Chapter Twenty-two

I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.

- William Ernest Henley

"Oh my God," breathed Thalia. "Do you know who that is?"

Peeta looked up in confusion - the room was wall-to-wall crowded with people whose various costumes were a dazzle to the eyes. One had to get accustomed to the assault on the senses before being able to pick out individual details.

Behind them, Effie laughed merrily. "But of course! No Hunger Games party would be complete without Finnick Odair."

Peeta peered with more interest into the crowd. He looked instinctively toward the largest knot of people and there, sure enough, was Panem's most famous face - Finnick Odair, District 4 Victor. His win was some fifteen years ago or so, now, but he had been only fifteen at the time of his victory, so he still had a reasonably youthful affect. This was helped along by his glowing, golden make-up and the violet highlights in his hair, which somehow softened him despite his naturally-angular face and well-known physique. He looked, Peeta thought in mild horror, like a doll version of himself. And though he was the center of attention - center of the room - the hands on him were very possessive.

As they moved toward him together, Finnick looked up and Peeta saw that his eyes were dark with a well-worn desperation. It added to his overall sense of unease.

Not that he needed much help in that department. He was not used to being the object of this much sustained, close-up scrutiny. Effie had dressed him in something so bizarre - a loose and silky suit that slid around his skin as he walked; with each step it felt like it was sliding off him. It was very pale pink. Thalia wore a matching shade, but it was tight against her, wrapped around her body like stiff bandages.

It was that sort of party, he determined, looking around, and his flesh began to crawl. The crowd around Finnick were dressed in exaggerated styles of a particular variety of strength: spiked shoulder pads, corsets with exaggerated nipples, tight leather. But the assorted tributes and victors were dressed in a softer manner. Finnick's violet highlights were duplicated in a skin-tight sparkly purple outfit that was cut away in places to emphasize his chest.

As they approached him, however, his light laughter and smooth voice belied the hard look of his eyes. "Kelsey, Kelsey," he was practically cooing to a tall woman, just over his shoulder. "Don't be greedy. My time and energy is ample enough."

Effie coughed.

"Ah," said Finnick, looking up at them. "This is the new blood, then - the infamous Peeta Mellark and, dear, your name is …?"

Peeta conceded the floor to Thalia while she was introduced. In the meanwhile, some of Finnick's crowd peeled off to examine him, curiously. Among them, horrifyingly, was Nona, who put her fingers on his left arm and stroked him a few times before anyone else could even touch him.

"Seniority," she said to the small crowd. They shrunk away then, but when she turned back toward Finnick, hands were on him - three young women and a young man, and the man said, "miserable old crone," under his breath, making the women laugh.

Peeta shook himself, and batted away the hands. "What are you doing?"

"It protests?" laughed one of the girls. "We pay, you know. Highest bidder. Cash."

"What does money mean to me?" asked Peeta. "I'm about to die in your games."

"Oh, right," said one of them. "Limited time only. We never get to see the Tributes like this. Still, that makes it better, right? A very exclusive lay. Money can go to your family."

Peeta blinked. This had long been rumored - this trade among the bored rich of the Capitol - to buy the bodies of the District Victors - the final mark of ownership, as even winning the Games could not provide freedom. Some - Finnick, notably - seemed to relish in the trade and to enjoy this popularity. But now - but now, Peeta was unsure of this. The forward, assured possessiveness of these people seemed to brook no refusal.

"I have no family," he said roughly. "My district was destroyed by the Capitol. Your money is dust to me."

They laughed at this, as if he had told a hilarious joke. He stepped back in consternation, almost stepping on Effie's foot. When he turned to her to apologize, he saw she had a dark and angry look on her powdered face. As if her expression did not match the mask she had applied to herself, the frown revealed spots in her makeup and the normal color of her flesh underneath.

Behind her, Peeta saw Thalia, who was in intense conversation with an elderly man, smiling winsomely. Of course, she was playing the game - the way he should be, as well. Tributes are always 'adopted' by the rich gamblers - the richer the better - and receive the benefit of arena gifts and, for all Peeta knew, an advocate on the outside to bend the ears of the gamemakers. And here was a unique opportunity to make a physical connection with this elite group of power brokers.

Then, Peeta saw the real opportunity. He swallowed his disgust and sought out the one woman for whom he had any actual interest.

She had her back to him and he bent low to whisper in her ear, "I don't think you're an old crone," he said to her.

She turned to him abruptly. "Do you think I care what you think?"

"Yes," he said. "I think you do. Or if not me, you care what they think." He gestured vaguely about the room.

She laughed hoarsely. "Only one thing is better than youth. And that's the one thing that I have."

"Money?"

"Power."

"I think one thing is greater than power," he returned. "And that's desire. What's power if you can't get what you desire?"

"Desire makes you weak. Just ask Finnick over there. Or search yourself. You desire information, and you are absolutely willing to debase yourself for it."

Peeta smiled then. There was a fundamental sadness to her, despite what she said - he recognized it, because he had felt it within himself, seen it in other people. She was alone. She loved no one. Trusted no one. "I find transactional love sad, not debasing," he said. "I am a hopeless romantic that way. Just because it would be empty for me, were I to touch you in the way that you desire, that does not mean it would disgust me. Everyone deserves …."

