Disclaimer: All Hunger Games characters and uses of the original sentences or paragraphs are the property of Suzanne Collins. I own nothing, nor do I plan on profiting from using her work. No copyright infringement is intended.

A/N: Undeniably important chapter. Hope you like it. Thanks for reading. Reviews are always nice. You may think "Ick, all this pointless death," but really, Darius and the Avox girl died importantly. Katniss won't forget this punishment any time soon. And the Marchs are a key into Snow's weak point. Without this sub-plot addition in this story, the next one would be hopelessly empty. (So yes, after they escape, the Marchs will slip from thought, in light of more important things.. but afterward, Katniss will find herself at a very sharp cross-point considering the Marchs, Snows, and her good and bad.) -Taryn(:

Chapter Ten

Disappointment slips through me like a stone into a deep lake when we step into the same interrogation room as a month ago. Even though Head Peacekeeper Brock had left me with Madge briefly so that he could prepare everything for my arrival, since I got the peculiar feeling this was an order that had been given out of nowhere, I still get a good look at the session that I'm interrupting.

Brock was obviously busy with Johanna beforehand, because on my walk down the door-less white hallway, I got to see her. Clawing at the four Peacekeepers who all put forth great efforts to control the young woman, who in turn just throws herself at them, wriggling, hands randomly flying out to run along the walls, leaving behind bloody streaks. When she saw me pass them by, she threw herself against the arms and hands restraining her and cried out wildly, pupils huge. One bloody hand just whisking passed my face.

I stood stalk still, unbelieving as they continued to drag the deranged woman away from me. Brock chuckled under his breath, and grabbed me by the arm again.

Now, I stumble into the mess that Johanna has left behind. All across the room are discarded syringes. The last time I was here there was a lifted table in the middle of everything, the table is still there, but it's been flattened out, and above it a television has been installed onto the ceiling. I can't make sense of the mess. However, I note two other people in the room, who glance up at Brock and I as we enter and they smile slightly, both of them bent over the table, scrubbing away the streaks of blood that splatter and drip from the leather restraints

"She struggled too much," the male one says. His voice like the quick jolt of a pen, yet intelligent. With a toss of a bloody rag into a bucket at the corner of the room, the man straightens himself, and he's wearing a uniform that resembles more of what the doctors wear than any Peacekeeper. The woman is dressed in the same outfit; both of them short in stature, possessing greasy black hair and though her eyes are mute green and his are a beady black, they seem very similar in the way they move. Twitchy, like bugs or nervous prey.

Head Peacekeeper Brock has already lost interest in them and the mess. He moves to the one-way mirror that separates this small white room from another. Slowly, eyes flickering back and forth between the strange man and woman who blink back at me, smiling, I approach Brock's side when he motions me there.

"Look at this," he orders.

I do. And I feel the interior of my stomach melt away with the guilt that bubbles there.

The first face I take in is covered with a dripping sheen of sweat. Bangs of fiery red hang over her eyes as she stares at me. Unbidden sadness deep in their irises, buried into the pink, puckered folds of crisscrossed scars that run back and forth, cheek to cheek along her face. Her lips look off, until I realize they've been sheered at, a bright bloom of red through each shredded crack as she opens her mouth to draw in a shaking breath. And all I can do is feel the indescribable need to sink to my knees and curl into a ball. The Avox girl stares at me, as if she can see me. Can she? This is a one-way mirror and I'm on the side that sees through it, so it must be her, just staring at her own reflection. Noting her grotesque appearance, that defeated tilt of her shoulders as she's forced to stand there, a Peacekeeper locking her arms behind her back.

The same thing is being done to the person beside her. In him there is only hopelessness. More than defeat. He's gone already. The man has given up on his life. Has broken himself and handed the pieces over to Head Peacekeeper Brock. I can't see his face, only the stooped sight of his yellow and purple scalp, a fine layer of thin red hair masking it.

"Don't hurt them," I find myself saying, not anymore than you already have. "I'll.. I'll do anything."

"It's too late for that."

I turn to Brock, eyes reverent. "Please." I don't beg. Never. But this, I can't stand by and watch as he kills Darius and this woman. I can't. I won't. It just might break me, change me. I promised Prim I wouldn't change. I keep my promises to Prim.

The man strikes me across the face so fast that I'm breathless, nearly falling to my knees, a hand flying out to grasp the window to keep myself standing, as my other hand grasps my throbbing cheek. He hit me. He's not allowed to hit me. I thought he wasn't allowed to hurt my face, the image, the bruise will show. He hit me.

"Tick," Brock barks above me. The greasy haired man steps to our side. "Tie her."

"A pleasure."

I don't struggle with Tick as he drags me to the table that Johanna's blood still stains. By the time I'm strapped in and it has been lifted to a partially standing position, I see that Head Peacekeeper Brock has transferred from this room to the next one. He stands in front of Darius, turning his head from side to side as if he's overlooking a piece of meat he might purchase.

