A/N: So. WE ARE ALMOST THERE OMG! Lol. But seriously, Peeta and Madge finally enter the Games in this chapter, so hold on to your butts! (Please excuse the Jurassic Park reference...)
Review Reply:
Peacockgirl: I'm glad you liked it. I like including lines from the book here and there. I think it gives it a feeling of authenticity or something like that. x)
PandaKatie: I EFFING LOVE YOUR REVIEW! xP Just thought I'd share that with you. 'Cause 'BAM I MAKE IT'S BETTER' is like the best thing I've heard in a review in a long time. x) So thanks for making my day.
Amelia: Thank you for reading my story! And for liking it! And then reviewing! xP Really though, thanks for taking a look at this and bothering to leave a review. Means a lot to me. :)
AriadneO: First. I am so proud of myself! I spelled your name correctly this time! (I've had to go back and correct it several times now...) Second. You are welcome! I'm happy to update as often as I can. I wanna keep this ball rolling. And I'm totally excited to get them in the arena, too! I have so much I wanna do... xP
pirate-princess1: You know what's funny? I totally had a roommate who went by pirate princess (well, I think there was pink in there somewhere, too, but still)! Just thought I'd share. Anyway, thanks for reviewing! I appreciate the kindness. :)
bree: you're welcome lol!
Morgana359: Thanks for the review! And I completely agree. It's an awful idea to fall in love with someone who's basically screwed, and you're responsible for. Which is why it's such a fun story plot. x) We'll find out what happens soon, so I hope you stick around!
CHAPTER 10: LION'S MIGHT
Peeta would like to say that on his last day in the Capitol before the Games, he was strong and proud and had no fear to speak of.
But it would be a complete lie.
He didn't even get the chance to see her before he left. Katniss. He was grateful for their little surprise rendezvous, because he was apparently not going to get to see her again.
Ever, his mind whispered.
He raked his fingers through his hair, trying to comb the Capitol products from it, but it just sprang back into place. His styling team had taken great care to give his hair what they called a 'bedhead tousled' look. He thought it was kinda messy.
The outfit provided to him was basic—Katniss had told him to pay attention to what he was wearing; it would tell him about the arena—just heavy black pants, laced up boots, a heavy leather belt that had some sort of insert clasp instead of a buckle, a tight fitting black t-shirt whose sleeves ended at his biceps, and a light jacket with a loose hood hanging from the back that was a dark, navy blue-gray. It was the only part of the outfit that had any color, he noticed.
He frowned. What was this supposed to tell him?
A hovercraft took him to the secret location that would serve as his launch site into the arena. He was tagged like an animal, so they could monitor him regardless of where he was in the arena. He made the trip with Portia, who was silent now. She had become more and more reserved as his training progressed. Despite her Capitol appearance, she seemed mild and sat with perfect posture the entire ride, while he remained motionless in the energy field that held him frozen in place.
At least he couldn't make a fool of himself and run.
When they finally reached their destination—somewhere that remained a complete mystery to him—it was sweet relief to have control of his body again. Even so, the relief didn't last long.
His nerves felt rubbed raw, itching and burning and just waiting to remind him that he was oh so expendable in the grand scheme of things. That he was just one of many pieces in a game that wasn't about him or the other tributes, but a regime that survived on terror.
Even Katniss' words—spoken from the lips of an ethereal goddess the night before—couldn't bring him any measure of peace. No. Today, it was all shaking limbs and fearful breaths. Today, it was only him and Portia, standing in a small, underground room awaiting the final signal that would send him to his death. Not a particularly encouraging start to the day.
His breakfast roiled in his stomach and he swallowed harshly.
Portia, showing a kindness that he decided was not completely absent within the Capitol, placed a delicate, jewel-encrusted hand on his shoulder.
"Breathe, Peeta," she told him.
Her mermaid hair was pulled from her face in a wild braid that had enough volume to look like the ocean itself, though he had little to compare it to. There were wild twists of white and gold, sea-green that might have been an underwater plant, and a couple of tiny, gleaming pearls. The pale skin—not dyed or tattooed—had make-up that shimmered as the light shifted when she moved, her eyes decked out in too-long lashes and silver eyeliner. They made the blue of her eyes—fake, he thought—look dull compared to the rest of the glam.
He supposed she was pretty, beautiful even, by Capitol standards. But Peeta couldn't bring himself to be really attracted to her. And it wasn't because of her indeterminate age or that she was dressing him up like a roast made pretty before the carving. It wasn't even that he couldn't decide what things about her were real and which ones were fake. It was something more fundamental. A flaw in personality that he thought was not her fault.
