Not Repeating But Rhyming

Disclaimer: I don't own Portal or The Hunger Games, and I'm sorry for the delay. I hope that you all enjoy this next chapter!

The chapter title is taken from the quote, "History doesn't repeat itself, but it rhymes."

The doors of Cave Johnson's office were still thrown open. The inside was full of shadows. Wiress looked hard, but she couldn't see as much as a wisp of sick-colored neurotoxin. And there were lights within – she could just barely make them out. She tore off a sleeve of her jumpsuit and took a deep breath. She pressed the cloth to her nose and mouth and darted forward. She ran into the office, heard a few shouts of surprise from the abandoned cores, and set her hand around the light on the floor.

"I knew ye'd come back for us!" shouted Rick with triumph.

She ran out again, into the fluorescent lights, and breathed. Her portal device gleamed in her hands.

"Uh… Lady? We're still here… Lady?"

She walked away from the office, and the voices calling out to her from there. She was ready for anything, now.

- Hiding and Observing -

A cannon sounded. Annie gave a shudder and fell still. "One more drowned," she muttered. "Dark portal to the wall parallel."

Finnick shot a dark blue ball of energy, and the window immediately behind them shimmered, and filled with a new vista. Moving platforms, right at a level with his feet, running into a wall. He picked up the core, who whispered, "Careful, careful… Not yet, not yet…"

Wiress watched them. She had found the obstacle course from the other side, and had wedged herself into a wall panel beside a hard light bridge generator. She watched as they traversed the platforms, and found the bridge, and placed it where they needed to walk. Wiress knew that this was not a good thing for an ally to do, but she wanted to study the core in Finnick's hands more closely. It sounded like Annie – it talked in her cadences, in her vocabulary. Somehow it managed to even move like her.

Wiress knew what it was. Unless GLaDOS had managed to snitch the Victor and upload her brain into the machine, like had happened with the other cores – which was unlikely, considering the jealous possession that Snow had of all of his Victors – then the Gamemaker had cobbled together what she could. The footage of Annie Cresta's Game was easily accessible; almost as easily found was footage of her interview, her post-game interview, her interviews as a Mentor and a Victor in later years. Putting together an artificial intelligence from those recorded words and recorded gestures wouldn't be too hard. It could be a shallow, but impeccable simulation.

But it wouldn't be Annie Cresta.

Wiress had to admire the Gamemaker for thinking of it. Even Snow would be proud. But did Finnick realize?

Then she heard Finnick say, "Portal up there? All right—" and Wiress was alert at once, because that was wrong – she had her portal gun at the ready as Finnick fired –

The hard light bridge underneath his feet vanished, and he and the core started to fall, but Wiress fired twice, her mind putting the pieces together as Finnick pulled the core to him –

And Finnick landed, safely, on a hard light bridge that miraculously appeared a foot above the water's surface. He reclaimed his gun and shot a portal to the other edge of the bridge. It wasn't until he got to solid ground that he thought to ask where the bridge had come from.

And by that time, Wiress was once again out of sight.

It was nice, not being the center of attention.

- Katniss, Alone and Not -

The District One tributes should have been quite content. They had been given weapons, manufactured from pale plexiglass – a short sword, satisfyingly sharp, and a broadsword with a satisfying heft to it. The air in the underground arena had changed somehow: now it was more like a proper Game, now the hunt was on. And they were far, far past ready to be the hunters. But something nagged at Cashmere. She couldn't help but feel that this Gamemaker was especially fond of symmetry.

"If you were a Gamemaker," Cashmere asked her brother, "What would you like to see in this arena?"

"Trees," Gloss answered at once. "Waterfalls. Rainbows."

Cashmere laughed. Gloss grinned, but went on, "I'd really want a conflict between us, Eleven and Twelve. Look at last year's Games—"

"That's what I'm talking about. Katniss kills Glimmer, Marvel kills whats-her-name, Katniss kills Marvel. You could stage another showdown like a terrific revenge tragedy. Especially of the two of them teamed up."

From high above them there was the sound of machinery moving, groaning as it shifted into place.

"You might regret saying that," Gloss observed.

The next room that they entered was pitch dark, and very large, and empty, if the echoes from their footsteps were anything to go by.

The lights came on, and the stage was set: Representing the loyal Districts, Cahsmere and Gloss, looking stunned and pale in their gold and silver jumpsuits. On the other side, representing the rebellious Districts, Seeder in brown and Katniss in black. The weapons were short sword and buckler, a broadsword, a spear, and a bow and set of arrows, all of Aperture Science make.

