Peeta Mellark is in love with me.
Or, he says he is, and he's convincing enough for the crowd to go absolutely wild. He's completely overshadowed the rest of us on this stage. Everyone in the audience is beside themselves with the tragic news they've just witnessed: the poor, sweet boy, professing his love to the girl with the bite-mark in front of the whole world, knowing that one of them must die for the other to survive. It's sensational. It's heart-wrenching.
It's utter bullshit.
Love me? He hardly even knows who I am! Aside from one small moment of kindness when we were just children, we've never even said a word to each other until after the Reaping. How dare he lie through his teeth to the entire country, leaving me looking weak and ridiculous and nothing but an object of someone else's emotions? It's ridiculous! It's so outrageous an idea that for once in my life, even the virus has been shocked into stillness.
The buzzer signifying the end of his interview time is barely heard over the roar of voices raining down on us, and Caesar has to ask them three times to settle down before he lets Peeta say goodbye. He rises from his chair and waves sadly, taking his time to get back to his seat. I stare directly at my feet, face bright red and mouth hung half open in shock. I hear my name being called, and for one horrible second, I think I'm going to be asked back to center stage when Caesar teases the audience by proclaiming, "Well, what a confession! Wouldn't you love to hear the lady's response?"
I snap my head up and stare at myself from fifty different angles. All the cameras have been turned to Peeta and I, the tragic love story of District Twelve. It's too late to pull that neutral mask back on – it's been shattered by Peeta's confession and my naked face makes it obvious that I'm hearing it for the first time along with the audience. I look like a ghost, and I wish desperately that this was the case, that I could disappear and float away from all this.
Caesar saves me some despair by reminding the audience that to bring me back out for a second questioning would be unfair to the rest of the audience. A good thing too, because the virus is starting to wake from it's stupor. I can feel the veins in my arms and neck straining, and the hot, sick taste of rage is beginning to burn a hole in my tongue. I have been made a fool. I've lost control of the situation, and if there's anything that's sure to trigger the virus' effects, it's being undermined. The bangles on my wrists are no longer pieces of jewelry but shackles, holding me still with stinging pulses, a warning of what will come if I give myself to the anger.
Caesar asks all the tributes to stand and the audience applauds and screams and cheers for us all one last time. The noise is muted to my ears, muffled like the voices on the communication radios back home. When the anthem begins to play, the notes all fade to background static, and I am vaguely aware that my vision has become a red tunnel again. By a stroke of luck, I manage to find Cinna's face in the blur, and we hold each other's gaze until the song is over. With a subtle nod of his head, he instructs me to leave the stage. There's hurried movement beside him, and I see Haymitch pushing and elbowing his way past people, trying to make his way out of the chaos. He turns his neck and sweeps me over with a searching look. He must know I'm teetering on the edge and he's trying to get to me quickly. I decide instantly that he is the last person I want to see.
I shove my way through bodies as soon as we're backstage, peeling towards the elevators as fast as I can. Some of the other tributes make snide remarks as I pass them, but I'm too focused on getting away to make a rebuke. I can hear Clove laughing openly, high and cold among above the rest. The muscles in my jaw clench, but I withstand the urge to make her stop. I reach the elevators before anyone else, and smash the button that will take me back to the suite repeatedly. My lips twitch in a snarl, daring anyone else to step inside with me. The tributes from Nine and Ten are right behind me, but they hang back nervously. I think I've succeeded in claiming this space until a high-heeled foot stops the door from sliding closed. My eyes trail up from the floor until I'm staring into the face of Glimmer, the female tribute from One.
"Do you mind if we share?" she asks, tossing her shining blonde hair off her shoulder. I get the feeling that this isn't really a question, but if I start an argument now, it will undeniably end in bloodshed, so I move to the side and allow room for her and her district partner, Marvel.
"I think what Peter did was so sweet," she gushes as soon as the door closes. I don't correct her on his name. Her voice is cloyingly sweet, and there's a hint of mockery behind it.
"Oh yeah, Lover Boy really laid it all out back there," Marvel remarks. He doesn't bother to hide his snideness. "Did you two get all hot and bothered on the train ride to the Capitol or something? Could he not satisfy you? Is that how he messed up?"
It takes monumental effort not to react to the goading. I remind myself ten times over that if I attack them now, I'll be killed immediately.
"Oh, stop it, Marvel," Glimmer chides. "I thought it was so romantic," she sighs, and I realize that the mockery I thought I heard a moment ago might actually be jealousy instead. Does that mean Peeta has even convinced the other tributes of his love for me? He really is a master of deception.
The elevator stops on the first floor to let the two of them off. Marvel makes a point of brushing his hand across my lower back as he steps out, making me bite my tongue and shudder in revulsion.
"I have to hand it to him, he's made for some good television," he remarks before the door closes. "Just think of how heart-breaking it'll be when we kill you. If you're lucky, maybe we'll even let him get one last fuck in before we do it."
