Warning: Lots of whump.
"What is this?! Let him down now!"
I wasn't really asleep or awake, having been chained in an upright position all night. I could tell by the daylight streaming into the room that the sun had set and risen again in the time that I was here, my arms strained behind my back and my legs weak from holding me up. I became lulled by the sound of silence, falling into a terrible cycle of insomnia and pain. While my body would drop quickly toward sleep, the chains would pull my arms back until my shoulders screamed in pain. Then the adrenaline would charge through me and I'd catch myself, relieving my arms for a moment but putting the pressure back on my legs. There was a clock on the wall, and I could see that they had left me here for 12 hours. After not sleeping an entire day prior, I was running low on fumes, barely able to combat the panic and pain that set in while I waited for someone - anyone - to come to my rescue.
I was startled from another lull by Portia's shrill voice, and Thread's response. "He's a prisoner, not a guest," he responded to her gruffly, but I felt someone grabbing my shoulders to stand me upright while the lock on the chains was released. "Watch your tone with me or I'll put you in there next," Thread warned Portia as I immediately collapsed to the ground, the world around me blurring and refocusing.
"Make him pretty," Thread ordered. "You've got 30 minutes." And the next set of hands on me were that of the prep team, their various perfumes and lotions overwhelming me with the scent of cinnamon and cloves.
When the prep team failed to lift me, two Peacekeepers shoved them away and hoisted me up. They pushed me into a chair, and I felt a sting in my neck. The world sharply focused as I grasped at the injection site, and I saw that Thread was sitting across from me. "That oughta wake you up," he remarked, motioning to my neck.
"Are you going to stay?" Portia made an effort to sound nonchalant, but I could see her casting worried looks to the rest of the team before looking down at me.
"You got a problem with that?" Thread retorted, his black eyes unmoving from mine.
"It's just unusual," Portia tried, brushing hair from my forehead. "That's all."
Thread's eyes finally slid over to Portia. "So is a prisoner forgetting an entire day. But apparently that happens," he ground out, looking back to me. "Why do you think that would happen, Mellark?" He made a show of placing a rod-like instrument over his lap. I've seen ones like it before in 12. It's supposed to be a cattle prod, but Peacekeepers have been using them against people in the districts for decades.
"I don't know," I answered honestly, similarly curious about the flashbacks I kept receiving. What had happened to me, and why couldn't I remember?
Portia looked as white as a sheet and she leaned down into my face to apply concealer under my eyes. "What event, exactly, are we preparing Mr. Mellark for?" She said to Thread without stopping the application of makeup.
"Oh, I think you know," Thread tilted his head slightly to look around Portia at me.
My arms were still numb, otherwise I would've shrugged, or at least gripped the arms of my chair. Instead they hung limply despite my thundering heartbeat. I glanced down at my wrists as one of the prep team lightly dusted powder to conceal my wounds. The marks were fresh where the handcuffs had dug into my skin all night, but I also had light yellow bruising several inches higher than the cuff marks, evidence of a different binding. I remembered a leather belt being wrapped around my wrists briefly before snapping back to reality when Portia responded to Thread. "I only know and do as I'm told," she sighed, squeezing my hand discreetly before heading over to the rack of clothes they had brought with them.
"Good girl," Thread sneered, keeping his eyes on me.
"I was thinking that we would bring out the blue in your eyes," Portia announced, waving at one of the prep team assistants to hold up a suit. It was dark blue with a light blue shirt. I nodded soberly, feeling quite awake but unable to shake the confusion between what was real and what wasn't. His eyes are dreamy, aren't they, Michael? I heard a voice say in the back of my mind.
Thread continued to sit in that same chair while Portia instructed me to undress. My arms were still numb from a night of poor circulation, and Portia didn't miss my shaking fingers fumbling over the buttons of last night's interview attire. I could tell she didn't like Thread's presence but had absolutely no power to kick him out. She gently pulled my shirt off my swollen shoulders and eased my arms out one by one. I was trying my best not to wince too much because I didn't want to reveal my weakness to Portia. Or to Thread.
"Why aren't those bruises gone?" He demanded, motioning to my hips. I glanced down to see fingerprint sized bruises peppered around my hips, and for an unexplained reason I felt sick. "Part of your services are cleaning him up."
Portia quickly instructed her assistant to fetch a salve from her case. The assistant came over and began to apply the lotion to the affected areas, and I felt it warming on contact. "Just give that about 20 minutes and it will look as good as new!" Portia gave Thread a tight smile as she handed me a new pair of boxer briefs. I raised my eyes to Thread, unsurprised by the lack of privacy I was going to get. Still, I was grateful for new clothes and quickly changed.
