The MATRIX: The One

12 - Peeta meets the oracle

Peeta POV

Reentering the Matrix is like pulling on an old jacket. Something you'd worn years ago in school. It still fits, somehow, but it's musty from being shoved in the back of your closet and kinda makes your skin crawl. You want to wash it and then yourself, but you know that you can't scrub away all the memories that cling to it. You're not supposed to like your past self. You're not supposed to get along. This is the old you smothering the new you.

It chafes.

It's all I can do not to scratch until I bleed.

I wonder if I'll cross paths with my dad and my brothers, my buddies from high school and the junior college where I'd learned bookkeeping before I'd started working at the bakery full-time.

I wonder what everyone thinks has happened to me.

The analog phone is still ringing in the dilapidated room, but no one moves. I study the warped double doors, the dust-soaked drapes, the high ceiling with its cracked plaster and I shove my hands into my pockets. I recognize this room. This is where Katniss had brought me to meet her friends. Just through those double doors there, I'd been hijacked. She'd promised me the truth. She'd promised me control. She'd promised me herself.

My gaze slides in her direction and my breath catches in my throat. Her hair is braided elaborately, spilling over her shoulder. Her black leather vest wraps her up in an embrace that I am instantly jealous of. Her dark, long-sleeved shirt and simple pants are tight – like a leotard – but clearly comfortable. And her hunting boots are back, polished until they gleam. I can't make out her expression – she's wearing those dark sunglasses again – but I know she's not pleased. She doesn't want me to be here. She thinks Finnick is making a mistake.

"You can say no," she'd told me, hesitating on the threshold of my room last night.

"Do you know how I'm supposed to help you save your sister?"

A heavy sigh had slipped past her slightly swollen lips. She'd been gnawing on them for hours. "No."

"Then I guess he and I have something to talk about."

She'd turned away, exhausted and defeated. Hours of going over code with Beetee had worn her down.

"Wait," I'd breathed and dared to hold out my hand. "Do you really want to be alone?"

A question.

A moment of honesty.

A shake of her head.

That's how I'd ended up wrapped around her in my bunk all night. I hadn't slept much – I don't think she had, either – but having her there had been the only thing keeping me sane.

The phone rings again and, finally, Finnick steps forward and picks up the receiver. "We're in," he tells the operator on the other end, and then the spell breaks. Everyone moves toward the containers scattered around the room to suit up. I watch as Katniss draws out a pair of handguns and a holster. She gestures me closer.

"Here, put this on." I shuck off my bomber jacket and accommodatingly lift my arms so she can thread my hands through the loops. As she adjusts the holster's buckles over my shoulders, she reminds me to check that the safety is on and the guns are loaded.

"We won't need these, will we?"

"If we're lucky, no."

She helps me shrug my jacket back on and stares at my blue T-shirt and faded jeans for a moment. I can't remember feeling so underdressed. "Sorry I'm not as cool as you."

A huff of laughter squeezes past Katniss' guard. "I wasn't—um, you look good."

I can't stand not seeing her eyes a moment longer. I reach up and gently tug her glasses down her nose until our gazes meet. She looks a little flushed and her pupils are wider than I'd expected in this lighting. "You look great."

She gives me a brief smile.

"C'mon, you two. We've got an appointment to keep," Finnick reminds us, heading for the door.

Johanna mimes giving a bow job, then smirks evilly as she gestures us ahead of her.

Katniss quickly checks over the holstered handguns strapped to her upper thighs, picks up her long jacket, and then strides from the room.

The stairwell is just as much of a hazard today as it had been the last time I was here. I'm relieved to set foot outside even if we are standing in a trash-littered alleyway that stinks of motor oil, rotten produce, and rat piss. I don't bother holding my breath as it's only a few steps between the stoop and the car.

Johanna drives. Katniss sits in back with me. I recognize these streets. I've made deliveries around here before. There, to that diner, and over there, at that hotel. I used to stop at that vendor and get tandoori chicken pitas whenever I'd been in the neighborhood.

I blindly reach for Katniss' hand, pleasantly surprised to encounter her fingers on the bench seat halfway between us, as if she'd been seeking me, too. I curl my hand around hers.

This is real.

I don't know exactly what I was expecting, but I'm a little confused when we pull up to a rundown hardware store. The gates have been pulled down and the windows behind them are webbed with cracks. The lettering on the sign is faded and everything looks to be covered in dust. I follow Katniss to an iron-barred door beside the shop. She presses a call button and, when the lock grates rustily, I reach around her to push it open. She used to roll her eyes at the gesture, but now she gives me a tiny, twitch of a smile before preceding me up the narrow, gloomy stairs to a single door on the landing.

"This is it," she says. "Ask him whatever you think you need to know, but take his bullshit with a grain of salt."

"So you don't believe him?"

Her jaw muscles clench. "I…" She looks away.

Huh. I guess that's my answer.

I knock.

The door swings open and a storm of alcohol fumes and marijuana smoke hits me in the face. A man braces himself in the doorway, the neck of a bottle clutched in his hand. This is the oracle? This middle-aged, unshaven, slovenly drunkard? "Well, don't just stand there. You think I ain't got better things to do today?"

I glance at Katniss and she nods for me to go on ahead of her. "Where's Effie?" she asks him. I can't tell if she's just making conversation or if the question is actually important.

