Katniss

It had been a long journey by hovercraft back to the Capitol. By the time we got there, there was only one thing on my mind.

Finding the absolute quickest way to die.

I had no delusions about being able to endure or outlast torture. I knew instinctively that whatever awaited me here in the heart of the country's power and wealth and influence and perversion, would not be anything I could prepare myself for.

It would be better for me to die quickly, as soon as possible, for my own sake as well as for the sake of the people who cared about me. Better a swift death, than a long drawn out one.

A felt an ache, sharp and high up throb in my chest at the thought of Peeta, or Prim, or my mother or Gale, or even Haymitch and Deen having to witness my death or torture.

Would Snow televise it?

I bite my lip. I had to remain detached. There was no more going back to them. I had chosen and I had to live with the sacrifice. I only hoped, distantly, that Peeta would be able to understand. And well, I knew he would. Because he loved me, in that deep unfathomable way that I had come to learn and accept so well. And since he loved me completely, including the way I loved him and Prim and Deen and the others, I knew he would understand why I had done it.

And hopefully this final act of love and sacrifice would carry him through the pain, and inspire him to do the necessary thing and use his words and powers of persuasion to convince the country to finally, and at long last fight back.

My death at the hands of President Snow and the Capitol Elite would also serve as a motivator I was sure.

So I put all of my focus into this. A martyr's death. A symbol for the revolution to cling to, to build itself upon. The pain in my shoulder and the neck and the exhaustion in my body threatened to overwhelm me. But there was still that deep seated instinct not to fall asleep and leave myself vulnerable in the presence of so many enemies.

So my mind turned over the events of the past few weeks, like the clinking sound of Effie's overlarge bracelets or earrings turning round and round when she was nervous and she thought no one was watching.

Effie...Cinna...Portia...my preps and Peetas. They were here somewhere in the city. Somewhere out of reach. And I only hoped they would stay that way. Out of reach and far far away from whatever Snow had planned for me.

Because he must have plans, very specific ones. He probably made them as soon as they discovered that there were no bodies in the ashes of Peeta's home. He always had plans. Most of them probably included Peeta and I, but I'm sure they could be adjusted to compensate for his absence.

The thought made me shiver.

How would he entertain and simultaneously curtail the populace, both the capitol citizens and the rebels, with my death?

Peeta and I burned with false love for years to satisfy the Capitol's lust for entertainment. Haymitch had said we'd been lucky, unfathomably lucky that the performance was all that was required from us. Even that had felt like selling a piece of my soul. What would I pay with this time?

What would Peeta, who I now loved in reality, and my other loved ones be forced to watch as they punished me for my defiance? It was ironic really, or maybe tragic. The moment that love had deepened from friendship and became reality, we had been forced to sacrifice it for the grander picture. Escape and freedom, to be followed by serving the rebellion. And though not all of us had made it, the majority of the people I loved were safe now, far away from the Capitol, so I could at least go to my death with assurity.

Yes.

That was something to hold on to when the pain came.

At the thought of pain, and torture, I heard the pealing of a bell run through me. Large, rough hands pulled me up and led me, blind and stumbling a little towards I don't know what. I only knew I had to follow. Because I would have to approach this from the most practical perspective.

I only had so much energy, so much fight in me. And right now, before they even started, I would be at my strongest.

Later, amidst the pain and hunger and who knew what else, I would begin to waver.

Luckily, since I was known for being an impractical planner, much of the pertinent information had been carried by Hayimitch and Peeta. Planners and strategists, both of them. That was a good stroke. At least I wouldn't be able to betray anyone in District 13, or my friends or family.

Yes.

Very lucky, all things considered.

I am made to enter a building, practically carried by the hands that grip either side of my restrained arms. I can feel the change in the climate controlled temperature. I try to see if I can hear or smell anything familiar but we pass so quickly it's almost impossible.