The woman comes to stand at my side and she smiles at me, as if we're about to do something fun together. She reaches for my stomach, and I throw myself instinctively upward, one hand jerking against the leather straps to slap away her hand. "Oh, sweetheart," the woman says. "Don't worry none. You're safe with me."

I don't trust her words one bit.

My cheek still throbs by the time Brock reenters the room, dragging Darius behind him. "I don't think I need to introduce you two, do I?" asks Brock as he dumps Darius on the floor some yards in front of me.

I say nothing as Darius slowly lifts his head to see to what Brock is referring to. He starts at the sight of me, then his eyes cool, staring at me in an indifferent way. As if even the shock of seeing an old face can't mean anything to him anymore.

"I'm sorry," I rush out, when Brock has gone behind my back, digging through something. The woman at my side reacts to my burst and pinches me sharply on the arm. I twist away, but it's not too painful, not as painful as a fifty foot drop, into cold, surprisingly solid water. "Please, I didn't ever think this would happen. I'm sorry. I trie–"

"Gag her, Vix."

"Of course."

This time I struggle as the woman, Vix, ties a wad of abrasive cloth around my mouth. In the end I lose the fight as Vix and Tick work together to hold me still and shove more cotton into my cheeks. Darius stares at me the whole time, not lifting a finger, emotionless.

Gale blooms in the back of my mind when I think of the incident that brought Darius to the Capitol in the first place. I think of the way this man stood up for my best friend, his life put on the line, his career, his young and teasing spirit. What happened to that man? Has all the torture really done this to him?

Head Peacekeeper Brock in back in my line of sight. In his hand he has a syringe, that he holds at eye level and he pushes out all the remaining air within it. Has he gotten attached to drugs because of the new torture on Johanna? Darius begins to actually show emotions now that he can see a potential weapon in Brock's hand. Fear and panic gleam from his eyes as he makes strangled, gasping animal-like noises, crawling away from the man, sliding all over the floor.

That is until Tick runs forward and holds Darius still. I watch with my heart ready to burst as the needle finds it place into Darius' neck. There is no result at first, only that Darius glares up at Head Peacekeeper Brock, then I can start to see the nervous titter running like live-wired electricity underneath Darius' skin.

He can't hold still to save his life. Thrashing. Feet trying to scramble into the upward position. Hands flying out. I sink further against the cold metal table, hoping it'll envelope me. Vix, at my side, places a hand on my shoulder and her nails dig sharply into my back. "Eyes open, sweetheart."

Without doing much else to Darius, Tick drags him over to the wall on our left and uses restraints I had not noticed before to keep him there. They are two metal cuffs that are attached to the wall, somewhere just above Darius' head. Dangling slightly from these restraints, the energized, crazed Darius throws himself violently around. Afraid, I realize. Desperately scared. Hard pressed to breathe.

I turn my head from Darius long enough to note that the Avox girl is being pushed into a chair over in the next room. Head Peacekeeper Brock treats her with a strange sweetness, murmuring softly, his hands gentle as he sweeps her bangs from her eyes. Smile not as mocking as usual when he restrains her hand on a small table seated between them as he sits in a chair across her, his back to me. Only when Tick hurries to their side, a bag of knifes in hand, does the Avox girl begin to cry.

She makes these soft gurgling sounds, as if she's trying to beg. I can just hear her saying; no, please, I'm sorry, I don't know her, I don't, she hates me, she let me get captured all those years ago, I don't know her. She doesn't deserve this. Every time I try to turn my face away, shame and guilt in my throat threatening to choke me, Vix turns my face back upward and forward.

It is not as sudden or as barbaric as Mayor Undersee's death was. This one is impossibly slower. Brock talks to her throughout the whole thing, asking questions that she could not possibly answer. I thought maybe he meant to use the knifes to cut off her fingers, one by one... but instead he uses these small, flat blades and shoves them harshly underneath her fingernails. One nail after another he goes as her answers are only the grunting, useless screams that are not enough to sedate Brock.

Once she's out of fingernails, he begins to twist the knifes, carving away the soft skin of his fingers. Then the fingers. Then her toes. Tick helps him severe a hand with a cleaver. It's then that I vomit over the side of the table, spattering Vix's shoes. The woman doesn't grow upset, merely pats my back and nods toward the scene in front of us, where her eyes have not left once.

Darius watches sometimes. He watches the Avox girl scream with so much twisted pain and emotion in his face I can't help but suspect he might have grown attached to his companion of imprisonment. Blood has started to drip from the cuffs around his wrist and bead down his arms, puddle on top of his scalp and shoulders, slipping across his cheeks, onto his clothes. He doesn't notice. Doesn't feel the metal biting straight through flesh, vein, grating against bone, no doubt, by that depth. Has the drugs taken away his ability to feel physical pain? What was it that they put inside him?

I think by the time the Avox girl is dead, I'm too exhausted to feel what I should. All I feel is disgust. Tick carries her lifeless, mutilated body away, as Brock mockingly kicks the remaining pieces of her on the floor.