She stared at him. "What? A brief tick of pleasure in the flesh?"

He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the side of the room. She gasped, but did not protest. "Are you like Cray?" he asked her. "The sex seemed to bore him, in the end, too - with one exception. He just got off on the supplication. The line of girls who would never have touched him, otherwise, just clamoring for the honor of his selection. I've heard that sometimes he couldn't even get it up for them, he was just addicted to the process."

"You know a suspicious amount about it," she hissed at him.

"I know an excruciating amount of it," he responded. "My wife was the exception. He didn't just take her. He loved her. He loved every inch of her. He loved her so much that she nearly loved him back. She certainly kept going back for more - and more."

He was touching old wounds of hers - he could see it. When she lifted her chin in defiance of his words, he could see it tremble."It's no fault of mine that you were inadequate to the task of pleasing your own wife," she said. "Perhaps I have no desire for you, either."

"Perhaps - but you do want revenge."

"Perhaps."

A very burly man pushed Peeta into a room and closed the door behind him. It was an empty bedroom, just upstairs from the party. Clearly, Nona knew her way around Senator Tullo's quarters. Peeta sat down on the soft bed. It had black and purple blankets and fuzzy pillows. He wondered what he had gotten himself into and to what extent he was actually willing to take this enterprise - when the door opened and, to his surprise, he was joined by Finnick Odair.

He swallowed both disappointment - and alarm. "Hello," he said tentatively.

"Peeta Mellark," said the other man, crossing his arms and leaning back against the doorway. "Don't we look a pair of fools?"

"What - are you doing here?"

"Mistress Nona's idea of a little joke, I believe."

"Mistress …?"

"Oh, yes - she's in charge of all of us. Now, I'm guessing that she knows that I have information that you want and she's wondering just how far you'll go to get it."

"Uhhh -." Peeta shifted uncomfortably; he was barely experienced with women - this would be a stretch. "How could you possibly have information for me?"

His eyes widened as Finnick sauntered toward the bed, sat next to him. He smelled like a hundred competing brands of perfume. Peeta just stared down at his hands - they were untouched by makeup or glitter and looked like normal, workaday hands. His nails were clean, but unpolished. It was the one natural thing about himself that he was allowed.

Finnick hissed his next words in Peeta's ear, making his hair waft with the urgency of his whisper. "Here's what happens next. I kiss you. You shove me off. You get to the rooftop of the Training Center at midnight - not tonight. The night before the Games start. That's the only night she won't be there."

Before he could even process the words, his face was grabbed and he was being kissed by Finnick Odair. After a beat, Peeta gently pushed him away. He looked into Finnick's ravaged green eyes. "Sorry," he said. "Not like this."

Finnick cocked an eyebrow at him in a dramatic fashion clearly intended for the hidden cameras. "Not my type anyway, Mellark. Good luck in the arena - you'll need it."

Effie accompanied Peeta and Thalia back to the Training Center and the atmosphere was grim, at best. Effie was uncharacteristically somber, Thalia visibly anxious. Peeta wondered what breakfast with the mentors was going to be like tomorrow, given this evening's attempt to seduce Nona. He also wondered what Finnick Odair could possibly have to say to him. What knowledge of Cray could he possibly have? Also - Peeta had been planning to use interview night to air his exposures of Cray, the corrupt nature of the Games and news of the destruction of twelve. But he'd have to do without any new information on Cray until afterward, he supposed. Maybe it made no difference - to the audience, to the rebellion. But he had really wanted to know.

Perhaps I had best examine my motives, he mused.

He went straight to his bedroom to avoid the rest of his housemates. But the Avox who followed him seemed inclined to linger. Like all of the other staffers in the suite, the Avox was young and silent: Avoxes were Capitol ex-cons whose punishments included the cutting off of their tongues. They were assigned to the Training Center - and other high-end government placements - because of their inability to talk. (Though, Peeta wondered, were they also somehow illiterate or incapable of writing?)

After sitting on the edge of his own bed for a time, watching the Avox dust off the furniture in the room, test the TV and the food service machine, he cleared his throat and said, "You know - I come from a District absolutely covered in coal dust, so maybe I'm not the best judge, but I think you've done enough. Please feel free to go home for the night."

The Avox turned to him with his dark eyes half-lidded. He gestured vaguely toward the bed and made an elaborate effort with the pillows, turning and fluffing them, before finally nodding in his general direction and leaving the room.

Peeta lay back gratefully and gave a long, loud sigh. He needed to change out of these ridiculous clothes but he was also so exhausted and disgusted with himself: for attempting to sell himself for information or for failing spectacularly? He wasn't sure. Maybe he was disgusted on account of both.

He decided to sleep in his clothes and change and shower in the morning. He sat halfway up and pounded on his pillows, attempting to flatten the work of the Avox. To his surprise - or maybe not - a piece of paper fluttered out of the pillowcase as he did so.

"Keep your head fucking down for the next three days. Attempt to stop the Games in place. But people who cross Nona have a habit of ending up disappeared, or deported to 12. And 12's no longer an option. F."