Moving slowly so I don't jostle my rib, I ease my position against the corner wall. My torn shoulder screams in protest, but now I can hear scraping down the hallway and that means my door will swing open soon. I will either face an emotionless guard with a bowl of watery grain, or two armored Peacekeepers with various blunt, heavy objects and an excited gleam in their eyes. I can't find a pattern to which happens when, I think that's part of the strategy. Just like the intermittent screaming I hear from next door.

This past week Johanna has screamed herself raw between the heavy thuds, crackling shocks and shouted questions about how much she knew about the rebel plans. The intervals when they are questioning me are nightmarish, but when they are next door is unendurable. The first few days I screamed back, clawing at the walls, demanding they leave her alone, swearing she knew nothing and making up answers to their questions. Until I realized they made it worse for her when I reacted. Since then I wrap my head in my arms and bite on a fistful of my shirt, squeezing my eyes shut and shaking until they leave and her quiet sobbing is the only sound in the otherwise silent hall.

The beeping keypad sends a tremor through my legs and I ball my fists together in my lap, nails cutting into my palms. I hate it when I can't stop them from seeing my fear. The door squeals open and I almost burst into tears. A small, metal bowl comes sliding toward me and the door slams shut again. My hands are shaking uncontrollably and I press them against my eyes, tears of relief creeping down my face and my breath coming in ragged gasps.

I think it's only been a week. A week since I was interviewed by Caesar Flickerman and defied President Snow by refusing to implicate Katniss in the rebel plans. A week since he used that against me by forcing me to watch him murder Bagda in cold blood. A week since the door to my suite burst open and four guards grabbed me as I snarled and flailed and screamed until they jammed a needle in my shoulder and everything went black. A week since I woke up here. Cold and white, there is nothing in the room except for a bucket in the corner and several latches set into the walls at various points where they manacle me when they don't feel like beating me curled up on the floor. A week since I made the fatal error of letting them find out they got much more reaction from me when they turned their attentions to Johanna instead of me.

I think I've slept maybe three or four hours total per night in that week, though never all at once. They like to blare siren noises, or dash cold water, or start in on Johanna whenever I've been asleep for too long. I can't break down like this, though. They like nothing better. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I pick up the bowl and lift it to my cracked lips. I smile determinedly at the memory of two nights ago when, exhausted, I slept right through the bucket of icy water dumped over me and the guard had grumpily kicked me awake instead with the definite air of someone whose fun has been ruined.

My smile fades as I finish the meager meal and stare blankly at the empty bowl. For the millionth time, I clutch at the only thought that gives me comfort. They wouldn't be trying to beat information out of us if they didn't need it. They don't have Katniss. I close my eyes and breathe yet another silent thank you out into the world, hoping it finds its way to whoever is keeping her safe.

I cross my arms on my pulled up knees and rest my head on them. I let my mind wander back until it finds a safe place to light. The cave, in the first arena. After our rich meal delivered by parachute, Katniss had been sleeping while I kept watch, bundled close in the sleeping bag together. She had murmured my name in her sleep and I'd thought I would burst with the joy of it. Even now, I feel the warm glow surge up through my belly and spread out across my skin, bringing a smile blooming across my face. In this misery, I hoard these precious memories, and they give me the strength to cling to what is left of who I really am. Because of them, I won't lose the real me. Basking in the comfort of this thought, I drift fitfully into whatever restless sleep they will allow me this time.

"Peeta!" The despairing screech jolts me awake and I leap to my feet. "Peeta! Please!"

"Mom?" I beat against the door frantically. "Mom!"

"Peeta!" Her voice is choked with sobs and terror. A loud thump and she screams, pleading. "Peeta! Please, just tell them! Please!" My mother is crying uncontrollably, somewhere close.

I howl and beat on the door, screaming I don't know what threats and curses. And then, my blood turns to ice and my heart shatters. The new voice, deep and familiar and wracked with pain. "Peeta! Peeta, I'm sorry." I feel myself turning inside out with the helpless anguish. I'm paralyzed by the sound of my parents' pain, unreachable, just on the other side of the door. Because of me. For long minutes, I listen helplessly, afraid I might actually lose my grip on sanity. And then, "Son, please, just tell them. Make them stop," my father cries brokenly.

I slide to the floor, shaking with relief. My body spasms and my face pulls into a grimace with the release of tension, but terrified by the closeness of the tragedy. Of course that isn't my father. No matter what they did to him, my father would never betray me like that. Never.

The jabberjays, from the arena. They've had these recordings cued up and ready, just waiting to spring on me. I think of Katniss and Finnick, cowering away from the screams for help for the entire hour while locked in that wedge of jungle. I concentrate on my memory of Katniss in my arms, staring so hungrily into my eyes for reassurance. Trusting me and finding comfort in my words. I calm myself with the memory of protecting her.

The cries go on for about twenty minutes, but it no longer bothers me. They've lost their power over me, and aware of it, the voices cut out with an audible snap. The silence echoes strangely for a few minutes, and then I hear the scraping down the hall. My stomach knots in fear of the pain to come, but I push myself up against the wall and stand. When the door swings open I grin defiantly at the Peacekeepers there, the one in front scowling at me as though I've broken his favorite toy.

