I was very worried about uploading this chapter. It's where I diverge from the Hunger Games. A lot. But I'm quite happy with how it turned out. So please enjoy.

The Morphling

I awaken on a cold metal table, shackled down and disoriented, unable to make sense of the first memories that bubble into my conscious mind. When I do, I instinctively twist my wrists, pain from the sharp metal digging in. I open my eyes but the bright light is too much. I squint, braving the pain, until my eyelids close without my consent. I gasp for air, but I may as well be in a vacuum. There doesn't seem to be any.

I hear muffled voices; the words are contrived to what my fuzzy brain can understand, which is nothing. I gasp again, shivers becoming constant, as I try to force myself to resurface. It occurs to me that I must be drugged. Heavily.

"... you will do this, Doctor. Perhaps we should remind you of our capabilities to make you suffer," the cold voice of a woman says. Her tone of voice makes me shudder.

"No!.. uh, no, no, that won't be necessary," a rather soft male voice replies.

"You will give them each two milligrams of morphine. No more, no less. You will stay here the entire time. We will deliver water in the mornings and at night. We need someone to monitor the process. To assure that there are no... complications," the female says.

"Two milligrams will not be enough to counteract the pain. And certainly not morphine," protests the man. Then he goes off on a medical rant. "At least diamorphine or oxycodone. Preferably dilaudid or..."

"That's enough, Doctor."

"Sir—"

"I said enough."

"Yes, sir." The military tone is stiff. Like he's been trained to say it and been punished when he doesn't. "Just... more than two milligrams?" he practically begs.

"No. We will leave. I will see you, Doctor, in two days when this is all over." "Have you made the modifications to the drug that we instructed?" she says bitterly. There is a moment of silence. She gives a huff and starts tapping her foot. "Have you made the modifications to the drug that we instructed?"

"Yes," he says.

"Then goodbye." She spits the word. "Do not hesitate. This is your test, to see if you're ready to handle this. You are our servant, nothing more. You would be wise to remember this," she chides. There is a moment of silence, then the man says my name.

"Bella..." It's almost a gasp, but he drags it on for a little while. Then he quickly says, "Bella Swan. Where is the other Tribute from her District? I was told all Tributes were to be..." he asks.

"None of your concern," the woman snaps before I hear the sound of high heels clicking their way out of the room. I shiver as I hear a mechanical door whirl open and then closed again. The door to the room locks.

The man in the room sighs. I hear the rattle of medical instruments. Footfalls move to the opposite side of the room. I dare to open my eyes. I see the man's silhouette. The light and the drugs block my sight from anything else. Everything is either the darkest shade of black or the brightest white, so bright it hurts my eyes. The man bends over another shadow tentatively. He presses something— an injection, I realize— into her arm.

It's the girl from District 1, Glimmer. She gasps and then sighs. I suppose it must be the morphine. My eyes start burning. Before I can stop, they close again. I don't remember how to open them. I struggle for a moment. I may as well be trying to lift a truck for all the good it does. With horror, I realize that I've used every ounce of energy I have, just keeping my eyes open for a few seconds. I can't wiggle my toes or my fingers. My breathing is labored.

Then she screams. Glimmer screams. Screaming is to establish that you are in pain. It's a cry of protest. Then she shrieks. Shrieking is a feral noise, reserved for animals. It is for a time that the mind is so clouded in pain that no thoughts, other than the wish of death, can break through agony's wall. I hear the doctor make a hissing sound. He exhales and I hear footfalls as he moves to the next person. I don't see him, but I assume that it's Marvel, the boy from District 1. The Tributes lets out a euphoric sigh before the yelling begins. To hear a grown boy or man scream like that is awful. Like watching a dog being kicked. I shudder. Cato and Clove, who I remember from the Reapings, are next. They do the same, as do the Tributes from the next several Districts. I'm afraid. The man is going to do the same to me.

I want to scream right there and then. The pained moans from the other side of the room sound like a zombie apocalypse. I shudder again, shuffling uncomfortably on the table. Or am I writhing? I try to break free. I feel the moment the metal cuts through my skin on the back side of my wrists, and the pain is sharp. I stop and cry out. I keep tugging. And tugging. This is going to break my wrists. But he's only a doctor. If I can grab something with a bio-hazard label, or even just a regular injection, maybe I could stab him and make my escape. I try to force my way through. Is it possible for me to break these? The pain becomes intense and I scream.

My ears clouded with pain and the sound of myself crying, I can barely hear the rushed footfalls. I peek when the man stops next to me. I open my eyes but can't see his face through the agony light.

"Bella, Bella, Bella. It's going to be fine," he promises. I growl. It is not going to be fine, he's going to poison me! And he calls himself a doctor!

"Monster," I accuse.

He is silent.

I hear cabinets opening, metal clashing, and finally a sigh as the sadist finds what he's looking for. It occurs to me that I can't seem to find emotions in me other than hatred. I used to know what it was he was doing, I should know. He's using a sort of painful venom from some sort of creature... I don't know what. I don't know why I hate him so much, he obviously didn't want this. But I watched him inject liquid fire into Glimmer's blood.

He ambles over to me. Twenty-two already. I'm the last to go. The screams have stopped, maybe the morphling holds them down enough to keep them still. But that won't change the pain.

"Bella," he says. I brace myself for the agony. He leans in closely. Is he leaning so close to see my reaction to pain? He's from the Capitol. Like the whole lot, he enjoys causing people pain. He whispers, "Bella, this is called morphling. It's one of the most powerful painkillers in existence. It won't paralyze like morphine. It's a euphoric drug. You'll feel the pain but you won't care about it."

What? Why is he giving me morphling? I feel the syringe in my arm.

Suddenly there is no hard metal table. I'm floating on a cloud, the air warm, and sunlight is dripping on my face. Beauty is everywhere. There is no pain, there is no darkness. And there is most certainly not a Panem and a Hunger Games. I briefly wonder where Edward is. I quickly decide I don't need him. Why would I need anything besides this? Thirst, hunger, rest, sleep, happiness, oh, that's nothing. This is bliss. This is pure bliss. I was never Reaped, I never went to Panem, I never fell in love with Edward, I never moved to Forks, I was never even born. I've always been here, in this wonderful bliss, haven't I? I seem to recall darkness in my past. But what is darkness? How can I even imagine darkness here?

A sigh parts my lips and suddenly I'm on the hospital table. I don't like it. My body is here, my mind is there. I like my mind much better. I drift away, ignoring the fact that I even have a body.

"Bella, this will hurt," he says.

I manage a nod and hear the sound of rustling. I don't care. I sigh again, this time the cloud of endless joy still enveloping my mind. I hear the sounds of so-called reality. They don't matter. I feel an injection in my arm. A needle. There is instant burning throughout my body. My body that I know longer care about. I feel it, but it's irrelevant to the bliss. Fire, acid, burning, flames. My arms being sawed off. So what? I can enjoy this forever, can't I?

Some irrelevant part of me says that this is wrong. This is bad. Something is happening to me and it will never stop. I can't risk losing myself in this. I struggle to hold onto what is real, to my memories. I struggle to find a reason for me to want them. I want to keep a grasp on the world, but what is there to cling to?

I am eternally grateful when a solemn voice brings me back to reality.

"Tell him," the man says, and I'm confused.

My consciousness is on a slippery slope. I'm drifting further and further away into the cloud. Before my thoughts become entirely incoherent, the man whispers two words, dripping with urgency.

"Tell her."

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See you Wednesday!

~Sun