"I can't believe I'm having to tell you how to do your job," the Head Peacekeeper rolled his eyes. "One more mistake like that and I'll send you to the basement with the other rebel." Portia visibly blanched but kept her lips in a firm line.
"It won't happen again, sir," she murmured as she passed me the pants for the suit. My legs still felt a little like jelly, but they weren't nearly as bad as my arms. My thigh, where the prosthesis met my amputated leg, was incredibly sore for having supported my weight all night. Portia's assistants were on either side of me, pulling the pants toward my waist while chattering to themselves about what color belt I should wear.
Portia was now helping me pull the dress shirt on, as my shoulders were still too painful to shrug on the garment, when a device on Thread's uniform began to buzz.
The Peacekeeper held up a finger to us, motioning that he needed a moment to take the call. He walked a few paces away and while he was distracted Portia pulled me close. She buttoned my shirt while urgently whispering. "Peeta - there's a pill in the breast pocket of this shirt. Take it after. It will help you forget..."
And then the sound of electricity as Portia's eyes rolled back. Thread was grimacing, jabbing the cattle prod into her neck again to force her to the ground. "I knew you were a lying bitch!"
"Stop!" I shouted, and Thread answered by sticking the cattle rod firmly into my ribs.
I saw stars and fell into the wall behind me. I could hear Portia's assistants scream, whatever they were holding clattering to the floor as they observed the violence. I blinked, stunned by the blow, as Thread dug his hand into my breast pocket and pulled out a small, white pill. He held up up between his fingers, squinting at it. "She used this to wipe his memory of yesterday. Get rid of it," he instructed one of the other Peacekeepers, who immediately took it to the toilet to flush away.
"What are you going to do with her?!" I ground out through my teeth that had clenched during the shock. Portia's assistants were now cowering in fear in the corner by the elevator, and Thread wrapped his thick fingers around my neck, effectively choking off my pleas.
"That's none of your concern. You've got one job today, and that's to be a fuckboy for the guests who are coming." These words slapped me harder than any physical blow that Thread could deliver. I had been receiving flashbacks from the last time this had happened. Portia must have given me a drug that wiped my memory. Well, most of it.
"Now, let me explain something to you, whore." Thread's face came closer to mine as he snarled angrily. "Last night you had an interview that was broadcast all over the Capitol. Your suitors," he paused on that word, digging his nails deeper into my neck, "were instructed not to mark up your face because it needed to stay camera-ready. That's not the case tonight because you won't have another interview for at least a week."
He let go of my neck, and I inhaled sharply and desperately. "You can't make me do this," I rasped, thinking of Katniss. Stay with me, her voice echoed in my memories.
"Well I already have," Thread sneered. "Snow's making a lot of money off of you - unless," he drew out his tone sarcastically. "Unless you'd like us to replace you with Johana?" My heart sank at the thought. No one should be subjected to this. "Because all that matters is that we have a victor..."
"NO," I interrupted, bringing a joyless grin to Thread's face.
"With Odair MIA, you're a highly desired replacement." He threw the suit jacket at me. "Get dressed. They'll be here soon." What? Finnick had been...a prostitute? Suddenly his promiscuous behavior seemed more forced than flirty. He had to have been forced into it, like I was now being.
Thread paced around Portia, who was lying on the floor unconscious. "I knew you were way too - docile - yesterday," he directed at me, then snapped a finger and motioned for his lackeys to get Portia up. "What's the point of psychological torture if you can't remember it?"
"Please don't hurt her," I begged, too concerned for Portia's life to worry about how pathetic I felt, groveling to this monster. "She was just...cleaning me up," I pleaded desperately. "Making me presentable for the interview. There's no way I was going to act normal without that drug! Please."
Thread studied me as the Peacekeepers pulled Portia into the elevator. "Don't forget that you're a prisoner. You have no right to make any demands, Mellark. " He turned his attention to what was left of the prep team. "You've got 3 minutes to finish up." They clamored over to help me get my jacket on, smoothing my hair and straightening my collar. One of them dabbed some concealer along my jaw, probably to cover the bruise that was inflicted by Thread's baton last night.
"Alright, you're done," Thread commanded and the prep team fled into the elevator, eager to get the fuck out of this situation. He stuck the cattle prod into my chest, and I held my breath as I anticipated the shock. It didn't come, but Thread made it clear that I wouldn't be so lucky next time if I didn't please my "guests."