The smell that enters the room with him is enough to make me gag. Covered in blood and smiling, white teeth gleaming in comparison to the crimson of his clothes and darkness of his skin, Brock reaches for me. I flinch away until Vix shushes me, stroking my hair, as if my mother. I snarl at her uselessly, as Brock pulls me roughly to resisting feet. They slip out from under me like butter. Even when Brock gives me a sharp shake, my legs are jelly, and then I see it coming. I cry out, reeling away, but that only makes it so the blow gets me flat in the face.

Brock curses profusely. He drops me, so that I sink to the floor. "I'm going to get hell for that. She's bleeding. Vix, fix it."

"How?"

"Clean her up, damn it!"

"What about.."

"Forget the Avox!" Brock roars at her and Vix shrinks away, terrified. "Fix the Mockingjay!"

Tick scuttles to my side, lowering himself into a crouch and reaching a hand out to me. I withdraw, arms wrapping themselves around my shoulders as I taste the rusted, coppery flavor of blood on my lip. Vix takes me under the armpits from behind and with her brother's help, they drag me toward the door.

My last glimpse of the room is Darius, hanging limply from the metal cuffs, his arms so covered in blood that his biceps and shoulders are both solid slabs of brick red. His once young and boyish face, bloodless. Lifeless. Dead.

The room that the two doctors take me to is not one I've seen before. It's slightly cluttered, full of different assortments of things, glass shelves lining the upper half of the walls, cabinets full of supplies. I watch numbly as the two of them gather things together. I don't react when Vix wipes at my face with a warm towel, after ungagging me. Tick is mixing together some salves, that eventually are slathered all over my lips and then my jaw. "This will sting for a few hours," he tells me, voice nervous and hands twitchy as he applies the medicine. "By the end of the week there won't be any trace of the contusions."

Not good enough, I think, knowing with a little satisfaction that Brock will get punished for his slip of hand and temper. Snow likes things to be unnoticeable to public eyes. Perfect on the outside, no matter what the inside says or actually does. I'll have bruises and swollen cuts by the morning and both of them know it.

"Watch her. I'm going to go see what we're suppose to do with her next," Tick says to Vix and then he slips from the room.

I stare after him for a long time, until I see Vix lean nervously into the counter on my right. Her face is a mask of uncertainty. I can note a slight tremor in her hands. Worried she'll be blamed, no doubt. Brock could blame Vix or Tick and come away free. All of them are to be blamed for Darius and the Avox girl, I think, suddenly no longer numb. Instead all I can feel is hate. Dreadful, blood poisoning hate.

I reach for the nearest glass cabinet on my left. I watch Vix, making sure she can't see me, but just as I pull aside the sliding glass, she turns her head to glare at me. "Those aren't for you," she says. She moves to rise, to pull me away, to do what? She can't hit me.

I smash the delicate plate of glass with a fist and hurriedly pick up a large shard by the time Vix has got a good hold of my upper arm. When I raise the weapon the woman's grip on me loosens and she throws her hands up. Slowly, she backs away.

"Look," she says, pleads. It's nice that they are the ones pleading now. Not me. "I- It wasn't me. I'm only following orders. You-You wouldn't hurt an fellow mother. I have three kids!" Vix's eyes flick around the room, looking for rescue.

"So?" I say. "Just because we both have kids doesn't matter to me." Just because I'm a mother it doesn't make me weak. I step down from my seat on the stool and tighten the grip I have of the shard. It can't be longer than five inches, sharp enough to bite through flesh, at least. Not sharp enough to do what they did to the Avox girl, but I remember the scars. The crisscrossed ruin of her face.. Vix's face looks just as pale and thin as the Avox girl's.

When Vix opens her mouth, about to tell a lie, she makes a run for the door. I was expecting that, though, and I throw myself into her path, an elbow swiftly knocking her in the gut. Vix stumbles, and trips over a stool. She lands sprawled on the floor, green eyes wide. She begins to shout and scream, things like codes or numbers and names of Peacekeepers I don't recognize.

But just like the screams of Mayor Undersee and Darius and the Avox girl, no one hears them.

I'm just pinning her underneath my awkwardly pregnant weight when I hear the door knob rattling. Hurriedly I lower the shard of glass to press into the side of Vix's face, determined to get revenge.. until my eyes find Vix's. Their depths gleaming up at me for mercy. Begging me for another chance. The hands she clutches my thighs with, fingernails digging into flesh, keening for rescue, for some alternative.

Suddenly, I'm not seeing Vix, but I see myself, pinned underneath Clove. I'm hearing Cato's last agonizing minutes of life, where I was forced to send an arrow through his eye to give even him mercy. Prim, making me promise not to change. The thought of Cinna or Madge or Peeta seeing me now, siting on top of this woman, slitting her throat with a barbaric piece of glass..

I'm a monster.

They're monsters. They deserve it. She stood back, patting my back as they cut that Avox girl apart piece by piece... allowed them to do whatever it was that they did to Johanna. Watched Brock brand Madge's pretty face for the Capitol. Let Brock and Tick kick and beat Cinna as the stylist withered on the floor.

