I wanna hide the truth. I wanna shelter you…
But with the beast inside, there's nowhere we can hide.
Don't wanna let you down, but I am hell-bound.
Though this is all for you, don't wanna hide the truth.
Don't get too close. It's dark inside.
It's where my demons hide.
~Demons by Imagine Dragons
Katniss continued her relentless assault on the pathetic little thread that'd had the reckless gumption to fray away from its brethren at the fringes of the coat Peeta barely gave her enough time to pull over the sweat pants and tank she'd been wearing for bed before practically shoving her out into his idling car. Abusing the unwitting length of fabric hanging off the weathered wool jacket gave her restless fingers something to do beyond what her traitorous thoughts kept compelling her towards… namely, slapping that infuriating, knowing, lopsided smirk off the face of the blonde in the driver's seat next to her.
Under other circumstances, she found that goofy grin endearing, even captivating, but not tonight. She was cold, wet and confused. Every attempted at wresting information out of Peeta from the moment he'd shown up at her front door, soaked, frozen and delirious had been met with nothing but a suffocating kiss and a dismissive 'You'll see when we get there.'
She loathed surprises. She hated feeling out of control in any given situation. It made her feel helpless, useless. And all that little hitch to the edge of this bastard's mouth was accomplishing was to cement within her the incontrovertible certainty that he knew exactly what he was doing to her.
The jerk deserved what was coming to him.
"Come on, we're going to miss it if we don't hurry."
His voice derailed her unholy thoughts and she startled slightly when she noticed him unbuckling his seatbelt while reaching for the door handle. It took her a split second to realize the car had stopped completely, behind a late model black Ford Pick Up. They were at Peeta's house.
She turned back to him with a confounded frown, only to find his door slamming. Huffing in exasperation, she made her way out, barely shutting the door before he was beside her again, pulling at her arm with all the exuberance of a toddler at Toys 'R' Us. God, if only she had it in her to stay upset at him when he was this jacked up. She still made an obstinate effort at keeping the crease in her brow as he ushered her up the driveway, up the porch stairs and into his house. It was principle.
The Mellark foyer was a barely noticeable blur of subdued lighting and the pleasant smells of whatever dinner had been, thanks to Peeta barely pausing there to rid her of her coat and the mess that was his tattered raincoat, before veering them into the family room. Judging by the overall darkened ambience, it was obvious everyone had settled for the night.
Well, almost everyone.
"Dude, I was watching that, di… hey, Katniss!"
She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep the chuckle from escaping. To his credit, Rye put up a commendable fight, considering he was ambushed from behind in the dark and those Avengers boxers (which were all he sported) seemed hell-bent on becoming casualties to the brotherly skirmish for the remote to the entertainment center before them.
In the end, the older teen just endowed her with a wolfish, upside down smirk from his pinned position under his little brother on the sectional; trying to pull the aforementioned piece of clothing further up his pelvis to save whatever was left of his modesty one-handedly while trying to jostle the younger boy off with the other. Katniss doubted very much any of these boys cared how much skin they displayed to her anymore. All but Peeta stopped registering her as female long ago.
"Yeah, you can watch Extreme Cougar Wives whenever, man. You DVR the entire crappy TLC lineup. I need to catch something in the news," Peeta commented distractedly, flipping through the guide to the local channels, still perched on his older brother's thighs, batting lazily at his assaults.
"I wasn't watching that, you prick," Rye defended, though the crimson Katniss could see flooding his neck up to his ears, discredited the claim pretty readily. "I DVR Next Great Baker and Baker Boss. It ain't my fault the stupid dish screws up the scheduling and downloads that other crap."
Katniss could no longer hold the snicker, when her boyfriend turned those impossibly cerulean eyes back on the boy beneath him, narrowed into the most disbelieving sneer she'd ever seen him level. "You are so full of it, man. The dish will record the wrong show once… twice, maybe. You have this junk scheduled for every new episode. Buying Naked, My Strange Addiction, Cheer Perfection, 90 Day Fiancé, Say Yes to The Dress… that's not even… is there something you want to tell me, Rye?"
