused smirk on his face. His eyes don't leave mine as he nods toward the chair with the arm and leg restraints. "Have a seat, Peeta."
I consider ignoring him, or even better, spitting in his face, but that'll just make things even worse. So I shrug away from my guards and stalk over to sit in the chair. I feel dizzy with fear but I refuse to let it show on my face. I lock eyes with Hanshaw, trying to stare him down, but he just keeps on smiling at me, a creepy smile that doesn't touch his eyes.
"Hmm." He tips his head to one side and squeezes one eye shut, studying me like a piece of complicated art. "On second thought, why don't you lay right here?" He gestures to the metal table pushed up against the wall. My fingers curl around the armrests of my chair, maybe hoping that if they cling hard enough, he can't make me get onto that table. I know he's moving me from place to place just to show off that he has that much power over me. I'm his puppet.
"What did we say yesterday about cooperation, Peeta?" says Hanshaw, clucking his tongue reprovingly. "You'll only make things worse."
With a huge effort of self-control, I stiffly stand up and walk over to the table, where I stand and stare down at it, certain that the moment my back touches its shiny surface I will feel more pain.
"Go on," he urges. I lie down on it and close my eyes, every inch of me quivering.
"You're frightened," he says, and he sounds pleased about it. "That's good. Fear builds character. It also gives power. Power to me." Then he laughs like he's made some hilarious joke. He crouches down and starts fiddling with something underneath the table. I can hear my own shallow breathing and racing heartbeat. I don't know what he's doing down there, but it's nothing good.
"Katniss Everdeen, the girl on fire," I hear him say. "I always thought that had a nice ring to it, didn't you? Of course, that may just have to do with the fact that I love fire. I've been fascinated with it since childhood. I use it a lot in my studies nowadays."
In his studies? More like in his torture.
Then he is looming over me again, his face hovering over mine. He speaks in a low voice. "Perhaps it is your turn to be on fire, Peeta."
And then I hear the click of a button, and horrible heat sears through the table, racing through the metal and into me. I cry out and arch my back, my body desperately trying to get away from the pain, but he has strapped down my wrists and ankles without me even realizing. I feel like I'm being cooked alive. It feels as if there is nothing at all between the fire and me, and I have been thrown into the flames to crumble into ash and blow away in the wind.
Strangled cries escape me and I make no effort to stop them. Hanshaw watches me with a blank face, the corner of his mouth twisted up in the tiniest hint of a smile. And I do something I never thought I would do, something that makes me disgusted with myself.
I beg him for mercy. "Please, turn it off," I shout. "Stop!" But he doesn't stop. In fact, I feel the heat intensifying, although maybe it is just my imagination. Rage suddenly explodes inside of me, perhaps ignited by the fire, and I bellow, "I'll never tell you! Just kill me! I will never tell you!" Because death would be better than this. Anything would be better.
Then, very slowly, he reaches out and turns off the fire, taking his time. The table remains searing hot, and I can smell smoke, although I can't tell if it's from the fire or my own burned flesh and hair.
I hear another button pressed and the table goes instantly cool. It burns against my blazing skin. Air catches in my throat with every breath, and I shut my eyes and try to will away the agony that envelops me.
"I have a confession to make, Peeta," he says, and I hate that he says my name so much. I hate the way it sounds coming out of his mouth. That is what I choose to notice through the haze of pain clouding my head. "Getting information out of you isn't my top priority. Perhaps you guessed that already."
I don't have the strength or the breath to respond.
"You see, there isn't much information to learn," he sighs in an almost regretful tone. "It isn't as if Katniss's location is a big secret. We can find her any time we want her. But stealing her away in the dead of night and quietly executing her isn't any fun, is it?" His eyes bore into mine. I just stare dully at him.
He waits, and after a while I realize he doesn't intend to go on without a response from me. I manage to croak, "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that my job"—he pauses for emphasis—"is to create the ultimate weapon to kill her."
I don't understand. There is too much pain. At least the cool table is starting to feel good on my burns. The pain is fading just a little, or maybe it's just concentrating on certain areas. I realize that only my back and upper legs and arms suffered the treatment. The rest of me feels perfectly fine.
He goes over to his little worktable and calmly sorts through the various horrific-looking instruments neatly laid out. His fingers skim over all manner of needles and knives and other things I can't even identify. Sweat trickles down my forehead. Finally, he settles on a long, thin syringe, which he holds up to inspect closely.
"Do you know what this is, Peeta?" he says softly without looking away from it.
My voice is colder than I've ever heard it, even though it is ragged with exhaustion. "It's a syringe."
His lips twitch. "Yes, but do you know what it contains?"
I clench my jaw.
"You've experienced it before," Hanshaw says. "I'm sure you haven't forgotten. One usually doesn't forget what happens to them in the arena."
I don't know what he's talking about. What could be in that syringe that I've experienced before?
And then it hits me a second before he says it.
"It is venom extracted from a tracker jacker."
Of course. What else have I experienced in the arena? Something I'd never forget? I remember the pain, the hallucinations, the fear and confusion. I don't want to relive it.
I swallow and try to retain my brave face. "That's your weapon?" I want to sound scathing, but my voice is weak. "You're going to inject every rebel you see with tracker jacker venom?"
"No, Peeta, that's not the weapon," Hanshaw tells me. His smile chills me to the core. "You are."