My hand is shaking, fingers cramped around the whisper sharp edge, blood welling up in my fist as my muscles spaz; undecided. Part of me knows I should drop it. Another part only wants to slash it viciously across this woman's face. Make her hurt, like I have. Like everyone has.

I don't hear the words Vix is sputtering out at me, tears spilling from her eyes. I don't listen to the Peacekeepers who tumble into the room around us, one of them talking calmly to me, hand out-thrust for the piece of glass. Tick is among them, nervous, horrified, watching Vix with eyes of wide concern.

Still undecided, the shard of glass slides down the length of her face, then I let it go, clattering to the ground. My hand a ruins of shredded skin and blood, as the Peacekeeper who has been trying to counsel me swoops forward and plucks me off the woman as if I weighed no more than a child.

I'm sobbing into the man's chest by the time he has me half dragged and half carried to the elevator. I don't know who he is. Not Brock, or Leon, or Peeta. Certainly not a rebel. An uncomfortable expression is on his face as he awkwardly carries me away from this disaster of a torture session.

When the elevator opens again I recognize the hospital floor. Doctors quickly take me from the man, usher me to my usual room. Leon is in there, half asleep in a chair with his legs propped up and he is woken up quick by the whirlwind of commotion that is brought in with me.

They wash away the blood on my hand, pick out the pieces of glass, then bandage it. My face is cleaned up again, another layer of salves added; this time they really do sting. One of the doctors tries to soothe my crying, until that proves to be too difficult. "She's tired," Leon tells the man when he gives me an exasperated sigh. "She's had a long day and an even longer night. Leave her with me."

A few of the doctors glance between each other. I get the odd feeling that they are used to being ordered around and not being allowed to ask questions. They simply nod, but a woman remains and says sharply, "I'm not leaving until she's sedated. Talk to her, quick. You have sixty seconds."

Leon shoots her a quick glance, then rushes to my bed side, sitting on the ledge. Surprisingly when he reaches for my hair and strokes it, I don't bite off his head. I can't stop sobbing. Those horrible gasping sounds I make when I cry continuing to choke any words I try to speak.

"It's going to be okay, Katniss," says Leon. "You're back with me. Brock won't get you again."

"I-I.." I try to speak. All I see is that woman, my indecision, Prim's disappointment. "I wanted to kill her so bad," I manage and the look of startlement on Leon's face is obvious. "But.. I couldn't."

Leon is unsure of how to reply. "I'm sure.. you didn't.."

"No. I wanted to."

"Then.. then something stopped you. It had to have been because.."

"No. I stopped me. Because my sister.. because Prim.." I begin to cry hysterically again.

"Okay, your time is up. Move aside." The doctor pushes Leon away, who watches with uncertain eyes as she gives me a shot. At first I flinch away, remembering Darius, but this woman isn't Brock. She's giving me a sedative. I'll get to sleep. In peace. No more crying.

Only my dreams aren't peaceful.

I dream of Mayor Undersee, but instead of Brock sitting on top of him, cutting at his face, it's me. I'm doing it without care, with joy. And I'm an awful sight. Another facet of myself, forced to watch as I turn into something monstrous. Something not me.

I cry out to myself on top of him, telling myself to stop, begging for the other Katniss to listen. It's not until I realize the Katniss on top of Mr. Undersee isn't pregnant that I take note to the Capitol's seal branded into her lower shoulder, across the back of her hands, on her neck, cheeks, legs.

I'm on my knees in the dream, hands clutching my bulging belly, when the Capitol Katniss slits the smile into Mayor Undersee's face, a smile of her own, on her lips. The dripping scarlet tears of the knife lifted to her face. Tongue licking along the length of the blade, blood dripping from her chin when she pulls it back. Eyes lifting, spotting me for the first time, and her smile widens, wickedly, until I feel as though a huge blackness sucks at me, dragging me through the floor.

The arena surrounds me, like in most dreams. I hear Darius' shouting coming from one of the tunnels, the Avox girl in another, Mayor Undersee, Madge, Cinna. All of them crying out for help at each corridor, and I spin around, not knowing which one to take. Then I start to hear Prim screaming on the left, and a baby wailing on the right and Peeta screeching. Gale, too. My mother. Leon. That strange man from lunch, Mr. March.

I don't know who to choose. I'm torn.

Like in most uncertain situation I lower my hands, to press them against my bulging stomach, to reassure myself, to steady myself, except.. I'm not pregnant. The wailing of the baby suddenly seems louder than everyone elses screams.

Then, I hear the humming. A whistling. And I know it's my father. I throw myself down that tunnel without thinking, running toward the sound of his singing. A strange song. Haunting in melody, tragic in lyric. The same song Madge hums. The one that her aunt liked. A song my mother hated, that made her upset when dad taught Prim and I to sing it, and she threw away our necklaces. Our necklaces of rope.