Seeder was the first to act. She dropped her portal gun with a loud clatter, and shoved Katniss' shoulder. "Run."

"No—"

"You heard me. I'll hold them off—"

"You won't die for me!"

"This isn't the time to argue."

"I'm not leaving you."

By this time Cashmere and Gloss had dropped their portal guns, too, and begun to run. Seeder groaned. "Fine. Then fall back, fire at a distance. Keep out of their range, go!"

She hoisted her spear and ran towards the Careers. They met in the center of the vast, empty room. First blood was to Seeder. Gloss' leg crumbled under him, and she drew her spear away dripping.

To the side Katniss tried to land a proper grip on her bow, but it had been a long time since she'd hefted a bow, and this one was unfamiliar, and her fingers shook. With every blink she saw trees, and flowers, and heard mockingjays.

But Seeder was right: for the rebellion's sake she couldn't just throw her life away. She let fly the first arrow; it went wide of the target (Gloss' heart) and grazed Cashmere's head instead. A trickle of red appeared in her blonde hair, and she swung her sword with renewed vigor at Seeder.

Something in Katniss snapped into place. Almost by themselves, her fingers fitted the next arrow and shot it into Cashmere's torso. She cried out, Her brother was distracted, and Seeder drove her spear into Cashmere's stomach.

Gloss gave a wild cry; his next blow nearly took off Seeder's leg. Blood sprayed over the floor, and he deepened the wound his sister had made in Seeder's side, before an arrow flew into his throat and he went down. His right hand dropped the sword and reached out, compulsively, towards his sister. Seeder fell.

Katniss ran towards her ally, gasping words of denial, of negation, but none of them worked – the two cannon blasts overwhelmed them. She knelt at Seeder's side.

The woman's eyes were clouded over with pain. "The arrows—" she gasped. "Collect them. Get out of here."

Katniss understood: Get out of his room, escape this arena, get free of the Games at last, at last.

"I was supposed to save you—" Katniss held Seeder's hand, the other touching her face. "It wasn't supposed to—"

"Ssh. Make me proud." Seeder squeezed Katniss' hand. Then the squeeze turned into a compulsive, pained clutch. "Katniss…" the name was barely a whisper.

Somewhere in Katniss, the cold, precise hunter of District Twelve stepped in to dominance. A healthy female faced a slow death before her – or –

The hunter took the closest fallen sword. Katniss looked the last time into Seeder's eyes, and put the tribute out of her misery.

The cannon blast shook her to her bones. When she put down the sword – with a clatter that echoed throughout the room – the Gamemaker spoke.

"Weren't you supposed to sing?"

Katniss found the arrows, and collected them, one by one.

"Then again, I suppose it's just a matter of degree. Sing a lullaby. Perform euthanasia. It's putting the subject to sleep either way. I suppose you've lost that gentle touch."

There were no flowers, but she found herself checking every corner, every inch of the floor. The blood was everywhere – Katniss' boots were now dyed red to match her jumpsuit – and she saw that Cashmere and Gloss's fingers were just barely interlaced, like two children whose grips had loosened as they slept. Like Katniss and Prim had slept many times.

Remember who the enemy is.

Haymitch's words returned to Katniss with full force. She stood there, staring at the bodies, for so long that the Gamemaker said, "What are you planning on doing? Skinning them and wearing their pelts? That is what hunters do in District Twelve, isn't it? Doesn't your baby need sustenance?"

Wordlessly, her jaw clenched painfully shut, Katniss laid the twins' bodies parallel to one another. Their eyes she closed, their clasped hands she left, but she folded the hands that had once held weapons over their chests, with Cashmere's buckler and Gloss' broadsword in place. She took the scabbard for the short sword off of Cashmere's body, and buckled it on. Then she laid Seeder out, fully extended, arms folded over her chest. Her spear lay beside her. The map was taken from her pocket.

For herself, Katniss took the short sword – it already felt like hers – off the ground, and put it in the scabbard. On went the quiver, full again, the arrows wiped of blood, and the bow. She pressed her bloodied fingers to her mouth – and saluted her friend, her ally, the woman that could have been an aunt, and her enemies, who had after all loved each other, and had people weeping for them in District One.

