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Chapter 10

~Peeta~

"Mrs. Hawthorne, we're sorry to barge in..." I began.

"Have you seen them?" the older woman cut me off, glanced frantically past me for a moment and then pulled me inside. Haymitch was close behind.

"Seen who?"

"Rory and Katniss!"

"We came looking for Katniss, what, she's not here?" My stomach knotted.

Hazelle Hawthorne shook her head agitatedly. "When we came back this afternoon they were gone.

"Mama!" Posy called from the front room window. "Mr. Weaver's coming!"

Mrs. Hawthorne became frantic. ""Oh no, this can't happen now..." she breathed.

"It's all right, Hazelle, I called him," Haymitch told her, leading her to a chair. I got the door just as Mr. Weaver raised his fist to knock.

"Right on time," he swept inside.

"What have you done with my son?" Hazelle demanded.

"Calm yourself, Mrs. Hawthorne," Weaver spoke calmly but seriously. "Contrary to popular opinion around here, I'm not the enemy."

"Then where are they? Do you know something?" I questioned.

"The elder Mr. Hawthorne and Miss Everdeen were apprehended by a Guard detachment this morning, quite a lot sooner than I'd anticipated," he said rather nonchalantly, referring to a flat black tablet he held. Text streamed across its glossy surface. "The boy was just collateral damage, I'm afraid. The official word is that they will be charged in tandem with Mr. Heavensbee and Mr. Silane. I have an operative on the inside who may be able to give me a location where they're being held, but it's going to take time."

"Wait, Katniss is going to be charged with treason? Why? She's done nothing!" I exploded. Fear gripped me more grievously than any amount I'd faced since the hijacking. A treason charge was always followed by a death sentence. The trial was just a formality, a show of fairness in a post-dictatorial system struggling through its infancy. "We have to do something," I fought to sound rational, but it was hopeless. "Do you have a plan?"

Weaver shot a disbelieving, even irritated glare in my direction, then looked back to his tablet as he spoke. "My plan involved gaining cooperation from those involved, namely Mrs. Hawthorne, Miss Everdeen, Mr. Abernathy," he offhandedly indicated toward Haymitch, "and a number of others in order to turn a certain government plot on its head before this kind of thing happened." Condescension dripped from his words. "If I'd been afforded such cooperation, this unfortunate turn of events may have been avoided."

"We didn't know anything, you pompous, arrogant..." Haymitch lunged for Weaver, shouting obscenities, and I almost let him hit the man, my own fists balling at the insulting assessment of this dire situation, but I put myself between them.

"Haymitch, that's not going to help," I asserted, holding him back. Haymitch breathed forcefully, his nostrils flaring, but contained himself. His reluctance was palpable. I spoke, still staring Haymitch down. "Haymitch and Katniss told you everything they know, and I stand by their honesty. But if they did know things, they may not have told you, considering your handling of this case," I jabbed. "The truth is, none of us have any answers for you. At least not to the things you've asked." Haymitch backed off at this, and when I was satisfied that he wouldn't try that again, I turned to Mr. Weaver. His eyes were considering me.

"Fair enough, Mr. Mellark. I was beginning to gather as much."

I snorted. "You believe me, but not them?"

Weaver cocked his head to one side. "You forget, I helped to assess your condition after your arrival in District Thirteen."

It was the way he turned his head. The memory hit me so suddenly I didn't have time to grip anything. His face multiplied, swirled, looked down at me while I struggled in the restraints. I wanted to wipe that smirk off his tilted face more than anything. The way he'd walk around me, writing things on his clipboard, talking to the nurses about me like I wasn't there. Then the needles came. The medicines burned, made me shake, like the tremors...

I was suddenly alert again, but I was slightly drowsy. The awareness of Haymitch's arms holding me to him, my right shoulder mashed into his chest, and Weaver... he was shoving his fingers into my neck and left ribcage. Pressure points, I remembered. "You can let go, I'm under control," I said.

Hazelle had backed into a corner of the kitchen with Posy and Vick huddled in her arms. I felt terrible. "I apologize, Mrs. Hawthorne." Her eyes were wide, apprehensive. She hissed at the children to go upstairs and stay there.

