The MATRIX: The One

3 - Katniss hijacks a mind

Katniss POV

"Okay. Uh, what do you need me to do?"

He doesn't even hesitate to make the offer. I think I hate him.

"Come with me," I bite out, grabbing his brawny elbow and dragging him through the detritus behind the bakery.

"Um, okay, but… why the rush?"

"Because you were scheduled for disposal just now and – obviously – you missed your appointment." God. I sound like Haymitch.

"Disposal?!"

"The truck…?" I remind him.

"That… that was an accident," he insists.

I roll my eyes. "Yeah. That's what everyone thinks."

"Look, you're freaking me out and I don't even know your name."

"It's Katniss."

"Katniss… Why does that sound familiar?"

"Look it up later. Move now."

He doesn't argue. He's surprisingly nimble given his left leg, which I know is only metal and plastic below the knee, but it's been years. Clearly, he's adjusted to it.

I can change that…

I slam the thought shut before it reveals more than I'm prepared to deal with. I don't take him back to the car. I'd slipped away from the others and set my phone to silent. It's been vibrating in my pocket nonstop, but I let it go. It's better if the others head back to our exit without me. Safer. For them, anyway.

There's not much on this block – a post office, a Korean noodle place, a dentist's, and an art supply store. I pull Peeta into the latter.

"Hey, Peeta!" The clerk stocking the aisles greets without even glancing in our direction.

"Yo, Thom."

"Got some new watercolors and glazes in."

"Sweet. I'll check it out."

I pull Peeta down a random aisle toward the Employees Only door and then shrug our way into the back.

"Wait!" he hisses. "We're not supposed to be in here."

"We won't be long," I temporize, ducking behind a stack of plastic-wrap-bundled canvases. I take a moment to check that the fire exit isn't bricked over. The door cracks open. I shut it again before I set off the alarm.

"What is going on?"

"Well… officially, you're dead, Peeta."

He blinks at me.

"Do you have anyone, um, important? Anyone you'd miss?"

"What?"

"Girlfriend? Boyfriend?"

"What?"

"Just answer the damn question!"

He shakes his head, eyes wide and lips slack. "No. No one like that."

I'd thought so, but it'd been a while since I'd given him more than cursory glance when I'd checked in on him. "Good. That should make this easier." Marginally.

He waits for me to take a deep breath. I try to remember how Finnick likes to begin when he's preparing to hijack a mind. "Peeta, have you ever felt like there's something… off about the world? Like all this is a dream and you can't wake up from it?"

"Um… no?"

"No?"

He shrugs. "Okay, maybe, but… doesn't everyone get that feeling from time to time?"

"Yes," I reply carefully, "and they should listen to their instincts."

Peeta's blue eyes widen. He gulps.

"I need you to trust your instincts right now," I tell him. "That truck was supposed to kill you. It's only a matter of time before they notice no one called emergency services and, of course, that you're still breathing. Next time it'll be a simple heart attack. I won't be able to yank you out of the way of something like that."

I study his face as he grows increasingly pale.

"Now, you can call me crazy and that's fine, but what I need you to do is follow your instincts." I hold out my hand. "I'm giving you a choice. I can help you. I can show you the truth about the world. All of it."

"You said you needed my help."

Did he not hear anything I'd just said? "Yes, I do, but you'll be giving up everything you've ever known."

He blinks. Once. Slowly. He draws in a deep breath. Releases it. "Okay. Yes, this is crazy."

Shit. That sounded like a no.

My fingers twitch after the phone in my pocket. I'm going to need backup after all. How the hell am I going to convince Finnick to help me hijack an unwilling mind?

Peeta reaches up and runs both hands through his messy, blond hair. I notice that the waves are actually heat-subdued curls. Puffs of flour dust float up around his head, like an aura. A baker's aura. If I inhale deeply enough I might even taste it.

Why hadn't I ever stopped by his home or work and looked in on him? So much is lost in translation. Like how warm it suddenly feels in this room, which I'd be willing to bet is a direct result of how those apron strings wrap around his hips, and how long and pale his eyelashes are, and the precise shade of blue of his eyes, and the scent of him that's both musky and powdery. All things that had been imbedded too deeply in the coding for me to bother deciphering.

My hungry perusal of him ends when he tilts his chin up and our gazes meet, meld, mesh. I shouldn't want him. What is standing in front of me is an illusion. This isn't real. How I'm feeling isn't real.

My sister is.

I lean into him, pushing him back against a wall of shelves that nearly groan under the weight of dozens of cardboard boxes. He stumbles backward and I overbalance, watching helplessly as he throws out his arms to catch himself, opening up his guard to me. My hands scrabble up to his shoulders – broad, strong, warm – but the movement is too late to stop my momentum. My pelvis crashes into his. His breath puffs against my cheek.

Then we both hold our breath.

I stare. He stares back.

"I… um, I'm not good at saying what I mean," I warn him, watching as he quickly licks his lips. I decide I don't care if this isn't real. I want to acquaint myself with those lips.

I do.

When I angle my chin forward and our lips brush, he doesn't try to stop me. His mouth softens. His jaw drops and his lips fit to mine. He's kissing me back.

"I looked for you," he murmurs against my mouth before pushing against the shelves and pressing back against me. His hands migrate to just hover at my waist. I can feel the heat of his palms through the layers of fabric. "Walking the subways," he gasps. "Ads in newspapers. The evening news. There was a reward—" He reaches up and cradles my face.

I sigh. "I know."

"Why didn't you answer? I just wanted to know that you were okay."

I shake my head. "I couldn't answer you. I—I couldn't."

"But… just a postcard or something."

I shake my head. It would have been impossible for me to contact him back then. Impossible and stupid. "Even if I could have, I wouldn't have. They were watching you, Peeta. They're still watching you, hoping to catch me." I reach up and grasp his hands, pulling them down and interlocking our fingers. I take a centering breath. Time to lay it on the line. "I'm walking out that door in two minutes and I'm never coming back. It won't be safe for either of us if I do."

"I just found you."

"I know. I'm sorry. You have to make a choice. Life and death on their terms, or your own."

His jaw clenches. I take a step away to give him space to think. I slip one hand from his but he refuses to let go of the other. After a moment, I follow his gaze downward to our interlaced fingers. His thumb brushes back and forth over my knuckles, lulling me. I fist my other hand until my blunt nails dig into my palm. The pain grounds me.

"If I go with you… I mean… there are some things I'll need. People I have to say goodbye to—"

"No. You can't bring anything with you." He frowns. He doesn't understand. He won't believe me if I try to explain. "There's no time for goodbyes."

I hate letting him make this decision. I should finish what I'd started out on the street and save him now – call our debt even – whether he wants me to or not. If he chooses to stay behind, I have no way of knowing how much longer he'll live. They might keep him alive hoping I'll try to contact him. Or they might reschedule his disposal because, let's face it, I'm not nearly as special as Finnick thinks I am. I'm no one, really. Just a girl who wants to free her sister from an unending nightmare.

I check my wristwatch, uncurl my fist and, reaching up, I brush my fingertips over his jaw. This boy – no, man – how can I leave him behind?

I don't think I can.

I have to.

I can't risk it.

I need him.

I don't need anyone.

There is no other way.

Haymitch is wrong.

Finnick will know what to do.

Peeta turns toward my palm. I feel his breath on my fingers, his lips and beard stubble against my skin.

"Time's up," I breathe, gambling like I've never gambled before in my entire life. "Good luck, Peeta."

I turn toward the fire door. His hand clutches mine tighter. "You need me," he repeats, clears his throat, clarifies, "you need my help."

"Yes."

"Okay. I'll go."