Chapter 8

"And now, for my next trick," I mutter, hauling myself up the knobby gray surface of the climbing wall.

The past few days, I've trained with the other tributes in one of the best gyms I've even seen, and I've seen a ton of gyms. The only thing it doesn't have are cool holograms and everyone knows a futuristic place needs holograms.

I guess that will have to wait until I get sucked into Catching Fire.

All this would've been fun except for the sense of impending doom—the Games are in two days. And I'll admit I might be stuck here, might possibly end up in the arena, but I refuse to let them have everything their own way. What was that line from the books? Something about if desperate times call for desperate measures, then I'm free to act as desperately as I wish.

Damn, I'm a nerd for remembering that.

So, it's time to be desperate and come up with something that works. I haven't tried escaping since getting barbequed by the force field. Katniss won't listen to me and Haymitch, Effie and the others behave as if everything is normal. They have their lines down and they're going to stick as closely as possible to them, no matter how much I improv, so that's another dead end.

I reach the top of the climbing wall and look down over the gym. There are guards and Avoxes wandering around, but other than that, the gym is deserted on the ground floor. The Gamemakers, older men and women wearing purple robes and drinking themselves into oblivion, are stationed maybe three feet down and directly across from where I stand.

I think it's time to pay them a visit.

I unravel the rope wrapped around my shoulder and send it up and over one of the rafters jutting out of the ceiling and then retrieve both ends. I jump up and down, testing the rafter, ensuring it can hold my weight before leaping forward, swinging and then jumping into the swarm of purple robes in the elevated box.

The Gamemakers stare at me, most of them with mouths open, wine glasses halfway to their mouths. I give them a little wave and, as one unit, they take a great step back, huddling together like a herd of cowering purple cows.

I get the feeling they don't see tributes up close very often.

Peeta did something boring with weighs during his private session, but I figure if Katniss is going to get away with shooting at arrow at them, having a little chat wouldn't be too risky.

I put on the smile I reserve for studio execs and television hosts. "Hi guys, mind if I stop in for a drink? Dying tribute's last request and all."

They stare at me in confusion. The Gamemaker with the fur-trimmed collar is the first to crack, giving a little laugh and motioning for one of the servers to bring me a glass of wine.

I realize this must be the Head Gamemaker, Seneca Crane. And unfortunately, he doesn't have an awesome beard like Ve gave Wes in the movie. He's a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a paunch belly.

I sit down on one of the velvet lined chairs and take a wine glass from one of the servants. I'm not really a wine guy, but you take what you can get.

The other Gamemakers, seeing I'm not a threat, go back to drinking and talking, some raise their glasses in my direction, chuckling a little.

"That was either very brave or very stupid, young man," the Gamemaker next to me says, but he's smiling.

"What do I have to lose? This way I get to shake hands with my executioners," I look around at the drunk mayhem around me. "You guys having a toga party here?"

The man raises one eyebrow. "What's your name? Wouldn't want to make a mistake and bet on you."

"Josh Hutcherson. And shouldn't it be illegal form you to vote on the Games, since you basically control the outcome?"

The Gamemaker squints at me and puts down his drink. "Rules are meant to be broken." He motions to one of the other men who is telling some kind of joke to one of the female Gamemakers, his face animated. "Gaius, what's the name of this boy from 12?"

The other man stops joking and picks up a clipboard from a nearby table. "Peeta Mellark."

The man next to me smiles smugly, "That sounds more like it. Nice to meet you, Peeta Mellark. I'm
Plutarch Heavensbee."

Good. Heavensbee's the man I did all this to get to. He might be my last chance out of here. "I've heard a lot about you. I'm a big fan."

And I am a fan of him—as a fictional character. He's just the kind of character any actor would love to play—his motives are murky, his morals gray. He's a character you can have fun with, chew a little scenery.

But in a world where he's a real person, asking for help from an amoral, child-murderer just shows how desperate I am.

"I didn't know I had a lot of coverage in District 12, let alone fans."

"I'm sure you have fans everywhere, even District 13." I pause. "If it were still operational."

"Which it isn't," Plutarch says before picking up his drink and taking a long sip. "But, I know very little about it. The rebellion was decades before my time."

I pick up my glass as well. "But, I would've thought you knew a lot about the rebellion. It's the reason you've here, isn't it?"

Plutarch goes very still, "What do you mean by that?"

I shrug. "Just that you wouldn't be a Gamemaker without the rebellion. No rebellion, no Games."

Plutarch relaxes, just a little. "I'm just glad the Capitol destroyed those traitorous bastards."

"But you can't really blame the rebels, can you?" I say. "Weren't they just fighting for their rights, the same rights people in the Capitol enjoy?"

Plutarch chokes on his drink, turning it into a laugh when the other Gamemakers turn to look at us.