My fist makes contact with the metal of the lift's door, too slow to hit it's target before he's gone. I can hear Marvel's snickering trailing away as I rise alone to the top floor. I hate that I've let him get a reaction out of me, but not as much as I hate that I missed my window for retaliation. The rational part of my brain registers that Cinna must have lied about the sensitivity of the devices on my wrists, because the virus is coursing it's way through my blood so diligently that there's no way I'd still be conscious otherwise. Peeta's lie has cost me my dignity on top of everything else, and that in itself has my scar burning white-hot.
The elevator opens on an empty hall. I'm the first one of our team to arrive, which gives me a chance to flee before anyone catches me. I could run to my room, lock the door, and refuse entrance to anyone until the morning, when I'll be taken to the arena. It's clear that Haymitch has chosen which tribute he's backing, I don't need any more advice from him. And if the next time I see Peeta is when I put an arrow through his throat, all the better.
I only take two steps forward towards my room before another unsavory thought hits me – I can't kill Peeta. Not only has he made me an unwilling participant in the story he's spun for the Capitol, he's made sure to keep himself safe from my vengeance in the process. If both of us make it past the chaos of the first ten minutes of the Games, we'll need sponsors to keep ourselves alive. Peeta's given them a love story, and killing him will only make me the villain of it. If he dies by my hand, the audience will be screaming for my blood to spill next. The best I can hope for is that the Careers catch him before they catch me.
This awful feeling of being trapped, of being outsmarted, of being denied the chance to take absolute revenge, keeps me rooted to the floor. The walls around me feel like a cage, and I know that my bedroom will feel no more freeing. My skin feels like it's cooking my organs, reminding me vividly of the fever that almost claimed me so many years ago. I spin in the direction of the rooftop entrance, craving the cold air of the outdoors.
The soft melody of the elevator makes me turn my head, and I watch the number at the top of it climb as the cart makes its way back to the penthouse from the lobby. For reasons I can't explain, I don't run before whoever's inside reaches me. I feel like I should be running, hiding, escaping, but I don't do any of these things. Instead, I wait. Maybe whoever is on their way up here can help to explain just what the hell I should be doing, because no part of me has any damn clue.
But when the door opens, and Peeta steps out alone, looking frantic and wild-eyed, I realize three very important things. The first is that Cinna has definitely lied about the effectiveness of his bracelets, because the shocks that run up my arms are not nearly powerful enough to hold me at bay. The second is that not everything Peeta said tonight was untrue. He may have lied about how he feels towards me, but as I stare him down, the virus insists that the hate he says I hold for him is very real. And the third, most important realization I have, is that I know now exactly what it is I should be doing – showing him just how much of a monster the girl he claims to love is.
"Katniss, wait!" Peeta calls, lifting his arms up in self-defense. "Just wait, I can explain-"
But I don't want an explanation. I don't want to hear any more of his lies. What I want is to make him sorry for what he's done. I want him to feel as powerless and weak as I do right now. I want him to regret ever throwing me that bread.
I pounce on him without a word. My fingers wrap around his throat, cutting off his airway and his excuses. The bracelets burn imprints into my skin, but the pain means nothing to me. I propel us both into the nearest wall, taking pleasure in the sound of Peeta's teeth clicking together on impact. His hands come up to pull mine away, and I'll admit that I'm surprised by their strength. He loosens my grip just enough to allow himself to suck in a lungful of air, which he uses to choke out another strangled plea to wait.
"What did you think would happen?" I snarl in his face. "Did you think you could just go out there and say those things about me and I would just let you do it? Did you think I'd fall for it? That I'd let my guard down again and promise not to kill you?"
I stare into his eyes, searching for the fear that the virus has me craving. It's there, showcased in his rapid heartbeat and overblown pupils, but the emotion I want to see is laced with another – a sadness that I'd never expect to appear in a moment like this.
The sensors on my wrists must finally pick up the spike in my pulse, because a fiery jolt of pain rushes up both my arms, forcing me to seize up momentarily. My fingers slip on our mingled sweat, just enough that Peeta is able to clasp them in his own and pull them away from his neck. I wrench them out of his grip and rear back to fire another blow. He lurches sideways, so that my fist connects with the wall beside his head. Pain radiates up to my elbow, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. I whirl around, stumbling on my stupid heels and nearly tripping on the hem of my dress. Reaching for a knife at my ankle that isn't there, I give Peeta no time to react as I fly at him, ready to spill his blood with my bare hands instead. I collide into him at full speed, my palms slamming into his chest. His breath leaves him in a grunt and we hit the ground together, limbs flailing. My fingers fly to his throat once more, but this time he's ready for it. He catches them before they reach their target, and in a dizzying move, rolls us over so that my back hits the marble floor. He has both my hands trapped between us, one of his legs pinning both of mine down. I thrash and scream underneath him, but he holds on tightly. I may be in the midst of an episode, but Peeta has at least six inches and fifty pounds on me, and I've failed to take his scout training into account.
"Katniss, please! I don't want to hurt you," he implores, panting into my face. Even strained, his voice has a sympathetic note to it that makes me even angrier. Does he actually think I'm as weak as he's made me out to be? He has no idea of what I'm capable of. He's never seen the cruel things the virus has made me do. I wish he did want to hurt me – it would make this easier.