She was gasping for air, now, bracing herself against the arm of the sofa. She loved these guys.
"Dude, I think your girl over here's having a seizure," the Mellark middle child deflected masterfully, gesturing with a jerk of his head where she reclined, amusement gleaming in his baby blues. "I don't think I've ever seen her laugh that hard."
Peeta's gaze diverted up to meet Katniss's now moist one as he finally clicked on the channel he was looking for. "Yeah. Sounds amazing, doesn't it?"
Whether it was the timber to his voice, the offhanded compliment he'd paid, or the sheer heat in the intensity of his stare, she was loath to tell. But she found her giggling fit ebbing as she lost herself in that lapse, her throat growing tight at the fluttering in her stomach.
"Eeww! Are you guys having a moment or some crap right over me?" the older boy whined scandalized. "Get a room. Or better yet, get off me and go to your own freaking room. It's just upstairs, jerk."
"Oh, that's definitely not happening."
All three teens snapped their heads – in Rye's case, this required him lurching up on his elbows to look over the back of the sofa – toward the Mellark patriarch, who stood at the base of the stairwell, reclining heavily against it with his muscled arms crossed over his broad, white tee-shirt clad chest. Flax finished the last few steps to land beside him, a confused yet amused expression on his face.
"Katniss, it's almost eleven," Mr. Mellark stated conversationally, evenly, as he entered the family room. Though, he kept his eyes focused squarely on his youngest son as he spoke, leaving no question as to who he was really addressing. "Now, you are always welcome here. You know that. But, I don't know how your mother would feel about you being here at this hour in nothing but your pajamas."
She cleared her throat with some effort. She'd never found the baker particularly intimidating- quite the opposite. He was… well… right down jolly, really. And handsome. She could readily admit that.
At forty, he looked like an older version of Peeta, just with more crinkles around his slightly paler blue eyes and over his brow. She was sure he had similar lines around his mouth, but the perfectly trimmed flaxen goatee hid those. One might figure the shaven head would add a roguish edge to the man's demeanor- he'd chosen to be rid of his hair the moment it'd started thinning a few years back, figuring if nature was going to take it, he'd help it along in one fell swoop. But, intriguingly, it didn't. All that'd ever managed to do, as far as Katniss was concerned, was to help her envision how amazing Peeta would look if he ever chose to forgo his wayward curls. Mr. Mellark had to be the hottest bald man she'd ever seen.
So, why did she suddenly find this sweet, congenial man so threatening? "M-my mother's working a double tonight. We kinda left in a hurry. I'll be back before she notices I'm gone," she sputtered nervously. She noticeably flinched when Peeta's father arched a very pale eyebrow at her in response.
"Oh, Katniss, no. Wrong thing. Don't speak anymore," Flax shook his head vehemently at her, his oceanic eyes wide with a mix of condolence and poorly disguised mirth.
"Dad," Peeta all but squeaked, effectively diverting attention away from his girlfriend as he dropped the remote and came around the couch to stand beside her. He didn't dare bring his arm around her as he longed to, however. The hole his poor planning had dug for them did not need expansion. "I didn't realize how little she was wearing..." When his father let out an impatient breath, rolling his eyes in clear disbelieve, he amended quickly, "I don't mean it literally. Obviously, I noticed how little she's wearing. I brought her over in a coat. It's freezing out. I just didn't realize how messed up this would all look to you… this late at night." He finally let out an exasperated huff, allowing his shoulders to slump dejectedly. "I wasn't really thinking much, at all. I just needed her with me to see something right now."