A loud marble or expensive smooth stoned floor. My feet echoed along with the peacekeepers boots. No one says a word. And then I can feel we're on an elevator, descending. I don't know how many floors we go down, but it's quite a few.

Then I'm pushed, and dragged when my feet slip, down a corridor I assume and ushered into a small sounding room. At least the empty echoing sound stops and they make me sit down on the floor.

I wait silently on the floor, with only the sounds of the guard's breathing and shifting in their seats to occupy the time. An hour passes. I wonder distractedly what they are waiting for. Then, abruptly the door is opened and there's a loud voice I recognize. Its the peacekeeper I negotiated with for Deen's release. He is dismissing the other guards.

And I feel a small shiver of fear run up my spine. I remember that I had made this man angry. I had insulted him in front of his squad. I clenched my hands into fists. This would surely be just the beginning of the fear that would become my new reality. My brain tried to speak in logical terms, to my fear.

Nothing that happens to you from this point matters.

They are safe. They are protected.

It is a price you will have to pay now. In pain and fear and despair, but only as long as you let your mind and heart rule you.

Disconnect.

Turn it all off.

Find the pain that makes it easy to slip away….

I recalled as clearly as I could, as quickly as I could, the names of our dead tributes.

Maisy Evans.

Leed Turner.

And… Mira Relle, Deen's fellow tribute from this past year.

Mira...she had been 17. One month away from aging out of the Reaping. Blond haired, blue eyed. Thin and graceful. Funny and smart. I had taught her how to use a bow...She had learned to climb trees, and she had learned to paint camouflage from Peeta. Deen had tried to protect her. He had tried to hide her. But when they were attacked by two careers, and they ganged up on Deen while she hid, she had decided to try and fight.

One of the careers, from 2, had stabbed her with a knife coated in poison scavenged from the arena. Deen had killed both of the careers, eventually, but by then it was too late. And she too was lost to the arena, as she slowly turned purple and black, the poison spreading beneath her skin.

Deen still had nightmares about it. He had watched her die.

Her death...had been such a double edged sword. I had tried as her mentor to give her the best possible chance. I had driven myself to destruction and insomnia, trying to teach her how to shoot and aim with a fake poorly constructed mock bow that was more for feel and approximation than true experience. And the night before they had gone into the arena, I had cried for hours while Peeta held me.

"Peeta, I don't know if she can make it." I had sobbed into his chest as he held me in our shared bed in the tribute center.

"Only one of them can, Katniss." He had told me gently, and it had broken me, really just shattered me. Because after we lost our tributes the first year, I knew exactly what to expect. I knew what was awaiting us the next day as we would be forced to sit in a small monitoring room and watch the unedited feed of our tributes movements in the arena.

I knew that every moment we watched would be the last for one of them.

And I knew who my rational mind had already figured out would win, would survive if possible.

And I HATED myself for knowing that. I hated the world and the Capitol and Snow and everything for making me choose, for making me calculate the odds. It was one of the most unfair and cruelest things that I had ever done in my life, deciding along with Peeta and Haymitch whether to try and rally the sponsors to get her medicine to cure her poisoning.

We had, of course, decided to try. But the sponsors saw what I had seen. A pretty girl who would have made a better housewife someday than a pragmatic killer. She was too soft spoken, too reliant on Deen to do the majority of the fighting.

She was a bad bet.

And when she eventually succumbed to the poison, the only thing that got me through the remainder of the Games was the fact that Deen was relying on me, on us. And I had channelled all of my energy, all of my anger, all of my determination, and resolve, and rage and fire into saving him. And we got sponsors, and we got him supplies and medicine and gifts and by the end even Haymitch was praising my powers of persuasion.

But I hadn't let myself feel any small measure of relief or hope or anything remotely positive until they brought Deen back on the hovercraft. When I had seen his broken starving body, I had finally felt like I could breathe, eat, and sleep, while the doctors had put him back together.