"Shut up," I growl at him. I snatch my hands out of his once again, and they find purchase in the blond curls that Portia styled so carefully. I yank on them until Peeta lets out a cry of pain. His head is pulled backwards, exposing his neck and the hammering pulse hidden inside of it. All it would take is one calculated bite, and I could stop him from ever slandering my name again. I start to salivate, my mind filled with the virus' whispers to do it, do it, just fucking do it.
Somewhere very far away, a bell rings. Before I can fully understand what that means, Peeta is pulled away from me in a jerk, and my hands release their hold on his hair. I scramble to sit up, to chase, but I'm shoved back down onto the marble floor before I get the chance.
"Now just what the fuck do you two think you're doing?" Haymitch shouts from above. My nose is suddenly filled with the scent of old sweat and a strong cologne that doesn't totally mask the smell of whiskey. My mentor glares down on me with eyes as cold as ice.
"Thought you said those bracelets were just as good as the neck sedators. Shouldn't she be out cold right now?" he asks someone to my side, but his eyes never leave mine.
"They must have malfunctioned," Cinna answers. His voice is clipped and sounds like it's coming from miles away. "I'm so sorry. I'll take responsibility for any damage done, if need be."
I crane my neck until I can see him, standing behind Haymitch with pursed lips and his hands clasped behind his back. He looks so regretful that there's no longer any question as to his involvement in that malfunction. He flicks his gaze down to me for just a second, but I can tell immediately that he's disappointed in me. For a moment, I feel enormously guilty for letting the virus win. If I had succeeded in killing Peeta or hurting anyone else, it would have been Cinna at fault for tinkering with the sedation device. I almost begin to apologize to him, but Haymitch side-steps, blocking Cinna from view, and the look of disgust he gives me stokes my fury back to life.
"This is your fault!" I scream at him. I have no patience for reprimands from an old drunk. "You told him to do it, didn't you?"
"It was my idea. He just helped," Peeta interjects. I raise myself up on my elbows and look over Haymitch's shoulder at him, sneering while he rubs his neck and tries to catch his breath.
"And you let him do it?" I question, turning my glare back on Haymitch.
"Let him? I thanked him!" he cries, throwing his hands out in exasperation. My mouth gapes open indignantly.
"Thanked him for what?" I growl. "For making me look weak? For turning me into some kind of prop in front of everyone in the country?"
I start to rise to my feet, but give up and sit down hard when Haymitch moves. He raises a foot, ready to kick me down again if I try to attack, but the fight is already leaving me. To get to Peeta now, I'll have to go through everyone else in this room, and even the virus knows that murdering my entire team is a sure fire way to put my family in immediate danger.
"I knew you were hot-headed, girl, but I didn't know you were this stupid," Haymitch spits. "That boy just did you a momentous favour that, quite frankly, you don't fuckin' deserve!"
This declaration strikes me dumb. I sit there fuming, trying to sort out what he means. How the hell could Peeta's love story be a good thing for me? As far as I can see, it's done nothing but make me look like a fool. I suck my bottom lip between my teeth, biting down until it stings. Haymitch heaves a huge sigh and rolls his eyes. He seems convinced that I'm not seeing red anymore, and lets Cinna offer a hand to pull me to my feet. I take it hesitantly and immediately back myself into the wall again once I'm up.
"You two are all they're talkin' about down there," Haymitch says, gesturing vaguely to the streets below us. "The Star-Crossed Lovers of District Twelve, that's what they're callin' you already. You're a hit!"
"But we're not lovers!" I argue. "We barely know each other! He lied about me!"
"Oh, who gives a shit?" he shouts. I can hear the annoyance in his voice as it echoes off the walls. "You think anyone else out there was speakin' the gospel truth? It's all a show – smoke and mirrors! The kid just gave you a golden ticket! He made you look appealing. He made you desirable! Before him, you would've been forgotten by tomorrow morning."
I open my mouth to defend myself from his bombardment, but I can't quite bring myself to do it. My hesitation keeps him going.
"Yeah, you know I'm right," he nods smugly. "Sure, you got through the interview without fallin' down, but that ain't gonna be enough and you know it. Most I could say once you were done is that your bite mark stirred a bit of curiosity and you have some motivation to win, but that don't mean shit here. Now that Peeta's convinced them all that he wants you, he's made you both interesting. These people will want to see how it all plays out. They'll want to keep you both alive until you give 'em a satisfying conclusion. There'll be people linin' up around the block to sponsor you now. You should be thankin' him, not trying to kill him, but you're too proud and pig-headed to see it!"
He finishes in a huff and spins around to check how much damage I've inflicted on my fellow tribute, leaving me to slouch against the wall, speechless and pink-cheeked. My head is spinning, trying to make sense of what's just happened. Did Peeta really save me from being forgotten? I replay my own interview in my head, picking it apart and trying to view it from a Capitolite's perspective. What did I really do or say that would captivate them? I hardly talked about my immunity, the only thing that might have made me stand out. I won them over with Prim, but every tribute has family they're trying to get home to. No, as much as it tortures me to admit it, I know deep-down that any sponsor money I receive will be thanks to Peeta and his 'love' for me. Still, my pride is bruised, and that defiant streak rears it's head even as I'm forced to admit my mistake.