Peeta could see his father's eyes softening, the tension in his broad frame uncoiling as he ran a hand pensively over his beard and shifted his scrutinizing gaze between them. Finally, he relented with a shrug of one shoulder and the faintest quirk to the edge of his mouth. "If her mother finds out she's here at this hour, I have to be the adult and explain why I allowed it, you know? She doesn't leave my sight as long as she's here tonight. Got it?"
"I could explain it to Mrs. Everdeen," Peeta found the need to defend.
His father leveled an unimpressed sneer his way, affirming flatly, "No you couldn't. You're an irresponsible child, who got so caught up in whatever he's up to tonight; he couldn't figure bringing his half-dressed girlfriend home at almost midnight might cause tensions." He took a moment to let out a snort at the affronted scowl his youngest sent him before adding, "You're five minutes out from learning to wipe after yourself and I've done your laundry… I'm worried Jackson Pollock's people are going to come at us for all the forgeries you keep leaving. Got a long way to go, son."
Peeta could only stare, mouth agape, mortified heat rushing up his neck as the room exploded into laughter at his expense. He could even make out Katniss bringing a hand up to her mouth out of his periphery, though he doubted the embarrassment locking his joints would make turning to her a possibility at any point in the foreseeable future.
Had his father seriously done this to him in front of her? Sure, he'd screwed up. He could see how he deserved some form of correction. But, punish him. Take away his laptop, his phone… his car. Make him work the entire weekend shift at the bakery. Anything would've been more humane than that!
"Chill, man," he felt his oldest brother's arm drape over his shoulder. "He could've done worse. Remember that time he used the tracker on my cell to find out I skipped school to drive Kalmia Rosen to the lake with a couple of the guys? He closed the bakery, showed up down there at eight in the morning, stripped to nearly nothing like some deranged yeti…"
"Katniss doesn't need a retelling of that, Flax," their father's warning tone cut in.
Katniss perked up, turning beseeching eyes first on her boyfriend, then on his elder brother, finally setting them on their father. She most decidedly needed to hear whatever that was had transpired between the baker, Flax and Kalmia Rosen.
With a self-deprecating chortle, the oldest Mellark brought a hand up to scratch the back of his neck, supplying sheepishly, "Let's just say, that poor girl ran from that shore screaming every expletive she knew, trying to flag down a cab for all she was worth… And I had to plead my way out of an indecent exposure allegation, 'cause that was definitely not that kind of camp site." He finished with a disparaging look at his oldest son.
"Who told you to go all creepy, old nudist enthusiast to embarrass me straight? We weren't even doing anything! I couldn't get another girl to talk to me for the rest of the year, much less look at me without cringing."
"Me neither," Rye snorted derisively. When all eyes turned on him, he elaborated, flailing his arm expansively as if it should've been obvious, "I was his freshman little brother. We have the same last name. It got all over and everyone looked at me as if I had inherited diseased genes or something, which I honestly started believing I had for a few months. Thanks for crippling our social lives, Dad."
Their father shrugged aloofly, the sinister smirk prominently displayed. "Pft, it worked. And, for the record, I'm not old. You should all hope to look half this good at my age, asses. I apologize for nothing. When you three have to deal with half the crap you put me through with your kids, then we can talk."
"Hey, Peeta, is this what you were waiting to see, man?"
The odd, somewhat unhinged edge to Rye's voice drew the attention of his family and Katniss to where he leaned forward on the couch, reaching the remote toward the television as if that would somehow cause the sensor and eye to connect better and raise the volume quicker. Their cumulative gazes inched up to the screen, where the newsroom backdrop with a very somber anchorman was just cutting off, the camera expanding on the inset of a home with police tape behind him. A female on-scene reporter who stood before the home began speaking the moment the backdrop of the darkened home with several patrol cars filled the screen.
A banner in large, bold, red letters dominated the bottom of the screen, flashing the message 'Unknown Hero Saves Two Children' in frequent intervals with 'Children Owe Lives to Selfless Stranger'.