I see him and throw myself at him recklessly, nearly plowing him off of his feet. In the dream he is insubstantial, his face unclear, tall and strong and tan, just like I remember him to be. Yet even when he breathlessly catches me around the shoulders, the song doesn't stop. A lullaby to my mind, to my sleep, in the background of everything I dream.

My arms circle my father's waist and I don't ever want to let go. Like in life he omits a sense of protection around me that I savor, that I have not felt since Peeta pulled me close in the arena and stroked my hair, not since days before my father died, so many years ago. "Don't go," I gasp, wish to convey. Come back.

Father says nothing. Soon he is gone, not really ever there to begin with. My dream is of darkness and of that one memory. A simple dream; my fears balled up into one traumatic thrust and then a childhood memory brought forth by pain.

I have not sung "The Hanging Tree" out loud for ten years, because it's forbidden, but I remember every word. I knew even when Madge hummed it under her breath, and I pretended not to. I begin softly, sweetly, as my father did, crying out back at the whistling,"Are you, are you, coming to the tree?"

And the dream ends there, wading from darkness to a sharp awareness of my body. I turn sleepily over in my hospital cot. A hand rubbing at my eyes. I feel drowsiness hanging on my limbs as an after effect of the sedative. Stabs of pain arising on my face where I touch it and in my other hand that lays tangled in the blankets. The memory of my injured hand after the Quarter Quell announcement arises to memory, the time when I broke into the basement cellar.

Another thought, derived from the stiffness of my limbs, is of the arena, Rue, waking me after the Tracker Jacker attack. How unrested I had been even though I had slept for days; unrested because of the nightmares that kept my mind strained.

Rue, I think, then shake myself, force my muscles to sit up. Anything to push away the memories.

"You're awake." I turn to see Leon and he pushes a cup of water into my hands first thing. I drink it easily, the whole thing, grateful for the soothing of my parched mouth.

"How long?"

"It's only around two in the afternoon. You came in around three in the morning. Eleven hours, maybe a little more. Nothing to worry about, Snow doesn't really want you out there filming today anyway." He winces at the last part.

I raise a hand to touch my lip that pulses, pained, swollen. A ripe pink. I'm sure most of it is superficial damage that will fade enough by tomorrow to be covered by makeup. In no time I'll be back out there, on the streets, nothing changed.. only tomorrow is Friday. Tomorrow is the day of the rescue mission. For some reason, instead of exciting me, I'm only more exhausted, sinking back into the cot's blankets.

I lay there for a long time, blinking at the walls. Doctors come by to examine my hand or face. Apply more salves that sting. Leon paces sometimes at the end of my bed. Around dinner time he forces food into my mouth so that I eat. He got me my favorite. Lamb stew. My excitement is feeble.

I don't want to get up. Sleep isn't an option because whenever my eyelids close I see Darius hanging from metal cuffs, lifeless, or the Avox girl's screaming face. Madge's ugly scars, until it's me with the Capitol seal branded all over my body; Capitol Katniss, strangling Cinna.

I force myself to sit up and have petty conversation with Leon. He is compliant enough. A good distraction for my horribly disoriented mind. He doesn't ask questions about what happened last night. Won't press me about the details. My blatant express of homicidal intent.

We talk about the weather. He tells me stories about how he met and fell in love with his wife, Violet. I learn that his son's name is Benny. He's got Leon's eyes and like his mother the boy dyed his hair an odd color of purple. He turned three as of three months ago; Leon missed the party because he was babysitting me. Leon's favorite color is yellow, like Primroses. Prim likes a cat named Buttercup. I tell him about my house in the Seam. Hunting Sundays. Things that Katniss Everdeen enjoys and does.

When a doctor comes by and leans into the doorway, observing silently for several minutes, she informs me lightly that it's time for my shower. Almost as if I've been asleep up until that moment, I jolt to my feet, tumbling over the edge of the bed. Leon is uncertain about my eagerness, but happy to see me standing, to note an alertness in my eyes. He reluctantly hands me over to the group of escorting Peacekeepers in the hall.

For the duration of the walk from my hospital room to the shower, I keep my eyes on my toes. I'm not wearing shoes. Where are my shoes? I try to force my mind back onto what matters, bending it effortlessly onto a path of nervousness. I haven't seen Peeta since I told him I loved him. Now.. I look like this. Now, I lost two more people I was determined to protect. I've acted out worse than I ever have and who knows the level of furiousness Snow has against me.

We reach the room quick enough, and I enter, taking in long breaths. I stand near the shower after turning it on, my stomach withering as I wait for the door to open and for Peeta to step inside. When he does, when the black haired Peeta steps through the threshold, pulling the protective face cover from his head, I can see the timidness in his eyes, the fury, the pain.

He opens his mouth, as if to speak, and I only burst into a new set of infuriating tears.

Peeta rushes to me. "Shush, Katniss," he murmurs. "Katniss, I'm here. I'm so, so sorry. They won't hurt you here. I have you. You're safe with me." He pulls me into his chest.

I shake my head. "I'm not crying..."

"No. I know you aren't," Peeta agrees, nodding.