"You should have let me in on it," I say to Haymitch's back. "I could have said I was in love with him, too."
"Yeah right," he scoffs. "You said yourself you can't lie worth a damn. You would've messed it all up."
"Well, I still should have been told," I shoot back haughtily. "I saw myself on the screens, I looked like an idiot."
"No, you were perfect," Portia assures me. She's wandered over to my side and puts a steadying hand on my arm. "Your surprise made it better. It was very endearing."
"You never would have agreed to it if I had asked you," Peeta counters. I glare at him, knowing he's right. He doesn't make eye contact, but his expression darkens slightly. "If you're worried about Gale, I'm sure he's smart enough to know what the truth is."
"That's not what I'm worried about!" I rebuke, but I know my cheeks have just gotten even more pink. The truth is that I really wasn't thinking about Gale at all until Peeta mentioned him, but now that he has, an uncomfortable feeling has started spreading throughout my insides. The memory of our last day alone together surfaces, but I push it away quickly. That isn't at all what this is about.
"Who is Gale?" Effie pipes up from beside Peeta. She's been uncharacteristically quiet since her arrival, watching the scene unfold from behind her ridiculously long eyelashes.
"He's no one," I answer quickly. I have absolutely no desire to talk about my best friend with anyone in this room.
"Sure Katniss, whatever you say," Peeta says tiredly. "I don't know why you're so angry, anyway. It's not like you just told everyone that you're in love with me. I'm the one who sounded weak. I just thought it might help both of us out to do it."
And just like that, Peeta reclaims his enigmatic status. If what they're all saying is true, then he really has done me another favour that I can't possibly repay him for. He may have lied, but everyone but me seems to think it was done with good intentions. And if that's the case, I'm still left with the unanswerable question of why he would ever bother, and the burning shame of trying to kill him for it.
Now that the shock has subsided and my blood has cooled, the inherent exhaustion that follows makes me fuzzy-headed and confused. I'm still not quite sure what to think or how to feel, but when Effie suggests that we all move to the lounge to watch the recap of the interviews, I follow along.
I take a seat as far away from Peeta as possible, still wary of how to view him, and kick my shoes off. I pull my knees up to my chin and rest my head on them, dreading the moment when I'll appear on screen. A throbbing headache rattles my brain, and I pay about as much attention to the other tributes as I did the first time around. I sit up straighter when my own interview is replayed, and squeeze Cinna's arm in gratitude. The person on the television is a stranger to me. She looks beautiful and glamorous, but when she opens her mouth, she still sounds like me – quiet, uncomfortable, a rough edge. I suppress a groan, knowing that Haymitch was right to call me forgettable, but my team assures me that the audience liked me.
There's no need for reassurances when Peeta's interview starts. Even through the screen, the screams from the crowd are obviously more enthusiastic. He's charming, friendly and funny, winning the audience over from his first words. The camera cuts to shots of people in the stands, adoring looks painted on their faces. I hold my breath when Caesar starts to question him about his life back home, waiting for the anger to reappear when Peeta makes his confession. Instead, I nearly lean over to apologize to him, held back only by my pride. He's utterly charming as the boy in love, so believable and heartbroken that if I was watching from home, I'd be just as convinced as everyone else. Now that I'm watching the scene unfold from the safety of the couch, I understand fully what Haymitch meant when he was screaming at me. Peeta has made me desirable. He's made me into someone worth wanting. He's made it sound like he would rather die than lose me, and I thanked him by trying to squeeze the life out of him. A lump forms in my throat when I realize that this is just another debt of kindness from the boy with the bread that I cannot ever possibly pay back.
Effie switches the television off after Caesar's closing monologue and claps her hands together, insisting that we all head to bed before our big, big, big day tomorrow. The lump in my throat swells. For Peeta and I, it will be the biggest, and possibly last, day of our lives. Tomorrow morning, we'll be flown to the arena, the location of which is kept top-secret until the games begin. Our stylists will be with us until then, but, unless one of us miraculously comes out a Victor, tonight is the last time we'll ever see Haymitch and Effie again. An awkward silence falls over the room. How do you say goodbye to someone when you know it will be for the last time? Effie breaks the tension, suddenly teary-eyed.
"Well children, it's been an honor to have been your escort," she says, clasping her hands in front of her. "I couldn't have picked two better names from that bowl for our first Games back. I can't wait to cash out all of those sponsorship cheques!"
That's a laughably morbid statement, but I let her cup my face and pull me in for a quick hug, anyway. I know she means well, and in a strange way, I think I might even miss her outlandish statements and even wilder style. Whether she intended it or not, she's been good at making me laugh in one way or another. She hugs Peeta for a few moments longer, patting him on the head and sniffling. She never did try to hide the fact that he was her favourite, and I can't say I blame her. She bids us goodnight and good luck, tells Haymitch that she'll meet him in the morning to go over their schedule, and traipses to her room. Cinna and Portia depart shortly after. Cinna squeezes my arm as he passes, but I know our real goodbye will be tomorrow, just before the Games. That leaves Peeta and I alone with Haymitch, who drains the rest of his drink and shoves his hands in his pockets.