"Thank you, Andrew. The children are in shock from their harrowing ordeal, dehydrated and hungry after nearly fifty-two hours without any kind of food or water. But, thanks to this amazing young person, who they say followed the man that charged this quiet East Seam neighborhood home and rescued them, they are now at Capitol General receiving care for minor wounds. We are expecting a full recovery."
As the screen once again split to display both the field scene and the news desk so that the anchors could further probe into the details of the developing story, Peeta found Katniss's arms winding around his neck, one hand clamping down on the longish curls at the nape. With a tug, their foreheads met- the lock between cerulean and steel unwavering. Her countenance radiated unmitigated veneration and he noted moisture accumulating at the base of her lashes, though she creased her brow obstinately to keep it at bay, even as a radiant smile broke across her mien.
"You were right", he mouthed against her lips in a breath and she shuddered, shutting her eyes tight at the overwhelming jumble of elation, anxiety, anticipation… amongst countless other emotions those words evoked. The gesture caused stubborn, fat driblets to break away from the edges of her eyes to trace lazy paths down her cheeks.
"What are we looking at here, son?" his father's anxious baritone broke their reprieve, reminding them they had an audience.
It took his older brothers' frenzied exclamations a second later for him and Katniss to snap back towards the screen. She released an astonished gasp of her own.
The reporters were gone and, in their place, were two photos. One was of the man Peeta recognized as the invader he'd followed to that home earlier that day and the other was a pencil sketch – obviously a police artist rendition – of a young man in a dark raincoat pulled over his face to shadow it. They all gaped as the female reporter continued her redaction.
"… was taken in for questioning and psychological evaluation in the brutal murder of thirty-eight year old Castor Cray and his wife, thirty-six year old Cecilia Cray. Authorities are holding the suspect without bail at this time and we have no information as to his motives for committing such a vicious attack on this family. We can only be grateful for this Good Samaritan, whom the couple's children (whose names we cannot divulge due to their age) have described to police as 'just a neighborhood kid, someone who noticed something wrong and wanted to help out, but did not want to come forward to seek recognition.'"
The camera panned back to a close-up shot of the field reporter, who looked dead into the lens and finished earnestly, "Well, this reporter certainly wants to say 'thank you' to whoever this brave young man is. You've given these children an immeasurable gift. They owe you their lives. You are my hero. Back to you, Andrew."
The television clicked off and Peeta counted to three, holding his breath, before Rye predictably turned his entire body on the sofa toward them, outrage roiling through his saucer-sized eyes. "What in the Hell did you do, Peeta? Are you insane? That lunatic could've killed you!"
He shifted Katniss in his arms, opening his mouth to respond, but never got the chance.
"And did you see the size of the dude? Was that a mug shot? Is this guy a repeat offender? Did he see you, man? What if he gets out and comes after you?" Flax barely got one word out before exhaling the next, groping him roughly and pulling up his shirt to survey for damage as Peeta tried failingly to fend him off and keep his hold on Katniss. Once he was satisfied his baby brother was uninjured, he let out a relieved sigh, and, without warning, smacked the younger boy squarely upside the head.
"What were you thinking, moron?" Then, before Peeta could react to either the hit or the insult, his oldest brother wrapped him in a smothering bear hug, wrenching him out of Katniss's grasp. The older boy struggled to keep his deep baritone even. "You stupid, prick. You saved them. You could've been killed, you total idiot. Where would that leave us, huh? Mourning your dumb, noble ass? I hate you so much, man." Then, he pressed a rough kiss to the boy's head before releasing him with a non-too gentle shove toward his girlfriend.
Katniss snickered, wrapping her arms around Peeta from behind as he narrowed his eyes into a leery glare at his now smirking older brother.
"Is this…" his father cleared his throat roughly, diverting the attention of all the room's occupants to where he stood, using both outstretched arms to support his leaning frame heavily on the back of the sofa, his expression distant, introspective. "Is this sort of thing going to be commonplace for you, Peeta?"