"That wasn't what I expected, Mr. Mellark, you're remarkably more docile now," Weaver assessed.

"New meds," I told him. "So what makes you believe me and not Haymitch or Katniss?"

Weaver raised an eyebrow. "Because your captivity and the circumstances surrounding made you practically incapable of lying."

He was right. The realization hit me, but as soon as it did, lost its importance. I shook it off. "What are we going to do?"

"And what's this talk of a government plot?" Haymitch interjected.

"One thing at a time." Weaver punched a few keys on his tablet. "Two of my agents are on their way here now; one will stay and protect Mrs. Hawthorne and the children," he gestured to Hazelle, still wringing her hands in the corner, "and the other is coming with me to plan our next move."

"We're coming with you," I insisted.

Weaver rolled his eyes. "I saw you in both Games, Mr. Mellark. Forgive me, but you weren't exactly a fighter."

Haymitch towered over Weaver menacingly. "Now you listen here," he said, jabbing the smaller man with his index and middle fingers, "you talk about what could have been avoided, well there are four lives in grave danger right now, and the way I see it, this could have been avoided if you'd pulled your head outta your rear and clued us in. The kid says we're coming, so get used to it."

Weaver actually dared to look irritated, but the was trumped by his fear. He nodded, yieldingly.

A hand on my back startled me, and I turned. Mrs. Hawthorne's eyes met mine, fearful and pleading. "Please find my son, bring him back to me," she begged.

The enduring love I have for Katniss, the unconditional element of it, reflected back in her eyes. "I'll do everything I can."

~Katniss~

I woke, shivering.

Drip... Drip... Drip...

Cold.

Humid cold.

Rust... I smelled it. Like silt and blood. My shoulders strained, pulled back, aching. Bit by bit, my head raised, eyes opened. Dark, corroded metal walls. The deep whirring of a generator, pulled me back to the hovercraft...

the rooftop... the elevator...

The assault.

Rory.

My head whipped around, the swell of panic bringing on a surge of lightheadedness. The sticky residue of blood on the back of my tongue. My ribs siezed, but were braced somehow, under a thin, wet shirt. This wasn't my shirt... mine had been brown, this one was white. No pants, no shoes... cold, wet rust under my feet. My hands... clasping each other, but turned backward. A draft in the room. I turned my head more slowly. A metal door. Everything here was metal. That inane dripping.

Rory wasn't here. I perished the thought that he was someplace worse.

"What do you want from me?" my voice was ragged. Maybe no one could hear.

Seconds passed. A feeling of spiders crept along my fingers. I tried to shake it off, but it inched up to my elbows, moving faster. I felt a tingling in my shoulders, then a burning sensation raced through my chest, down through my legs and to my feet, and then I was shivering violently, but not from cold. The intensity rose, I couldn't move. Panic took over as every joint in my body felt on the verge of snapping. I could see red. Then it stopped, and I sucked in a breath. The waves of discomfort ebbed, but my heart was pounding furiously. The room spun and turned ninety degrees, and I wondered why it wouldn't right itself until I realized my head had fallen to one side. My neck was slack, my spine had become thread.

"Why are you doing this?" I slurred.

It began again... harder this time. Like flames licking under my skin, crackling and popping on its way through me. I was rigid, my joints screaming. I remembered the tracker jacker stings from the arena, I'd take those instead, and be forever indebted to the relief it would bring. My eyes, bulging from the sensation, couldn't produce tears, I couldn't scream. My tongue swelled and blocked my throat, I couldn't breathe. My heart would explode. Couldn't breathe. On fire. Out of air.

The attack ended suddenly. My heart stuttered, then thudded in a disjointed rhythm. I sucked in air, the sudden relief was cold... too cold. I cried out. My skin was on fire, my bones ached desperately. I couldn't lift my head.

"Please... stop..." I breathed.