"Well, this is it, then," he says gruffly. He's careful to keep his face devoid of any emotion, but there's a hint of remorse in his eyes that he can't quite contain. No matter what happens to Peeta and I in the coming days, he'll be obligated to watch every second of it in real time.
"Any last words of advice?" Peeta asks.
"When the bell rings, get the hell away from everyone, as fast as you can. You've both got targets on your backs now, and virus or not, neither of you are up to takin' on everyone at once. Find food, find water, find somewhere to hide. They won't wait long to send the monsters out."
"And after that?" I ask him. I can't imagine that the Capitol will allow anyone to spend the entirety of the Games laying low – that would be far too boring for the audience.
Haymitch fixes me with a penetrating stare. He purses his lips and cocks his head to the side. I can't pretend that either of us have been favorable of the other in any context since we've met, but when I hold his gaze, there's a small kindling of pride in my chest when I recognize the approval there.
"Find a way to stay alive," he answers, but the malice of the first time I heard those words from him is gone. He leaves the rest unsaid, though he doesn't need to voice it. The other half of his original advice resonates in the silence that follows: 'Stay alive, or die quickly.'
He pats both of our shoulders and tells us that it may take a half-day for the sponsor money to come in, and not to expect anything from him before then. He tells Peeta to stay high if he can, away from the undead that we know will be there, looking for fresh blood. He tells me to hold out on 'seeing red' for as long as I can, and to put my knowledge of snares to use. Then he hesitates for a moment before leaving us with one last cryptic bit of wisdom.
"You know, that plan of yours to stick together was never a bad one. You'll both do what you have to once you're in there, but I've seen worse strategies, that's for damn sure."
Peeta and I watch him leave, stumbling to his room at the end of the hall. I wish he'd stopped at 'stay alive,' because that advice was easier to follow. Peeta clears his throat, and I wonder if he's expecting us to talk strategy before we part ways. The better parts of me know that we should, if only to rise tomorrow knowing where we stand in the arena, but now that the reality of what I'm about to face is settling in, I'm so high strung that I don't think I could speak if I wanted to. Perhaps he senses my discomfort, because he merely crosses his arms and turns to me with a look of finality.
"Well, goodnight Katniss," he says softly. "And….good luck."
"You too," I whisper. It's as loud as my vocal cords will allow me to be. We share one final look, and I try to convey to him in it that even if we aren't a team any longer, he doesn't need to worry about me as a threat to him. I can do that for him, at least, after all he's done for me. I don't know if he understands, but he seems to see something in my face, because he gives me a solemn nod and pads off to his room.
I follow suit and head to my own, closing and locking the door behind me. I extract myself from Cinna's dress and take an extended shower, scrubbing all the make-up and products off my skin until it burns. I dry myself off and pull a thick nightgown over my head, but even the heavy material of it can't stop my constant shaking.
I am so exhausted and weary that my bones ache, but I accept that sleep won't take me before my head even hits the pillow. I lie on my back with my eyes closed, trying and failing to cage the tears that escape down my temples. I cycle through the faces of everyone I love, living or dead – Prim, my mother, my father, Gale. Even those who I don't love but whom I know I'll still miss – old Sae from the Hob, Madge, Darius, Hazel and the rest of the Hawthornes. I wonder if any of them are still awake, as nervous about watching me in the Games as I am about participating in them. I wonder if they're holding their breath for us, their tributes, for the hope of us bringing them home a vaccine and an end to the fear they've endured for so long. I wonder how long it will take for Peeta and I to die and take that hope with us.
The longer I picture my family, the more tightly wound I become, until the bed is nearly vibrating from my shaking limbs. I give up completely on trying to fall asleep, though I know it's incredibly stupid to do so. Starting tomorrow, every second of sleep I attempt will be a deadly risk. Still, I throw the covers away from myself and sit up, wiping at my face and swallowing hard. I know instinctively that Peeta will still be awake too, and moments later I find myself at his door before I even make the conscious decision to get there. Haymitch's parting words ring in my head, and no matter how I feel about Peeta personally, my survival instincts refuse to let me dismiss the fact that teaming up is still the best chance I have at ever coming home.
I take a deep breath and knock on his door, softly at first and then more frantically when there's no answer. Perhaps he found sleep more easily than I did, or perhaps he's ignoring me and my window for talking strategy has been shut. My scar twinges at the thought of either scenario, but I ignore it. I press my ear to the door, listening for any signs of life but coming up empty. If I make any more noise, I'll wake up everyone else, but now my need to talk to him is becoming desperate. With a shaky hand, I twist the doorknob and push, breathing a sigh of relief when it turns easily, unlocked.
The room is dark, illuminated only by the soft light of the moon through the small barred window. Peeta's room is identical to mine, down to how empty it is. The bed that rests along the wall is barren, the covers thrown back and wrinkled – signs that someone has tried and failed to lay still in it. I creep forward another foot, but the bathroom door is open and no sounds emit from within. Peeta's not here. I back up and close the door slowly, undeterred. If he isn't in his room, there's only one other place he could be.