"Out," Haymitch retorts shortly. "By the way, it's nice to see you happy for a change, sweetheart."

She sneers at him.

Chuckling, he turns the corner and stomps down the hall. Katniss slumps against the dingy wall in the tiny entryway and crosses her arms over her chest. I guess I have to do this part alone. With one last glance at her, I reluctantly follow my host.

When I run out of hallway, I find myself standing in the middle of a badly broken-in kitchen. Everything looks like it's on the verge of its last wheeze.

"Want a cupcake?"

"What?"

Haymitch jerks his head toward the nicotine coated stove. "Get your ass over here and help me frost these damn things."

Warily, I approach the cluttered counter and find myself looking at two dozen carrot cake cupcakes. Haymitch plops a puke-orange bowl in front of me and a metal spatula. I give the frosting inside a taste – baker's reflex – before deciding that while it might be a bit thick and a touch on the sweet side, it passes muster.

Haymitch plunks down into a ratty chair at the chipped table and collects a half-smoked joint from the ashtray. He lights it and takes a drag as I begin my assigned task. I don't mind frosting these for him, but there's one thing I need him to know before we get started with this prophesizing stuff.

"Let's just get this out there," I tell him. "I'm in this for Katniss. So, whatever you've got to say is all well and good and whatever, but it's not going to happen if she's not in the equation."

Haymitch leans his chair back onto two legs and purses his lips. His scraggly brows arch. His eyes twinkle briefly. He'd be a slim man without the paunch bulging slightly under his threadbare flannel shirt. "Awww, it looks like someone's got a crush. How cute."

He can say whatever he wants about it. I'm not here for his approval. "I need to know how I'm supposed to help her hijack her sister."

"Are we on a tight schedule?"

"I don't know. Are we?"

"Made some snickerdoodles, too. You interested?"

Snickerdoodles? What? I gape at him for a second. "No." But now I think I know why he has a bit of gut on him.

"Too bad." He reaches down and nimbly collects a different bottle of something that I'd be willing to bet is at least 60 proof before taking a swig. "They really hit the spot after a roach." He holds out the smoldering joint to me.

"I'll pass, thanks."

"Blindfold?"

"What?"

Haymitch shakes his head ruefully. "Isn't that what they usually offer a guy facing the messy end of a loaded rifle?"

I swallow thickly. "I wouldn't know."

"You will." He shakes his head. "Look kid, you're running full tilt into something you don't understand. You're determined to protect Katniss – I get that – but do you get that she's a target? A big one? How many times do you think you can offer up your life to save hers?"

My mouth is suddenly so dry I think my teeth are glued together.

"You wanna know why you're here, kid? You're here because the resistance needs cannon fodder for their precious savior. You're here because you'd die for her. And that's exactly what it's gonna come down to."

I shiver. I know he's right. Somehow, I just know. The path I've chosen puts me between Katniss and her enemies. They will squash me like a bug.

"I'm gonna give you some advice," Haymitch tells me not unkindly. "People die for that girl all the time. You sacrificing your life… that's nothin' special. She's seen it before. One scar layered on top of another until nothin' gets through anymore. Your death? That'll be just another layer of scar tissue for Katniss, another step in the direction of becoming an unfeeling automaton. Just like the things she's fighting."

"So what do I do?"

Haymitch swirls the liquor in the bottle lazily. "The hardest thing anyone could ever ask of you. You live for her. You stay alive. You keep her human."

Human. God, he sounds like— "You believe it, too, don't you? That she's some kind of Messiah."

Haymitch snorts. "Oh ye of little faith."

I level the frosting coated spatula at him. "Katniss has my complete faith, but she doesn't deserve the kind of shit that comes with a label like that."

"Yeah, you'd know all about special treatment, wouldn't you, gimpy?"

"What do I do to help her get her sister out?"

"Persistent little shit, aren't you?"

I stare him down.

He smirks. "Nothin' I can tell you about that, kid, 'cause you're not gonna have a hand in it. Saving her sister – that's all up to Katniss. She just has to get off her ass and do it."

"Then why did you tell her to hijack me so I could help?"

"Hell. If there's anyone that needs to get laid more than sweetheart out there, I haven't met 'em." He grins unrepentantly. "Turns out she's kinda choosey and you're just her type."

That's it. I'm out of here. I toss the utensil in my hand back into the bowl and pivot toward the door. A dollop of dropped frosting squishes and smears beneath my shoe. I don't think Haymitch will care if I don't clean it up.

"Here's a parting thought," he muses to my back. "If it had been anyone else falling on that subway track, would you still have jumped down there and tried to shield 'em from the oncoming train?"

The question pulls me up short.

"There ain't no shame in not being a hero," he tells me. "And there ain't no shame in being Katniss' man, but you've gotta know your own limits, kid. Accept 'em. You're never gonna save 'em all. Just figure out who you can save. You got it?"

I give him a considering look. "Yeah. Got it."

"Good. Now take a fucking cupcake and get the hell out."

NOTES: Not sure where this came from to be honest. More mishmash-ness of Hunger Games (and Peeta's constant goal of saving Katniss) and the Matrix (and the oracle's gift for cookie-scented mind-fucks), I guess.

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