Getting him back had been like a second chance at surviving this new existence of being mentors. The vacancy that had sat inside of my heart, where those three tributes had died and left empty, had been filled by the starving guant boy, who against all odds survived and came back to us. Mostly whole physically, and mentally. At least as well as could be expected in these situations.

And when they crowned him, I kissed Peeta in absolute jubilee. And he had smiled against my lips, and whispered his congratulations to me.

Maybe that had been one of our first real important kisses. Sealed not in romance or passion, but in cooperation and unity.

We had saved Deen, and he had in turn saved us. So of course I had taken his place.

The odds had to be appeased after all. Not enough blood had been shed. Fate had decreed that District 12 had too many victors in too short a time.

One would have to be sacrificed.

And if one of us had to go, I was glad it was me. At least they would still have each other after I was gone.

So when the peacekeeper removed the black bag over my head, I blinked at the brightness and slowly the world came into focus.

A middle aged man, with silver hair and hard eyes came into focus. His face is a stern and impassive mask. He was tall and powerfully built. Next to him stood a small slip of a girl. Someone I recognized. The red headed avox girl who usually served Peeta and I when we were at the tribute center.

The girl I had seen trying to flee into the woods of District 12, that day when Gale and I were out hunting. I still didn't know her name. But she was familiar to me, almost an old friend even though we'd never spoken. She had waited on us for three years. The look on her face when the peacekeeper removed the black bag and she saw my face was one of absolute horror. And I winced, a little. But then I gritted my teeth, that were still aching really badly from the continued abuse I'd put them through on this trip.

"Get her to the showers, and undress her. Bathe her, and dress her in the clothes left there." He instructed the red haired girl with a barking command and she jumped to do his bidding. For my part I allowed her to lead me out of the small plain room with only white walls, and down the hall. The floor was surprisingly like the marble that ran throughout the training center, and I had to wonder if that's where we were.

The red headed avox girl's appearance and the marble floors, and the feeling of the elevator, maybe it all indicated where we were.

The peacekeeper follows but stays outside the door of the bathroom. After taking off my coat as gently as she could, she tried to help me take off my clothes, but the restraints were making it hard. So I tried to focus on helping her. Because I knew if she wasn't fast enough or efficient enough she would be punished. She tried to be careful, with the tracker jacker stings and my aching shoulder. But the spray of the water is a small agony on the tender skin, and I tell myself that if I can barely stand to take a shower, then when it comes to the real torture I will be woefully underpreapared.

I close my eyes and just take deep breaths.

The shower does most of the work of bathing thankfully, as most of the showers here in the Capitol usually do. And then I'm dressed in a thin hospital gown and led back to the room. The peacekeeper follows us wordlessly, and when we get back he dismisses her. She leaves with a sad parting glance at me and I only look at her for a second, not wanting to draw attention to her. No good would come from her being associated with me, especially now. Besides, I was going to die.

After what feels like 10 minutes, someone who looks like a typical Capitol doctor comes in. He's pasty, stout and round faced, and he doesn't introduce himself. He just goes about poking and assessing my injuries. And I feel extremely uncomfortable in my thin gown, being examined by a stranger as a threatening peacekeeper stands watch. And remind myself again, for the umteenth time, to conserve my energy.

Then we're joined by a nurse. And the man, the doctor instructs the nurse as to what my treatments should be.

"They're ordering a full work up. Like after the Games. Let's get going, she'll have to be done as quickly as possible. Orders straight from the top." He tells her as he indicates something on the paper chart the nurse is holding. And she nods. Then he takes the chart from her, and starts making more notes of his own. The nurse comes over to my side, and I think she's going to help me stand up so I can follow her somewhere else. I'm surprised that I'm being given medical treatment. And I can't immediately understand the reasoning behind this. And I'm about to ask a question, despite my determination that it will probably be pointless. But I never get the chance. The nurse pulls something out of her pocket, and I can barely make out the flash of the needle before she's plunging it into my neck. I faintly hear myself cry out in alarm, before the whole world goes black.