The wind whips my hair back as I step out onto the rooftop. I close the metal door and start towards the edge on bare feet, picking my way past rocks and leaves and other debris that have been blown up here. I see him immediately, silhouetted by the bright lights of the city that never seem to dim. I'd thought I was coming to him unnoticed, but when I'm close enough to him to hear it, he turns his head and offers a quiet hello.
"Couldn't sleep either?" he asks as I rest my arms on the railing beside him.
"Not if my life depended on it," I say, and then snort into my arm, because it's likely that it does.
"I don't blame you," Peeta answers. "I keep trying to think of where we'll be tomorrow, and then trying to stop myself from thinking about it at all."
I nod, knowing exactly what he means. No matter where we end up, we'll be in mortal danger, until however it ends. Trying to imagine the arena only makes me shake harder. A silence falls between us, broken by the shouts and screams of the Capitol citizens below, who seem to have no reservations about staying awake all night.
"I wish they'd just stay quiet," I grumble. "This is the last night of peace we'll ever have, and they're ruining it."
"Oh, don't blame them too harshly," Peeta smiles sadly. "It's a party for us, after all."
He chuckles a little to himself, but his laugh turns into a hacking cough. I stare at his profile, and a roving spotlight illuminates his upper-half, showing off the imprints of my fingers on his neck in a range of purples and blues. I grimace, a bubble of guilt inflating in my stomach.
"I never apologized," I blurt out suddenly. He turns fully to face me.
"Apologize for what?" he asks innocently.
"For hurting you. For attacking you. You were trying to help me during your interview and I couldn't see that. I shouldn't have jumped you. I'm sorry."
"It's okay. Really, it is," he assures me when I open my mouth to argue. "I knew you wouldn't have seen it as help, but I should have told you. And honestly, it doesn't matter. This," he says, gesturing to his bruises, "won't be anything compared to what will happen to me tomorrow. I was never a contender in the Games. At least you've given me an excuse when I go down easy."
I cross my arms against myself, aghast.
"That's a shitty way to think," I tell him.
"Maybe, but at least it's honest. You can't look at me and tell me that I've got a sliver of a shot against Cato or Thresh or you. The most I can hope for is that I go out with some dignity. I don't want to die a…monster."
He says the last word quietly, and I know we're both transported back in time, to the willow tree and the bread and my sobbing repetitions of the same word.
"Defending yourself doesn't make you a monster, Peeta," I shoot back at him. "What are you going to do? Let them kill you?"
"No, I'll have to fight," he sighs. "I'd let everyone back home down if I didn't. I just mean, the more I think about it, the less I think the cost of being a Victor is worth it."
I blink at him. How can he say something like that? Yes, the cost of winning is high, but the alternative is so much worse.
"Well, you do what you want to," I spit at him. "I'm going to fight like hell to get back to my family. They need me."
"Of course they do," he responds, "But we aren't the same person, Katniss."
I grind my teeth, feeling my anger rising to the surface. I fight the urge to leave, to walk away from what is quickly feeling like a lost cause, and take a step closer to do what I came here for in the first place.
"It doesn't matter if we're the same or not," I deflect. "What matters is that we both want the same thing. Getting that vaccine to the people we love is too important to just give up. Haymitch was right. Our plan to stick together was a good one, and I'm still in if you are."
I stare into his face defiantly, letting the wind and cold burn my skin as I wait for his answer. A whole range of emotions comes over him, ending on that sadness that I glimpsed a few hours before while my hands were around his throat.
"Katniss, I can't," he pleads. I take a step back, face contorting to one of disgust.
"Why the fuck not?" I growl at him.
"Look, you don't have to worry about me. I'll never try to kill you," he explains quickly, "but I meant what I said the first time – I'll only hold you back. You deserve to win, you deserve to have that chance, but keeping me beside you only takes that chance away. I never should have agreed to you in the first place. I tried to tell you, I'm not-"
"I don't care!" I shout, my voice raising over the chaos going on down below. "I don't care what you are or aren't. The only thing I care about is that you're the only person going into that arena with me tomorrow who doesn't want me dead, and I need your help to have any chance of surviving that at all!"
Peeta's face reddens, and though he doesn't raise his voice to my level, I can hear the frustration loud and clear.
"Weren't you listening earlier? If I'm the reason that you get killed, I could never live with myself!"
I shake my head at him, bewildered at his choice to pick that as his reasoning. There are no cameras up here, no audience to play to. Is he under the pretense that I've suddenly begun to believe in his love for me? Still, if that's what he wants, two can play at that game.
"If we don't work together, then you will be the reason I'm killed!"
He gapes at me, presumably trying to come up with a counter-argument, but I know I've won. I can see in his eyes that he knows it, too. I wipe my running nose on my sleeve and make an effort to keep my voice steady.
"Look, now that you've made us out to be lovers, working together makes even more sense. The Capitol will love it and it will get us even more sponsors. If both of us last until the end, we'll split up. At the very least, we can get rid of the bigger tributes together. Neither of us can take on Cato or Thresh alone."
Peeta swallows, and looks at me with eyes older than his years.
"Okay, but can you promise me one thing?" he asks.
"What?"