Time passed. Other pain came later, in slow waves, like intense soreness and aggravated by the slightest movement, even by breathing. It felt like hours went by. I shivered from the pain, or the cold, or both... and my sensitivity to both wickedly intensified. I was so tired. Why was this happening? What did they want? What about Rory, his family... oh please, please let them be spared this. The thought of them brought tears to mingle with my sweat. I never imagined I could withstand this level of sustained agony. I'd have done anything for the slightest bit of relief, and my body must have agreed, rewarding me for my trouble with blissful unconsciousness.

The side of my head felt to suddenly explode, jolting me to wakefulness. The sting that came from the blow was such that my eyes wouldn't focus, there was a face before me but I couldn't see it. The pain from before was still there, dogging me. A flash of wonder for what time had passed came abruptly. Hours? Days? Longer? Would I remember if I had? Did anything else happen? I tensed, shrinking from what form the pain would take. If they were done with me, I'd be dead. Or at least back in a cell.

My arms weren't tied but hung limply at my sides. "Who... who's in charge here?" I squeaked.

A sharp hand came across, devastating my other cheek. My neck wrenched from the force of it, and I cried out, my voice sounding more unlike me. Then I was being heaved up and dragged, my feet struggling to support me and failing, I was being pulled too fast. I fell forward with a splash. Couldn't breathe... I threw my hands forward to push me back, but the hands that dragged me were on my shoulders, my neck, my head, holding me down. My hands, weak and slick, grasped pitfully at my restrainers. My lungs screamed for air and started to expand from dire need, and the water came in through my nose. I was choking. And then I knew, this was how I would die.

My head was yanked back and I was thrown to the ground. My lungs were already heaving, spewing fluid from my mouth and nose. My arms trembled, splayed on either side of me, trying to hold me up as I coughed and sputtered. The pain in my chest was stabbing, conflicting with my desire for air. Stars danced before my eyes.

"Katniss?"

I was somewhat warmer. My head hurt, my eyes hurt... everything hurt. Something shifted underneath me.

"Can you hear me?" The voice whispered.

"Mmm..." was all I could manage.

"I'm so sorry... so sorry..." the voice... I knew that voice... repeated, again and again.

A hand on my face. I winced, couldn't focus. My eyes gave up and closed again.

I was stiff. Tangled. Dark, so dark. Heavy. Restrained, possibly. Tried to move, then stopped. Moving was a bad idea. Moving brought on pain. I blinked, strained to see, then thought better of it. Didn't want to announce my wakefulness for fear of what came next. But I was warm now, that was different. My tongue came out to lick my lips. I was so thirsty.

I heard breathing. A warm, humid draft near my neck. I went rigid- a bad idea since it brought on a series of escaped whimpers- screwing my eyes to the side to see what it was. Maybe a predator, some twisted, new form of torture. It must have sensed my awareness, because it... groaned? The mass I was tangled in, a web of harsh fabric, moved around me.

"Katniss? You awake?"

Gale?

He shifted, moved to look down at me. I started to sigh, but my chest siezed and the anticipated relief became agony. It was Rory. He was still safe.

"Did... they hurt you?" I managed.

He shook his head. His face betrayed so many emotions at once, but the one that surfaced the most was worry.

"What happened..." I whispered.

He shook his head again, more slowly. "I woke up and you weren't here... it took a while to remember. Someone came, took me to a room. It had a television. I..."

I waited. "What..."

His expression moved between his own dispair and the fiery rage I'd only ever seen in his older brother, and back again. "I didn't see who they were. They asked me things. Said there would be consequences if I didn't answer. Then they put you on the screen..."

I blinked. My head throbbed. He'd seen. They made him watch.

"I'm so, so sorry," he begged. "I didn't know the answers. I didn't know what they thought I knew. I'm sorry, Katniss, I'm so sorry..."

They made him watch. The thought of it sickened me. I wanted to hold him, to comfort him as I knew his brother would have, as I should, but my arms were dead weights. My heart thudded unevenly as it tried to respond to the sudden surge of anger. No, I told myself. Your focus is Rory. You have to give him the best chance to get out of here. I forced myself to swallow everything I was feeling, real and percieved, and gathered my voice.