My ears are still ringing after they've left, and I think I may have passed out for a minute while the snarling guard was pummeling me. They'd locked my arms over my head and used their fists, a sign of how angry they were. They've left me shackled to the wall and my shoulder screams with the pain of it. I try to support myself with my leg, so I'm not sagging on my wrists and arms, but it only works about half the time. They threw my prosthetic across the room and something is wrong with my knee. I feel the cold creep of blood down my chin from the parting blow. My own fault really. After he'd torn my prosthetic off and tossed it, I'd laughed, "Still faster than you," at the guard.

I jerk my head up at the sound of the keypad. They're coming back? The door swings open and President Snow steps inside, his nose wrinkling disdainfully at the smell. He glances around at the cell before ever making eye contact with me. I haven't seen him since the interview and I'm surprised by the change in him.

There are deep lines etching his face I don't remember from before, and he looks like he's lost weight. His eyes are exhausted. Good.

I stand quietly, chin up but jaw locked, forcing my leg to support me without shaking. His eyes meet mine with cool assessment, drilling in and searching for cracks to worm into. I stare back calmly, drawing on the memory of my father's screams to counter his gaze with the same relentlessness.

"It reeks in here," he says without turning around. A guard materializes from behind him, whisking away the offending bucket and disappearing again. "Don't let it get like that again," he says distastefully. "It's bad enough I have to come down here in the first place." I snort derisively and he lifts an eyebrow. "Are you still with us? I worried the crying meant we'd lost you."

I feel a flush begin to heat my face and I fight it off by willpower alone. "Still here," I reply, rattling my manacles. "Is this how you keep women, too?"

"Just the one," he smiles indulgently. "Well, two." His smile widens as I feel the blood drain from my face. "Perhaps you know her? Annie Cresta?"

I'm repulsed by the rush of relief I feel that it isn't Katniss and his wide grin confirms he knows it. "We thought Mr. Odair might worry about her so we brought her in." My lip curls scornfully and I rest my head against the wall behind me, not deigning to reply. He chuckles lightly. "I must try to remember that you are so different from Katniss," he says with a sigh.

"Not so different," I murmur, eyes closed. Though he's right. That comment would have had her screaming and bucking against the manacles. I smile to think of her lightning temper, the fiercely narrow focus of her protectiveness.

Snow turns and speaks through the doorway. "I see no change."

Really? I lift my head to see a smallish man in round glasses and a rumpled tunic over even more wrinkled pants. His absent-minded air reminds me of someone as he approaches gingerly to peer into my face. He tips his head back and examines me from under his glasses.

"Beetee!" I exclaim, and he visibly flinches.

"My uncle," he mutters, clearly uncomfortable at the connection to the rebel outlaw. "I barely knew him."

"Oh, don't worry," I reassure him. "They took him with Katniss and Finnick. Plenty of time for him to find out you torture prisoners." I'm intrigued by the tremor that passes through his hands, and that he clearly hopes Snow didn't see it. I stop trying to put on a brave front and just shut up and listen.

"Well?" Snow demands impatiently.

"The dose was very small," the man says, staring into my eyes. My stomach clenches, dose? "He did seem more aggressive than I expect from him, based on past performance. But he'd left the arena hours before, his wife and child were missing, the situation warranted it."

"But what about now?" Snow presses. "You said he would develop negative associations."

"Like I said, the dose was very small. We didn't know what would happen, we didn't want him to tip into a murderous rage when Flickerman prompted him to remember the arena. And it had to pass unnoticed in the water."

I freeze, my mind reaching back to the interview. The drink of water that made my lips tingle. "What did you do?" I demand, and Snow laughs, that smug, arrogant laugh that says he knows he holds all the cards.

"It's very intriguing," he tells me chattily. "We added the smallest amount of tracker jacker venom to your drink that night. Then, when Caesar asked you to recall the night in the arena, your memories were brought forward, tinged with the fear and aggression from the venom, and then stored that way forever. Now, whenever you think of that night, you will be fearful and angry. Ingenious, isn't it?" He looks delighted with himself, and almost like he expects me to match his enthusiasm.

"Yeah," I mutter drily. "I feel angry and fearful when I think of the arena. How much did that cost you?" But inside I feel a tremor beginning in my belly. I did feel out of control that night, overly aggressive and so hateful toward Caesar. Can they do that? Change how I perceive the past? I shudder. That would be diabolical.

"He has a point," the other man says. "Maybe it wasn't different enough to see any change? Or just too small of a dose? We'll need more tests to know for sure."

Snow shakes his head. "Not yet. I don't want ruin him while I can still use him. Let's stay with our traditional approach for now. Does he know the mad girl at all? Would he respond if we visited her?" I feel sick and fight to hide it, determined to give them no cause to go to Annie.

"Mmmm... maybe," the man considers. "He doesn't know her personally, but he scores very high in empathy and protective instinct. She's so precarious, we may lose her if we push at all. We can count on him reacting to almost anyone, though. In fact, I'm willing to wager it would be worse with a stranger when he knows it's through no fault of their own and rather is because of him."

I'm unable to control it this time. I throw myself against the chains, screaming and cursing them, howling my fury. Snow turns away, unmoved. "Interesting. Do we still have the redheads?"