"No," I say. "I mean.." my voice catches. I pull away from his chest to peer up at him, his compassionate face. Blue eyes gleaming down at me in concern and relief. If only he had seen me before this. There wouldn't be compassion in his eyes then. Or would there be? Would Peeta take my side? Would I make Peeta into a hateful incarnation if I let myself? Destroy him? "I'm not crying because I'm scared, Peeta."

"Why–"

"I'm angry."

"At Snow?" he says, scathingly. Clearly loathing Snow very much himself.

My voice is quiet, fingers twisting into the fabric of Peeta's shirt, eyes lowering to a point beyond his shoulder. "At me," I say.

"Whatever they told you, Katniss, it's not true. I know you didn't do anything. If they're trying to blame you for whatever they did to you or the others.. it wasn't your fault. They only want you to believe that, but you.. I know that it wasn't you. Okay?" He tries to lift my chin with a finger, forcing me to make eyes contact, but I shake my head, pushing away from him. I stagger back a couple of steps, until I'm an acceptable amount of space away, breathing my own air. I look at him, then can't. I pivot my face away, downward, eyes straying across the length of the floor.

"This place has poisoned me," I say. "I've seen the way things work here. I've experienced the way people are taught things. How they are punished. It's not anything like what I used to think justice was. In my head.." my voice catches again, the shudder of a sob working its way up my throat, but I clamp it down, determined to explain this. For Peeta to understand what is happening to me. "These people, the Capitol, they think of people as nothing but pounds of meat. They have their way by force and pain. In my head I hate them for that. I've always hated them for what they do. I hate myself when I think of what they do, and yet, their evil is in me, too. Because all I want to do is hurt them."

"You mustn't..."

"Perhaps I've changed," I mutter now. Thinking desperately of my sister. Of the baby I'm having with a mother who only wants to hate and tear things apart and claw the eyes out of random women and men. "Maybe.."

"No, Katniss. What's true for the Capitol isn't true for you."

"Then why do I feel so.. so unhappy? Why is it that all I want to do is kill?"

"Because you're not a monster, Katniss," Peeta says. "Because only monsters feel happy about killing. And that just proves it. You're different, yes," he breathes, taking slow steps back toward me. "I'm different, too. Everything is different. People change, all the time. Everything changes all the time. Is the world a monster because it changes from summer to winter? Just because things change, doesn't mean it has changed for the worst.." and his soft, lulling voice rolls off from there, as he reaches me, a tender hand resting against the bulge of my stomach. Peeta gathers me into his arms as delicately as if he were dealing with a skittish doe, and he pulls my back into his chest, slinging both hands around me to rest on the baby. His breath tickles my ear. "Sometimes it's for the better." Fingers trace pictures across my stomach, pulling my shirt aside to reveal my stretched, swollen skin. I can feel the warm smile on his lips when he turns his head to press them into the side of my neck, sending heat down to my toes. "People grow, learn from their past, heal."

"How do I know I've changed for the better? How.."

"You're not a monster, Katniss."

Who am I, then? "I tried to kill someone last night."

"I killed someone before. On accident, with berries," Peeta replies. "I still dream about it sometimes. It bothers me so much... she's always begging me not to forget her. She asks me why I tricked her. And I just can't get her out of my head, so I draw her. I don't let myself forget her. I learn how to deal with it. By drawing. And you deal with it by anger." He shrugs. "It's not as healthy, no, but everyone is different. The fact that it makes you unhappy just means that you're not like the Capitol. They enjoy death. That's what makes them the monsters."

I lean my head against his cheek and he inhales the scent of my hair, his exhale tickling my forehead and I close my eyes, feeling the fingers trace the seams and edges of my abdomen. I let Peeta support all my weight and he takes it easily, a solid wall.

"Whatever you felt," Peeta continues to say, "you didn't act on it. You tried, but in the end you didn't do it. There's evil enough in all of us–the Games prove that, at the very least. What matters is whether or not we act on it."

I can see the logic in his words. I want to believe all this faith he has in me. That I'm not as awful as I've come to think. Except can I really take the words of a boy who has loved me since he was five? But, no, that's not what I think of Peeta as. He's the boy I love, father of my child. The person who's always found a way to calm my inconsolable mind.

Which only makes me think that he's right. Things have changed. Vastly. How long ago did I start to admit my love for him? How long ago could Peeta ever even remotely be considered a father, let alone of my own baby? Six months? Four? That's not long at all, considering things. And in the past I might have viewed this as a tragic failure on my part. These changes would be dead negative in my old mind, only just a year ago, but now, here, they seem like the only things that could matter.

"Maybe.. you're right," I say, finally, voice still quavering a little.

"Maybe," Peeta allows. Then he says this, "I'm so glad you're here," and his voice is shaking in his relief. "I thought the worst yesterday when you weren't here. And then the rumors that were spreading through the staff.. and even now, Katniss. Snow is flying the coop. I don't know what you did last night but from what I've gathered by rumor, you did something that touched a sensitive spot yesterday. I think they said something about it never Snowing in March?"