"Rory, stop. Stop crying."

He blinked and sniffled, looking down at me, failure etched in his features.

"I need you to be brave. This isn't your fault, and I'm so sorry you're here. I mean that. But right now I need your help."

He nodded.

I sighed, and it brought an aged stab to my ribs. "First, please tell me what the damage is."

He swallowed. "You mean, what they did to you?" He took my silence as an affirmative. "Um... your face is pretty bad, there are bruises all up and down your arms and legs, one big one on your shin. Someone taped your ribs, I felt it through your shirt, you were soaked and so cold, I tried to warm you up as best I could." He hesitated. "They... they threw you back in here in just a shirt and underwear... so I don't know if there was more than what I saw..." he trailed off.

I got his meaning immediately, and my mind raced to that part of my anatomy. It felt untouched, despite what else had been done to me. "I think we can rule out heinous violations." I swallowed, remembering my dry throat. "Is there any water?"

"Yeah," he drifted away from me for a few seconds, returning with a plastic cup. "They brought some bread too, if you're up for it." He helped prop me against him, sensing my need and responding without question. The water was more of a relief than anticipated. He brought bits of bread to my lips. It hurt to chew, a small price to pay for the fuel that would keep us alive. "Thanks, Rory."

"Sssst."

"What?" I asked him.

I felt him shrug. "Not me."

"Sssst... here."

"Hmmm?" Rory leaned left, to the wall.

"Hear me?"

"Yes...?" Rory whispered back.

"Katniss?"

This roused me. "Who..."

"A friend. Are you really Katniss Everdeen?" the low voice was hopeful.

"How do you know me?"

"There isn't a citizen alive who doesn't," he whispered excitedly. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop, I just heard your friend waking you earlier. My cellmate isn't going to believe this. Hold on, I'll get him."

I heard a muted shuffling. The wall I had been speaking to, the corner actually, was slightly warped, pulled away from where it should have adjoined the intersecting beam. It was only a sliver, not enough to see through, but just enough to exchange conversation. Rory carefully scooted us a bit closer. I clamped down on his forearm when the shifting reawakened the pain from my injuries.

The shuffling returned. "Katniss?"

I knew that voice. "Plutarch?"

A slight chuckle reinforced his identity. I heard his cellmate shush him. "I'm sorry to laugh, there's no time. You shouldn't be here. I imagined it wouldn't be long before you were targeted as well."

"Do you know why we're here?"

"Oh yes." Plutarch's voice was laden with defeat.

I swallowed. "Tell me."

~Peeta~

I struggled. The insanity that rose up to beat its head against my right nature couldn't distract me from the only thing I couldn't bear to think about, but it was the sole reason for this conflict. I suppose this is what one would call a vicious cycle, though the only thing more vicious was my intention toward whoever or whatever had taken her. Katniss was her own person in a way no one else was, but in this element, she was mine. And I wouldn't permit anyone to harm her. If they did... the desire to harm them, or worse, wasn't fueled by the torturous venom sessions I'd endured, the ones that took a part of me I would always fight to earn back. It was driven by my oath to protect her life with my own, the one I'd sworn the day I first saw her and which multiplied in purity and diligence every day since. This desire to injure was my own, and I would fulfill it, if it meant bringing her home, safe and sound. Even if it meant losing myself.

I was beginning to see just how complex and efficient this organization of Weaver's was. Well, it wasn't his organization I'd gathered, but he had become deeply involved and critical to its inner-workings. I was only fed limited information; we sailed over to another area in Two and took on six uniformed soldiers. I thought I'd seen the mountain range through the window before, but I shrugged it off before it had the chance to trigger anything. Then it was off to some remote part of Nine. Haymitch snored, gripping the armrests in his slumber. Hovercraft travel wasn't for him. His sobriety was a personal choice for once, but it hardly agreed with him. He spent the majority of the trip either asleep or deep in conversation with Weaver, and sitting across the aisle from me, I couldn't hear their whispers over the engine. It was safe to assume they were discussing the best way to exclude me from any sort of rescue read his tablet. I dozed off accidentally, jerking awake when we landed. Two of the soldiers disembarked and three more boarded, towing along two heavy plastic crates. One of the crew passed out rations. My stomach lurched at the thought of filling it, but Haymitch's barking led me to chew on the edge of a granola bar. We landed in Five midday. A blast of hot wind and dust blew in through the cargo door, and when the passengers and gear had been stowed and the craft refueled, we were off again. My heart pounded every time we came in for a landing, anticipating some progress toward finding Katniss. They weren't going to tell me anything. We were headed for the Capitol next, after all. Couldn't have the mentally unstable one causing trouble.