She seemed dim.
Not in wits. There was definitely an air of intelligence to Portia. No, it was more about her dull eyes, despite the alterations to them. They told him a story that was bland and sad and filled with a light that never seemed brighter than the pale of first morning's light.
She seemed so empty. Not even the way Capitol people were shallow. Just like she somehow knew how Panem was unfairly distributed, and she knew that she had been fortunate enough to have luxury at her fingertips, and she knew that he came from a place where the next meal was far more important than the latest style. That in his world, she was not only superfluous, but also useless.
And all of this knowledge had only served to make her resign herself to the unfairness of it all, instead of determined to fight against it.
It didn't make Peeta dislike her. It only made him sad.
The eternity it seemed to be taking them to begin the first of his last days was wearing Peeta thin. He wasn't sure how much longer he could just stand around waiting for the end to come without losing his sanity.
Couldn't they just start the damn thing already?
A sound like scraping rock came from behind him and he spun automatically towards it.
He blinked at what he saw.
It wasn't what Peeta would call traditional for a mentor to see a tribute on the first day of the Games, before the launch. But Katniss was anything but traditional—Peeta had come to understand that Katniss liked to play by her own rules, and could easily disregard anyone else's. Even so, he couldn't fathom how the Capitol would allow her in the launch site. Not that it would give anyone an advantage over anyone else. Not that Portia—or Cinna, wherever he and Madge were—couldn't just tell Katniss what she knew. Maybe that had been the Capitol's reasoning, too.
Whatever the truth, she was here now.
He would get to see her one more time.
She walked out from a wall of shadows, glancing with only her eyes around the room, looking for something. A hint of surprise touched Portia's so often empty expression, telling Peeta she hadn't been anticipating Katniss either.
Peeta never saw a door and knew ultimately that it didn't matter anyway.
Katniss walked quickly towards him, her eyes still roaming the walls, checking for something. It wasn't until she stopped directly in front of him, close enough to reach out and touch, that her eyes finally shifted and landed on him.
They didn't gleam with hope or shimmer with tears. There were no traces of sadness or hints of love.
But there was fire.
She had to stand on her tiptoes and brace her hands on his shoulders, but she still managed to lift herself up enough to place her warm, trembling lips against his cheek. It was brief and soft, timid almost, but with it flooded a torrent of warmth and courage. He felt as though, whatever she had inside of her that was the essence of bravery, she had given to him through that one touch.
He wondered if she had any left for herself.
It wouldn't be enough to keep him alive. It wouldn't do the job of saving his life, not without his determined actions. It wouldn't serve as a shield against spears or arrows or poison, but it could be a wall between him and the Capitol. He wouldn't have to go in there unarmed.
"Katniss, I—"
But there was no time. She gave him one last fleeting smile, then turned to disappear back into the darkness she had entered through.
Portia cleared her throat, as gracefully as anyone could, to grab his attention. After a moment, he turned to look at her. She gave him a sad smile and gestured to the silver, metal circular platform where he would stand and await the break at the Cornucopia. Obediently, he moved towards it.
"Good luck Peeta Mellark," she told him. "I have faith."
When both of his feet were planted firmly on the platform, a wall of clear glass shot up around him and he couldn't hear Portia anymore. He placed a hand against the glass, a silent goodbye.
The sad smile remained in place as he was lifted upwards and she disappeared from view.
He rose up into a clearing, with a sky too dark for the time of day it had to have been. In the center was a large cornucopia filled with not just food, but weapons, backpacks, supplies, even medicines, all spilling out in a gleaming pile of temptation. Every Game since the first, there had been a bloodbath here. This one would be no different.
There were bright lights illuminating the center of the clearing where the goods lay.
He heard the ticking, as though imbedded in his ear. The tracking device in his arm felt raw and heavy. His breathing sounded too loud, as though it were a shot in an empty stadium. The sky seemed too dark; maybe real, maybe artificial. The lights glinted off the golden cornucopia as though to blind him. He already felt sweaty, nervous. Antsy, as though ready to jump off, suddenly tired of waiting. Tired now that he had to wait. Now that his life depended upon it.
The others seemed too calm, too confident. Far enough away to be figments of his imagination. Shiny memories that seemed more false than real, but couldn't be disproven.
He was here. This was real. He was here. This was real. He was—
The cannon blast sounded and within seconds twenty-four kids jumped off their steel platforms and took their dark new world at a run...