He slowly turned away from the dark screen to focus nearly mirror eyes on his youngest son, a mix of wonder and sorrow warring for dominance in the azure depths. He tried for a smile, but no mirth made it through to those pools of blue. "You've always had something different to offer the world, Peeta- something singular. I'd be lying if I told you this is what I thought it would turn out to be. I always pegged you for a shrink or something, maybe an inspirational speaker- I certainly never fathomed this. But, I can't and won't keep you from doing what no one can deny you are distinctly designed to do. We're your family. We're behind you no matter what. You know that. But this… this can be dangerous- possibly for all of us if it's not done carefully, right. And even then… So, I need to know right know… is this going to become a routine of yours I need to be aware of?"
Shifting Katniss in his arms so that she wrapped around him from the front, he met her encouraging gaze with an unsure one of his own. Finding the reaffirmation of what he already knew in those mercurial irises, he placed a soft, chaste kiss to her lips and responded to his father with resolve, "You boxed in college, right, Dad? I think I need you to teach me some better self-defense."
"I'm going to need it."
X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X
He could count on one hand without running out of digits the times he'd ventured into the Thirteenth District. His family was not poorly off, by any means. They were likely upper middle class. But the people who populated this small, gated, patrolled community were in an entirely different socio-economic class, altogether.
The homes here were gigantic- mansions, the plots they lay upon were acres of intricately manicured landscapes. To say the drive was impressive was an understatement. He'd felt inadequate from the moment the snobbish security guard sneered at his car when he'd asked for his ID to allow him entry through the lavish, ivy laden iron gates.
That sentiment was immediately superseded by anger at himself.
He had nothing to feel inferior about here. So he did not have the same fancy things the people here did. So what? He'd worked his butt off for his car. All his brothers had. His father insisted they pay for their cars out of their own part time wages at the bakery and their allowances. Gas and the exorbitant premiums he paid for insurance due to his age, also came out of his salary. So, maybe he did not have the fanciest car, but at least he'd earned it. That was more than any brat wealthy enough to live in this place on daddy's buck could boast.
Of course, he found he berated himself for that thought as soon as it'd presented itself, as well. Especially, in light of the person he was here to see. There was certainly nothing enviable about his life, regardless of whatever material possessions he may or may not have at his disposal… and Madge had lived here. Her family still lived here. If he grouped everyone in this social class into one faceless cliché, he was no better than that self-important prick who'd turned his nose up at him at the gate.
With these thoughts weaving through his head, he pulled up to the circular driveway of the impressive two-story brick Colonial the navigator on his phone indicated corresponded to the address he'd been given with a much more positive, open-minded attitude. Honestly, this mindset was much more amenable to his present endeavor.
A soft hissing sound caused him to venture a look up and to the left of the intricately carved doorway with curiosity after ringing the silent doorbell. A small, inconspicuous security camera pivoted on its stand in his direction. A moment later, a female voice, accented by computerized feedback, invited amicably, "Please come in, Mr. Mellark. I am in the study at the end of the hall. Make yourself confortable. I will meet you there shortly."
Then, he heard a magnetic clank and the double wooden doors to the home parted for him. He could not hold back his impressed outtake of breath, reminding himself whom he was here to see. There was nothing about this kid's life he should justifiably covet. Yet still, there was no denying, that was the coolest door he'd seen in his sixteen years.
Stepping into the cavernous, cylindrical, high ceilinged foyer, he could not keep his eyes from roaming the immaculately white walls adorned with artwork of every size and style. He noted with awe the oils and inks on the pieces were far too crisp, too raw, to be anything but original. This collection alone had to be worth more than his house.
Taking an exhaustive tour of the entry, before moving on to the adjacent hallway as instructed, he noted the artwork progressed from the traditional mediums of oils, inks and photography to almost exclusively sketches. Specifically, the hallway headlined comic book prints- original prints, some dating back as far as the Second World War.