She didn't want to think about District One, or District Twelve, or about anything but getting out of here. As she picked up her portal gun, she heard the Gamemaker say, "Yes, that fits the script. Much better. Look at you, so noble."

And a spark grew in Katniss. She left the room and wandered the labyrinthine arena, not checking the map, not caring where she went.

"Look at you. All blood and bloody weapons. You really have become a killer, haven't you? Finally, a tribute worthy of the name. Observe how quickly the test subject degrades into natural savagery, where once she was happy to twirl in pretty dresses and play with baby booties. And observe how the test subject has given apparently no thought to her baby. Perhaps she's had a miscarriage? Well, I shouldn't be too surprised. To be a Victor, nothing can matter to you anymore but the countdown, and standing tall on a pile of bodies. Oh, is the little Victor mad?"

Katniss had stopped in her tracks, head bowed, every limb shaking with anger.

"If you're so mad… show me." Then the Gamemaker's voice vanished, and Katniss was left in silence. She stepped into the elevator.

It was a relief to be surrounded by silence, and be able to lean against a surface. Walking in these long-fall boots – not to mention kneeling and standing again – would cripple her for sure, Katniss thought. But the elevators also made her think of the collection of motley, glowing cores – and of Chell and Wiress – and Seeder – she sucked in her breath. No, don't think about that. Focus on something else.

They'd been so stupid, to think they could change anything.

When the door opened she stepped out, into a marvelous hallway, so beautiful it took her breath away and set her on her guard. The tunnel ahead of her was a cylindrical marvel of glass and metal, lit dimly by silver light. There was a reflective piece of glass at the far end.

Katniss began to walk towards it, studying the curving support rods and the reflections and shadows. 'Remember the fiftieth Games,' she thought. 'Beauty is deadly—' but no sooner had she thought that then she heard a muffled shout. She looked ahead again, and started to run. The pain in her legs, the weapons loading her down, were nothing – Peeta was there. She had thought it was her distant reflection, but it was her partner, her ally, her friend, running toward her, his smile as welcome as sunshine.

"Peeta!" She yelled, her voice echoing through the hall, her arms reaching out –

So her arms first hit the barrier, smacking the glass hard and braking her. Peeta slowed – she saw that his limp was more pronounced, the prosthetic leg looked badly torn up – and as he looked around, so did she.

The entire tunnel was sealed off, wall to wall, by a pane of glass. Cautiously, Peeta reached out to touch Katniss' hand. He pressed a cold, solid surface, and slumped. He shook his head, and Katniss could barely hear him say her name.

She got up, back onto her aching feet, and made exaggerated motions for him to stand back!

When he did, and was far enough, she lifted her portal gun and swing it – it bounced against the glass, without harm to either the gun or the transparent wall. She swung it again, with all of her strength and weight – and the force of the blow only rocked back to her, sending her teeth chattering and crimping her fingers with pain.

Peeta was shaking his head. "Stop it," he mouthed. "Stop, Katniss."

Stopping was not in Katniss' vocabulary – she had not accomplished all she had in life by ever stopping—but she mirrored him, kneeling against the wall. Hands pressed to hands, a cruel parody of touching.

She let him look all over her stained face – she must look a fright – but he wouldn't see Chell written there, or Seeder, or a lullaby she'd sung with him in mind. He looked weak. He needed sunlight, and food – and she could almost imagine what the stubble on his chin would feel like. As she watched him, a sort of hunger floated up in her – she had no other words for the feeling, like she wanted to pass through the glass and into his arms, giving and taking warmth. She realized she was smiling at him, and he was smiling too.

Here they were, smiling at each other in an arena like a couple of idiots. It almost made the world seem okay.

The next minute she heard a hissing sound to her left. On either side of the glass wall, panels were shifting to reveal parallel metal catwalks, with windows separating them.

"Co-Operating Testing is in effect immediately," the Gamemaker said. "Do you accept?"

'This is a trap,' Katniss thought. 'She's worse than Snow—' Then she looked at Peeta. He was already on his feet and looking towards the catwalk. He had bought the trap hook, line, and sinker. He was looking at Katniss with that earnest, trusting look that made her glad that such trust existed, and astonished that such trust fell to her.

She allowed herself one uncharitable thought – involving Peeta's survival instinct, comparing it to that of an inebriated squirrel, and wondering how, exactly, Peeta was still alive – before she got to her feet. Let the schemes, the failed plans, end here. Let the script begin again. And the script started, as the Game had started, with Katniss and Peeta, together.