"I don't know what that means," I sigh. "Leon mentioned it, and Brock, too. He made it seem like the reason I was getting in trouble. I talked to a man yesterday at lunch. A descendant of the first victor of all the Hunger Games. His last name was March."

Peeta is quiet for a moment, thinking. "I heard that."

"Do you know why that made Snow so upset? Why are the Marchs such a sensitive spot for him?"

"All I know is that when we filmed the propos a few months ago, Finnick mentioned these Marchs, but he didn't really know the secret behind them. Only that phrase; Have you ever seen it Snow in March? He told me that it was the best kept scandal on Snow's behave. Even the most laid back of costumers would clam up when he asked for those secrets in trade."

"Whatever these Marchs did, it worked. Maybe we could learn a thing or two from them."

"Maybe." Peeta sounds weary. "But we should wait.. wait until you're safely out of here and the baby, too. And me, for that matter. Please, for my sake, avoid this March guy. I don't think I could handle you going missing again."

"I wasn't missing, I was with Brock," I say, then rethink my words. I remember the look of the Avoxes.. Mayor Undersee... Madge.. Johanna. "Okay, I won't."

"Thanks." Peeta kisses the side of my neck again.

"Have you talked to the others about everyone else, though? I won't leave them."

"I know you won't," says Peeta, in a slightly amused, loving way; as though I was silly for thinking he'd forget, or that once again my words just prove that I'm not the monster I'd thought myself to be. "And there's a plan, yes. But I'm not a part of that one. It's separate from yours. My one priority is you."

For several more moments we stand there, mushed together, breathing. Peeta's hands are still moving across the bare skin of my stomach, arcing upward, moving in a slow circle, once, twice.. sketching out a few intertwining vines, a flower. "I love you."

"I know," says Peeta.

I feel strange saying it, still. Awkward. Vulnerable. I shift against him so that I can turn and be facing his front, staring up into his eyes. What is he thinking? He stares right back. One of his hands raises to brush softly over my swollen upper lip. He frowns. "I would kiss you," he says, "but this looks like it hurts."

I can't fight the smile that spreads across my face. Even that small stretch of my lips causes a slight pain, but I don't mind it. I open my mouth to speak. Peeta interrupts me, "You should shower," though when he says it, he strokes the side of my face with a thumb and then buries his hand into my hair. It's greatly gentle, yet I'm still reminded of Brock, dragging me down the hall by my hair. I nod my head numbly.

I undress, reaching for a towel to throw over the top of the fogged glass door. Just when I turn to reach for the bar of soup I'd forgotten to grab, Peeta already has it held out for me to take. I accept it lightly, considering. Nagged by something as Peeta's eyes are cast pointedly at my face.

"What?" he asks after some time passes. Then frowns. "Was it the wrong one? I thought I–"

"No," I say. "It's the right one."

"Then... what's the matter?"

I hesitate. "Nothing."

The shower is soothing. Hot water sears away the aches in my body and even my face starts to feel better when the water runs heavily over it. It tastes sweet and warm, and my skin is ruby red by the time I actually start to wash myself. Steam has gathered in the room like a heavy gray soup. Every breath is a little thicker and a little more enduring. Without considering it first I let my sore muscles sink to the floor of the shower, curling up underneath the water, the concrete biting into the delicate skin of my backside, knees hugged to my chest as close as the baby allows. All I can think is that thank the odds, there aren't any bad memories directly related to showers.

I feel safe here. Wrapped into a warm shell of water and steam and heat, surrounded by concrete bearings, Peeta in the background of it all, waiting, sitting within a few steps from me. So strange, because I never thought I'd ever feel something even remotely the same while within the Capitol, let alone Snow's mansion. And yet, I find myself rocked into a place of complete alleviation. Around me I feel as though I could be within the dream once more, arms wrapped around my father's waist.

"Katniss?" I can hear Peeta shift, turn his head, let it rest against the cool concrete wall, eyes closed. His voice nothing but a whisper of warm air. A mere rustling compared to the rush of hot water fanning over my head.

My reply is just as soft. "Yes?"

"Will you sing for me?"

For a moment I'm stunted. I hadn't expect him to ask that. Though, I've always known he loves my voice and maybe he, too, has been rocked into some safe place where he yearned to hear something that he loves. Something he has not heard since I sang Rue into death. Would he want that song? Do I really want to sing for him? Suddenly, I find my mouth opening, "I know a song, but it's illegal."

"I don't mind."

"It's not a pretty song."

"That's okay. Your voice is plenty pretty enough for me."

I draw in a long breath. The shower will compete with my voice, though, and I know that it'll echo coming from where I sit, but that doesn't matter much. The Peacekeepers beyond the door will only hear a meandering song. A woman singing to herself within a shower.

I begin as my father always did.

"Are you, are you

Coming to the tree

Where they strung up a man they say murdered three.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree."

I pause to breathe, can feel a strange prickle in the back of my throat. A thickening, remembering the dream. The song directly tied to Madge and my pain and my father.