He stopped before an especially detailed drawing of his all-time favorite villain, appreciating the detail the artist put into every detail, the camera the character held with that signature mocking, threating smile, especially.
"That's some of Frank Miller's finest work," a lyrical voice came from over his shoulder. He shifted upturned brows to a beautiful South Indian woman in her early forties, clad in a golden silk sari. A long, ebony mane hung loose to her waist in a straight, gleaming curtain.
"Notice how even squinting, you can see a rounder edge to the eyes as opposed to the hero. It hints at a skewed view on the world," she continued informatively, gesturing with a soft slope of her long neck at the sketch.
Peeta skimmed his eyes over the drawing once more, comparing what she'd pointed out with the drawings surrounding it, which, he noted with curiosity, were all by the same artist. He realized he'd never taken the time to look for those kinds of minutia in these works before. The input was fascinating.
"He doesn't look scary here, though. You get the feeling Miller wasn't going for that. More like he was going for shock value," he commented, still analyzing the sketch.
"That's the same thing I told my son," she answered with a tinge of humor. "But he says there are two types of bad guys. There's the soldier villain, who tries to defeat the hero using brawn and then there's the far more dangerous arch nemesis, who uses intellect. I think it's safe to say The Joker blurs the lines between those categories, however. He's just as confortable devising a convoluted scheme to infect the entire city's water supply with chemical agents as he is throwing down, punch for punch… He said you had an eye for art."
Peeta turned a disarming smirk on her. "I wish he would 've mentioned his mother was so striking. Pleased to meet you, ma'am. Peeta Mellark," he charmed, extending a hand.
Once she grasped it, giving it a firm if gentle shake (her cheeks reddening at the compliment), he turned somewhat toward the wall of art and continued, "You introduced him to all this? He has some brilliant notions about it. He's certainly changed the way I look at it."
She angled her chin up, pride radiating in her large onyx eyes like beacons. "I did what any mother would do for her sick boy, Peeta. I found a way to instill hope in him, give him something to look forward to." Her eyes took on a doleful haze as she looked somewhere off over his shoulder and continued in a softer voice, "He's had some bad spills in his life, some that I feared had broken him…" She then met his gaze again, that proud fire reigniting. "But he always found a way to pull through. It's been a lonely road for him. I'm glad you're becoming friends."
Peeta found her fervor and devotion contagious and his smirk turned reverent as he spoke. "He's definitely one of a kind."
Mrs. Malhotra patted his shoulder obligingly, blinking rapidly to stave off the moisture that had built at their brief interaction.
"Let me take you to Beetee."
~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x
Following the wheelchair-bound eighteen-year-old down the sloped walkway to his private den was not unlike walking through the young readers section at Barnes&Noble, Peeta noted with humor. The kid had comics – still encased in their original cellophane – decorating every square inch of available wall real estate on one wall of the corridor they traversed and the other 'wall' appeared composed entirely of shelves, dedicated to showcasing ever more of his expansive collection. The space between was just wide enough to allow the passage of the wheelchair and one other person. Talk about having an obsession for collecting.
Beetee made it to the bottom of the gentle slant first, aided by the swift wheels of his conveyance and the fact that his attention did not divert to the hundreds of literary material crowding the room every other second as me made his way. He quickly reached for a newspaper on the desk Peeta noticed was littered with dozens of books, double computer screens and countless mechanical doohickeys, the function of which he couldn't even begin to imagine.
He held up the newspaper over his chest and the younger teen noted it held the same police sketch of him from the home where he'd rescued the children the previous night. The humongous, bold headline read 'SAVED'.
"It has begun," Beetee stated in an undisputable tone. He let his hands fall to his laps with the paper still grasped within and inquired further, "Tell me, Peeta, when you woke up this morning, was it still there? The uncertainty? The guilt? The sadness?"