We finally landed somewhere underground, the iris-like steel roof swirling shut under the dusk as we disembarked. Weaver strode down a series of hallways, Haymitch and I on his heels. A rush of hot wind blasted through a set of mechanical doors, and I found myself stepping on a darkened subway platform. My hands balled in fists, recalling the shiny bullet train where we'd... no, it wasn't real. It hadn't happened that way. Haymitch took me by the arm and steered me on board. I gripped the nearest handrail with determined intensity, assuring myself that it would bring me closer to her safety. I'd endure a lifetime of continuous episodes, flashbacks, tremors, even the torture that was the cause of my instability, if it brought her safely home.

The train car lurched to a stop and deposited us onto a more brightly lit platform, and Weaver was off and walking again. He stopped in some sort of command center, handed his tablet to a woman with red hair, and tapped some buttons on a console. A street map appeared, and he muttered to himself.

"Well?" I finally demanded.

"Hold on," he said calmly, eyes on the screen. The red-haired woman reappeared, handing his tablet back wordlessly. "Here." He tapped a point. "Of course, that makes sense."

"What does?" Haymitch blurted out.

"My team has been narrowing down their location since we left. It looks like they're being held at the training center."

My heart thudded. I saw her, batting her dark lashes, daring me to throw the heavy barbells around. The big one, Cato... it missed him by inches, his eyes went murderous with rage. He and the careers cornered me later in the elevator...

"Not real... not real..." I was shaking my head, Haymitch had his hands on my shoulders.

"I rest my case," Weaver's collected voice broke through; he was gesturing in my direction. I was right, they had been discussing me.

"Kid, they should probably handle this," Haymitch directed softly at me.

"They're going now?"

"Can't afford to wait. It's been too long already," said Weaver.

"I have to go. I have to find her!" I insisted.

"Not if it's going to bring on something that could compromise the mission," Haymitch reminded me. I knew what he was getting at. The barely successful attack on the Capitol during the rebellion... the capture of President Snow... my assault on Mitchell... the conflict within had snuck up on me again.

"Look at me," he instructed. "That place, I know how it affected you. You have some idea what it might drag up. Weaver told me on the ride here that this might be a possibility. I agree with him that we should stay put. Let the professionals do their jobs."

"No Haymitch..."

"Peeta listen to me," he demanded. It was rare that he used my name, and it jabbed at me just hard enough to break off the panicked protest. "If things don't go according to plan your being there could make things much more dangerous for her. You're not going with them."

Weaver was standing there, waiting. "The strike team is leaving within the hour. They'll be wearing hidden cameras that will transmit their progress. You're free to watch from here."

A team was going to rescue her. A team. Comprised of who, exactly? Soldiers? Tacticians? Better-trained than I, but they wouldn't care like I did. They didn't love her. Their decisions wouldn't be based on doing everything they could to bring her back; if things didn't go well, I doubted they'd be required to lay down their lives for her. I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat. Haymitch was still gripping my shoulders, I noticed. It was the only thing holding me here.

"Somewhere more private might be better," he suggested.

He made me sit. Someone brough a pitcher of water. The door was loud when it closed. The monitors flickered. Haymitch said some things to me, but it was hard to retain them for the pounding in my ears. One hand was still on my shoulder, probably to keep me upright. I couldn't feel my pulse anymore.

"We're ready down here," a distorted voice came through the speakers.

Static. A pause. The monitors came to life, assorted views of the team boarding a transport. Weaver's voice came through. "You have a go."