"If we're still together and I get bit, I need you to promise me that you'll end it. End it before I turn. No matter what. Please."
I nod at him without hesitation. I know the virus too intimately to subject anyone to it's full effects. If that time comes, I know what I'll need to do.
Peeta and I discuss the basics of our plan a little longer before heading back to our rooms. We'll follow Haymitch's advice, leave the Cornocopia at the beginning of the Games with all of its supplies behind, find each other as quickly as we can, and hide until we can get the lay of the land. It's a rudimentary type of plan with a glaring margin for error, but it's all we have, and it's better than no plan at all.
I sink back into my bed near dawn, only searching for warmth and not for the sleep that I know is far past achievable. By the time I regain feeling in my extremities, Cinna is knocking softly at my door, and it's time to go.
We don't speak much at all as he leads me back up the stairs to the rooftop, where a silent hovercraft waits for us fifty feet in the sky. A metal ladder drops down and I take hold, where I'm frozen in place as it reels me in. I can't even blink, but I can feel my heart beating radically in my chest as a woman in a lab coat guides me inside the craft. She turns away from me without letting me go, and when she faces me again there's a severe looking needle in her gloved hand.
"This is just your tracker, Katniss," she explains mechanically as she raises it to my frozen arm. "The Capitol will need to know where you are in the arena at all times. It will have no effect on your immunity, don't worry."
She digs the needle into the sensitive flesh just below my elbow. A whimper escapes my unmoving lips as I feel the foreign object sliding into place, and then she lets me free, motioning for me to sit on the white, leather seats of the aircraft. Cinna follows me in and then we're brought steaming plates of breakfast. I can barely stomach the smell of mine, my nerves too on edge to bare the thought of food. Cinna gently encourages me to eat what I can, reminding me that this is the last hot meal I can count on. I manage to finish most of it, but it tastes like coal dust in my mouth.
The hovercraft is so smooth that I haven't even realized we've been moving this whole time, until the windows suddenly turn to black and an announcement from the pilot says we're close to our destination. I breathe deep through my nose, trying to keep my breakfast down. Cinna takes my hand and leads me back to the ladder, which has been enclosed in a black tunnel, so as not to give any tribute a sneak peak of where we might be. I jump down and land in a room that looks very similar to my suite in the Capitol, only there aren't any windows in this one. A damp chill runs through me and I figure we must be underground, below the arena that I'm about to spend the last days of my life in.
The room itself is immaculate. Everything in it is brand new and screams of lavishness. I look around, disgusted at all the money that has been spent on this, rather than the rest of the poverty-stricken country. I wonder whether they've designed it like this on purpose – one last show of power.
An Avox knocks on the door, passing a garment bag over to Cinna without looking at me once. Once they leave, he unzips it and inspects the items inside. He has no prior knowledge of what I'll be wearing, no input as my stylist. His last responsibility before he leaves me is only to help me into these clothes and send me off, but he does it gently and with great care.
Inside the bag is a pair of simple black pants with a fleece lining, a thermal long-sleeved green shirt, a thick, grey hooded jacket with a sturdy zipper and insulated mid-calf boots with treaded rubber soles. I put them all on, feeling far too warm and sweating already.
"Expect freezing weather, maybe even snow," Cinna tells me quietly as he helps me zip up the jacket. The warmth drains out of me – freezing weather will make hunting near impossible.
Cinna asks me to move around, to stretch, to run in a circle until we're both satisfied that the clothes fit me properly. Just when I think I'm finished, he pulls the gold mockingjay pin from his pocket and pins it to my shirt, under my jacket. I had completely forgotten about it at all, but having it here is a small comfort. Then, all there is to do is wait.
"How do you feel?" he asks as we sit down side-by-side on another white couch. I look at him with wide eyes, not knowing how to answer him, even if I could get my voice to work.
"You're right, that wasn't a very sensitive question," Cinna answers himself. He gently takes my hand in his. "Do you mind if I tell you a story before you go?"
I squeeze his hand as an approval, if only to have a distraction from the mounting terror causing tremors through my spine. In mere minutes, I could be dead. Not undead, not half-dead, like the virus makes me feel, but full-on dead. It's a fear so overwhelming that I can't even wrap my mind around it.
"I told you, quite naively, that we would have enough time together for me to tell you how I ended up with the same condition as you," Cinna breathes. He's so quiet that I have to inch closer to him to hear. I flick my eyes around our compartment, knowing instinctively that there are people listening to us.
"I think now is as good a time as any to make sure I keep my promise, if you're still interested in hearing about it."
I turn and nod at him, and he smiles softly, sadly.
"I wasn't much older than you when I came to the Capitol," he says. "I was young and confident and full of half-hatched ideas of money and glory that would never have been afforded to me in my home district. The virus was young too, and I made my move only weeks before it spread like wildfire through the districts. I hadn't been bitten yet," he explains when a look of confusion passes over my features. "That comes later. First, you need to know that while I've always known I had a talent for the arts, the art of friendship was never very easy for me. So when I found out that a beautiful man named Corus lived beside me, it took me an embarrassing amount of time to acknowledge that he might be more than just another Capitolite."