Peeta took a second to consider the question. Yes, he'd felt a crushing guilt since the accident, a sadness, a burden. Those amassed accusatory eyes on him at the funeral hadn't helped. They'd only served to augment that voice in the back of his mind that began screaming at him the moment he realized he'd been the lone survivor that fateful night… that voice that compelled him to make his survival and their sacrifice matter. The way his idiosyncrasy had spiked in correspondence to the event had only exacerbated the effect. And the positive turn his and Katniss's relationship had taken as a result only served to further seed his remorse at knowing so many would never have what he was miraculously gifted.
The only true respite from that dread since that bus overturned had come when that home invader had grown limp in his arms and he knew that man could no longer harm that family. He'd felt he could truly exhale without a weight on his chest for the first time in weeks.
"No," came the simple respond.
With a heavy, satiated outtake of breath, Beetee relaxed his entire frame as if he'd been freed of a stifling weight, as well. He leveled infinitely obliged, round eyes at the younger teen before him, extending his ever-gloved hand.
"I think this is where we shake hands…"
There wasn't even a split second hesitation on Peeta's part. Within a step, he had a firm but gentle grasp on the older teen's hand, conscious not to put too much pressure lest he hurt the fragile young man.
It was absolutely foreign, this… whatever in the fifth circle of Dante's Inferno this was.
It had to have taken but a split second, but the sensation (or lack thereof), stretched seemingly indefinitely in Peeta's psyche. It was a vacuum, a nothingness, a cold that froze his blood and stole his breath.
It twisted and morphed into shapes, blurs, a cacophony of intermingling sounds and voices – all blazing by too quickly to decipher. Until, finally, they started slowing, eventually centering on an image of a much younger Beetee – maybe eight or nine – sitting alone in an oddly futuristic-looking sterile classroom, staring out the window at a dozen or so children frolicking outside in the yard. The little boy didn't bother turning to acknowledge two men clad in utilitarian overalls who entered the room, only as far as the doorjamb, removed a panel and continued their previous conversation, oblivious to his presence.
"…on me to get this done before lunch. Pft, like I don't know why the rush. I know all this place's secrets," one man huffed to the other in annoyance.
"Like what kind of secrets?" the co-worker handing him tools inquired, curiously.
The first man quirked a knowing smirk, "Like the fact that if this state-of-the-art door jams in a fire? The genius who designed this room didn't put a proper ventilation system in it and those high-end security windows don't open. If there's a fire anywhere in this building and this door won't open, no one in here makes it out. Oh, perfect. We didn't turn off the supply. I'm not getting electrocuted here… "
Peeta watched as the men scrambled out of the room, leaving the metallic door panel on the floor in their haste. As the lights went out, he watched the little boy whose arm he could now see sported a cast, move toward the exposed circuitry in the wall near the door. Something unreadable flashed in his eyes before he reached his hand inside.
The image submerged into the vacuousness to be quickly replaced by another of a slightly older Beetee – maybe thirteen – strolling casually with the aide of his crutch through the sparsely populated lobby of a homey lodge, away from the pool area. A minute later, a young woman dashed in from the same direction, her head sweeping the large room frantically.
"Oh, god! Someone call 911! The spa shorted out! There's, like, a bunch of kids in there! Does someone know CPR? Help, someone. Please! God!"
Gurney after gurney carrying something so akin to gnarled kindling that the white blankets strewn over them did a piss-poor job to disguise their horror, wheeled toward a dozen awaiting ambulances was the last Peeta saw before the darkness overtook him.
Strangely, the image that supplanted it was eerily familiar. In it, Beetee, much as he was today, gingerly stepped off a yellow activity bus at the large space at the rear lot of the school, where it routinely stopped for pickups, just as the bus driver was walking up. The same driver – Peeta noted – who lost his life when his bus ran the embankment.