"Are you, are you

Coming to the tree

Where the dead man called out for his love to flee.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree."

I stutter a moment, wondering what Peeta is thinking. If he's ever heard the song before. What meaning it may hold to him. How he would choose to consider the meaning of the tragic, endearing words.

"Are you, are you

Coming to the tree

Where I told you to run, so we'd both be free.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree."

I finish softly, slowly.

"Are you, are you

Coming to the tree

Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree."

Peeta is silent. But that's it. Last verse. In the stillness I remember the scene. I was home from a day in the woods with my father. Sitting on the floor with Prim, who was just a toddler, singing "The Hanging Tree." Making us necklaces out of scraps of old rope like it said in the song, not knowing the real meaning of the words. The tune was simple and easy to harmonize to, though, and back then I could memorize almost anything set to music after a round or two. Suddenly, my mother snatched the rope necklaces away and was yelling at my father. I started to cry because my mother never yelled, and then Prim was wailing and I ran outside to hide. As I had exactly one hiding spot—in the Meadow under a honeysuckle bush—my father found me immediately. He calmed me down and told me everything was fine, only we'd better not sing that song anymore. My mother just wanted me to forget it. So, of course, every word was immediately, irrevocably branded into my brain.

We didn't sing it anymore, my father and I, or even speak of it. After he died, it used to come back to me a lot. Being older, I began to understand the lyrics. At the beginning, it sounds like a guy is trying to get his girlfriend to secretly meet up with him at midnight. But it's an odd place for a tryst, a hanging tree, where a man was hung for murder. The murderer's lover must have had something to do with the killing, or maybe they were just going to punish her anyway, because his corpse called out for her to flee. That's weird obviously, the talking-corpse bit, but it's not until the third verse that "The Hanging Tree" begins to get unnerving. You realize the singer of the song is the dead murderer. He's still in the hanging tree. And even though he told his lover to flee, he keeps asking if she's coming to meet him. The phrase Where I told you to run, so we'd both be free is the most troubling because at first you think he's talking about when he told her to flee, presumably to safety. But then you wonder if he meant for her to run to him. To death. In the final stanza, it's clear that that's what he's waiting for. His lover, with her rope necklace, hanging dead next to him in the tree.

I used to think the murderer was the creepiest guy imaginable. Now, with a couple of trips to the Hunger Games under my belt, I decide not to judge him without knowing more details. Maybe his lover was already sentenced to death and he was trying to make it easier. To let her know he'd be waiting. Or maybe he thought the place he was leaving her was really worse than death. Didn't I want to kill Peeta with that syringe to save him from the Capitol? Was that really my only option? Probably not, but I couldn't think of another at the time. I guess my mother thought the whole thing was too twisted for a seven-year-old, though. Especially one who made her own rope necklaces. It wasn't like hanging was something that only happened in a story. Plenty of people were executed that way in 12. You can bet she didn't want me singing it in front of my music class. She probably wouldn't even want me to be singing it here, in the Capitol, in the hands of the very people who I would have rather died avoiding than endured.

Peeta finally speaks. "Thank you." That's it. Nothing else. I expected more.

"My father taught me that song."

"As he should."

I shift. "What do you mean?"

"I.. I just meant that he was a good singer, too. That he probably wanted you to know. I don't know." He sounds preoccupied of thought, now that I can hear him more clearly. Lost in his mind. "It was beautiful."

"It's an ugly song," I say in counter.

"But you like it," he points out.

"I do."

"Well I do, too."

"Why?" Strangely, I really do want to know.

Peeta is silent for several more moments. "Just remember your promise to me, Katniss. No matter what happens," and that is all he says.

Always, I had told him when he made me promise never to hurt myself again. When he forbid me from giving up on life. Is he worried that I would break said promise if he died? If I lost Peeta would I really be that way? Would I kill myself? Let myself slip into a numb shell, be a living ghost, as my mother once was when my father had left us? No. I wouldn't. I'd like to think I wouldn't be so weak. Yet, when have I ever been right? I thought I'd never let myself get pregnant. I though I'd never allow myself to love someone. I promised Prim not to change, whether good or bad, and I have.

How wrong I've been.

"They're knocking," says Peeta. "You better get dressed."

I stand hesitantly and reach for the silver knobs. I notice the bandage on my hand then, dripping wet. They'll have to change it now. They had probably thought I'd try to keep it dry. Oh, well.

When I step out and towel myself down, Peeta is by the door, one hand on the handle, waiting. I get dressed in the silence, walk toward him in hesitance, and when I pass him by, just before he opens the door, he presses a kiss to my cheek. Then I am in the hallway, being herded back to my room. Each step closer to my bed is just one night away from the day of rescue. Tomorrow is the day. Will it work? Will I be free within the next twenty-four hours? Will I get to see my family? Prim? Gale? Mother? Will everyone make it out of this mansion alive?

Those questions nag at me all night. And by the morning, when Leon reaches out to shake me awake, I find I haven't gotten any sleep at all.