Cinna pauses for a moment, reminiscing on memories only he can see. He bites his lip and squeezes my hand again to let me know he hasn't gone somewhere else.
"Corus was kind, and warm, and so bright. He took me in as a stranger and made me feel welcome, despite all my efforts to stop him from doing so. At first, we were only neighbors, then friends, then something quite a bit more than friends. It was through him that I learned of the spread of the virus, something of a taboo topic in the Capitol at the time. The government didn't want it's citizens to know how out of control things had gotten, not when things were all but normal where we were, but Corus had his ways of knowing. When word reached us that Snow had stopped sending rations to the districts, he was devastated. He was born and raised in the heart of the city, but his heart went out to those who he knew were suffering. He threw himself into his work, training to become a healer, and on the night that he earned his doctorate, he asked me to leave the Capitol with him."
"And did you?" I ask. I'm so invested in this piece of Cinna's history that he's sharing with me that the panic of my own current situation has lifted some.
"Not immediately," he answers with a touch of regret. "I fought him on it. It was too dangerous. I was too comfortable where I was. The Capitol was and still is a quarantined zone, and leaving it meant never coming back. I only agreed when Corus asked me if I could still live with myself knowing that we had the capacity to help countless victims and still choosing not to. We snuck out of the city the next evening."
"Weren't you terrified?" I ask him. Knowing now how the Capitol lives, free of fear and death, I don't know that I would ever be able to leave, myself.
"Oh, I was scared senseless," Cinna agrees. "But I was in love, and love can make you do things you never thought you'd be able to."
He smiles sadly, and when I look into his eyes, there's a wetness in them that he wipes away with a finger.
"So, what happened?" I ask after a beat. "You said if you left, you couldn't come back. How are you here, now?"
"In short, I'm a coward," he grimaces. "I'm not sure the Capitol even ever knew we left. The unfortunate thing about ideas born out of good hearts, even when brewed by the best intentions, is that they rarely go as planned. Corus was deeply intelligent and he had a phenomenal gift for healing, but he was still a Capitolite, soft by nature and circumstance, and we were grossly unprepared for what lay beyond the safety of the city. We were alone, just the two of us, and no match for the undead that prowled the valleys we were traveling in. We were attacked just two days in, before we ever reached the first district. We managed to get away, but not before we were both bit."
My mouth has gone dry. He doesn't need to finish his story for me to understand the outcome. Cinna is here, Corus is not. That can only mean one thing.
"He was so brave, Katniss," he continues. "Even when he knew he was dying, he took care of me through the worst of it. As you well know, the first days of immunity are so overwhelming that it was all I could do not to destroy anything I touched. I was still coming down from that terrible high when Corus took his last human breath. He begged me to put him out of his misery, but even while I was taken over by the virus, I was too weak to go through with it. So, I left. I came back to the Capitol, hid my condition, and tried for a very long time to pretend like it had all been a horrifically bad dream."
I don't realize that I've been crying until Cinna reaches over and wipes the tears from my eyes.
"I'm so sorry, Cinna," I whisper. My heart breaks for this man, my friend, and the loss of his love.
"No, I'm sorry. My intent wasn't to upset you," he says in a voice made shaky by his own tears. "I just thought it might be prudent to remind you that good people exist, even where you may not expect them to. Corus always saw the good in people, especially in those who I thought lacked any. He's inspired me to do the same, and to be brave in the face of danger, no matter how futile it may seem to do so."
"Corus sounds like a very brave man," I tell him. Cinna nods, laughing a little through his tears.
"Oh, he was. I wish we had the time for me to tell you some happier stories about him. Perhaps we'll get that chance sometime in the future. But I'd like to thank you, because being your stylist, and dare I say your friend, has given me the opportunity to see him in you, and in your fellow tribute, too, and that's brought me more lightness than I've felt in a long time."
I don't know how to respond to that without destroying the moment or sounding ungrateful, so I let a silence fall over us, holding his hands in mine until the intercom beeps and a voice announces that it's time to prepare for the beginning of the Games.
I rise unsteadily, all the fear and nerves that Cinna has gotten me to forget rushing back until I'm woozy. I walk towards the metal platform in the middle of the room and step into its middle as if in a dream. A bubble of hysterical laughter escapes me when I think about all the things I've faced so far in my sixteen years: a lethal virus, losing my father, desperate poverty and near-constant death, and how none of those things hold the dimmest of lights to what is about to come.
Cinna embraces me in a bone-crushing hug as the timer ticks down. He kisses the top of my head, and before he lets me go, whispers, "remember, girl on fire, you're a survivor, and if I could bet, it would be on you."
Then he releases me and backs away, just before a glass cylinder encircles me on this platform, extinguishing all means of escape. Before I'm ready for it, the platform starts to rise. I place a hand on the glass, a final goodbye, and then I set my face in that neutral mask, take a deep breath, and get ready to run.
Notes:
And so it begins!
I hope I did Cinna some justice, and that Katniss' flip-flopping on her view of Peeta and his intentions make sense from her perspective. Next chapter is fully go-go-go from here on out. Let's do this!
As always, ya'll are the best! Thanks for reading!