"Hey, kid. You can't be in there without supervision," the middle aged man chastised as they pass each other. "If you're on that debate team thing, you can wait until four to board like the rest of your friends."
Beetee did nothing more than wave him off, wordlessly, continuing on his way.
As the image blurred into nothing, Peeta finds his mind inundated by echoes, the agonized screams of his dying teammates as that bus plummeted down that hill. The last he ever heard of any of them.
He came to from the void with a gasp, flinching out of the older boy's grip as if burned by it. Truth be told, he'd decidedly sustained some kind of damage from it, if his heart trying to beat its way out of his ribcage and his inability to oxygenate, regardless how hard he'd hyperventilated, was any indication.
His mind working a mile a minute to negotiate the images he'd just been privy to, his eyes for the first time frenetically canvased his surroundings beyond what lay immediately opposite the corridor. He had to make a concentrated effort to keep the contents of his stomach in check at what he saw.
Lining the wall above the L-shaped office unit, were dozens of newspaper clippings, all highlighting grotesque catastrophes, each more horrid than the last. He shifted his gaze to one of the beaming computer screens to find some kind of schematics of a Yellowbird school bus, coming to the repulsed realization some of those mechanical parts cluttering the desk he could not find a function for when he'd first stepped in the room, looked strikingly like components of the vehicle's braking system.
He averted his eyes to focus them with distressed grief on the older boy, who'd turned his chair away from him. He could still make out his expression from his profile, however. He looked positively downtrodden. How could someone so devoid even achieve that?
"You know what the scariest thing is?" Beetee sighed, his voice enigmatically ringing of the emotion he envoked, though Peeta was now certain this kid completely incapable of it. "To not know your place in this world… not know why you're here. That? That's just an awful feeling."
"What have you done?", he groaned out pathetically, locking a denunciatory glare with the unrepentant obsidian of the older teenager before him, he was sure the older boy could register out of his periphery.
Beetee didn't bother turning to him, continuing his rhetoric as if he hadn't uttered a word, "I almost gave up hope. So many times I questioned myself."
Peeta brought both hands up to run through his hair, tugging in frustration. His vision grew hazy with unshed tears and the queasiness knotting his stomach was torturous. "You killed all those kids," he all but whimpered, choking back a sob that itched at the back of his throat. This was a bloody nightmare!
"But, I found you… So, many sacrifices, just to find you."
The eighteen-year-old actually sniffed, on the verge of his own tears, and Peeta realized this was his normal. This was how he viewed the world, so he'd adapted, emulated. This was the closest Beetee Malhotra would ever come to sentiment. But, it wasn't real and it was nowhere near enough to make him realize just how despicable killing dozens on the remote chance his theory was even plausible actually was.
Peeta felt a tear escape at the wretched revelation. "Christ."
Beetee turned to him now, irrepressible determination drawn across his somber demeanor. "Now that we know who you are, I know who I am. I'm not a mistake."
He could no longer meet those eyes that moments before had instilled a new sense of optimism and now only weighed him with the newfound burden of knowing the hefty price his ultimate enlightenment had levied. Knowing the deaths of Madge, Thom, so many others – were all collaterally on his hands, because this lunatic had to find 'purpose'… the idea of even attempting to atone for all that was beyond overwhelming.
On unsteady legs, he fumbled up the ramp leading to the exit, trying to ignore the words Beetee vociferated at his retreating form, but finding he could focus on nothing else.
"It all makes sense, Peeta. In a comic, do you know how you can tell who the arch villain's going to be? He's the exact opposite of the hero… and most times, they are even friends like you and me. I should have known all along. You know why, Peeta? Because of what the children in school always called me…"
"They called me Mr. Glass."
A/N: I'm seriously considering ending this here and foregoing the epilogue. This story has turned out far more difficult than expected and about five times longer. As always, I apologize for the use of movie dialogue in the final scene, but it was my very favorite in the movie and there was no way I could or wanted to improve upon it.
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