"Boy, you are hilarious! What are they teaching out there in District 12?" he says, loudly and then, more quietly, an edge to his voice. "Only fools talk like that. Citizens of the Capitol and citizens of the Districts have the same rights—none at all. It's just that most people in the Capitol are too ignorant to notice."

Then he stands, wrapping his large jeweled fingers around my arm, towing me along with him. "I think it's time we bid our guest goodbye. We still have one last tribute to score," Plutarch announces. The Gamemakers erupt in loud groans while one of the servants comes and basically pulls me down the hallway to the elevator.

I slam my fist against the clear glass of the elevator, angry at myself for not getting more information out of Plutarch, for making him too jumpy to hear me out. I always knew it was a long shot, but I'm running out of time.

When I get to the District 12 floor, I wander around, thinking about what Plutarch said, trying to remember if he said anything I could use to get out of this.

After about twenty minutes Katniss shows up, clearly upset. She dashes down the hall and I follow her, catching her before she slams her door shut.

"What do you want?" she asks. She's trying to sound strong, but her eyes are already red-rimmed from crying.

"Wanna hug it out?" I say, holding my arms out.

"You're crazy," she says, sniffling a little.

I don't do anything, just keep my arms out. Katniss looks at me, hesitates for another moment, before crashing into to my arms.

"Everything's fine," I say, pulling her into a hug.

"I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers," she whispers.

"At the apple in the pig's mouth on the Gamemakers' buffet," I correct. "There's a difference."

She steps back, wiping her eyes. "How did you know?"

I sigh. I'd spent every training session trying to convince her about the book, and failing. She's convinced that I'm some kind of serial stalker.

"The book?" she asks flatly.

"The book," I agree. "But that's not what I want to talk about."

"And the Gamemakers don't care? They won't hurt my family?"

"They're going to give you an eleven."

She lets out a long, shaky breath. "I can't believe I believe you."

"Why shouldn't you believe me?" I ask. "I've been right about everything else."

Katniss scowls and turns toward her room.

"Wait!" I say, stopping the door with my hand. "I'm sorry, I really am, but you're just so fun to tease…." The door tries to close again. "And I need your help."

She sighs like I'm the difficult one and opens the door wide enough to let me in.

"So what do you need?" she says.

Suddenly, I'm unsure about talking here. I don't think the book's likely to have its main characters rounded up for government execution this early, but it might be better to take some precaution when talking about fuck-the-government plans.

"I think we should go to the roof," I say.

Unsurprisingly, Katniss scowls at me. "Why?"

"Oh, you know you want to go," I say. "Because of me, you're already missed a scheduled, semi-romantic interlude in the rooftop gardens." It makes sense. If events always try to revert back to the book, Katniss should be craving a little rooftop confess with Peeta.

"I don't want any kind of romantic interlude. Not with you or anybody else."

"Okay," I say, shrugging. "You don't have to come up to the amazing rooftop garden overlooking the city. You can stay here, in this airless room, wasting the last free hours you have left, crying into a pillow and worrying about the Gamemakers."

She bites her lip all Bella Swan-style. "There's a garden?"

Bingo. "And wind chimes," I drawl. "Might be a little loud."

Her eyes light with understanding. "Fine, we can go."

She follows me out the room and into the hallway where I take a guess at which door leads to the roof. After first stumbling into a broom closet, we find the way up the short flight of stairs and onto the roof.

It's a gorgeous space, fairytale-like, with a gossamer lined gazebo surrounded by miniature fruit trees all draped with tinkering wood chimes. The walkways have flowers running down each side, filling the air with fragrance. It's beautiful, but, a little too arranged for me, too orderly. I like things a little more rustic.

We amble around for a while, visiting a few flower beds before I turn to Katniss. "What do you know about the government, I mean how it's run?"

"They starve us. They send us to our deaths for entertainment. Isn't that enough?"

"Yeah, but I talked to Plutarch Heavensbee and he…"

"Who's Plutarch Heavensbee?" she interrupts.

"The Gamemaker you knocked into the punch bowl," I say.

"I was provoked!" she grounds out.

"You're a hothead," I counter and when she starts to bristle in annoyance, I add, "But that's good. You have a good reason to be angry."

Katniss looks away from me and wraps her arms around herself. "What did the Gamemaker say?"

"He said that the citizens of the Capitol and the Districts have the same rights. How is that possible?"

"That's just lip-service. We're supposed to have the same rights, but we don't. The districts—at least the poor ones, like at home—are starved, robbed, treated unfairly while here in the Capitol and in the rich districts—they have everything they need and desire."

"But, legally, the people in the districts are citizens of Panem?"

"If you think this will somehow get you out of the Games, you're wrong. The Treaty of Treason gives the Capitol the right to take us and kill us."

We don't talk much after that, both of us to lost in our thoughts, but we stroll around the gardens until it starts to get dark. I'm taking her back to her room when Katniss turns to me. "You really are from somewhere else, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I am."

"Is it nice, this place you're from? They don't have the Hunger Games or anything like that?"

"They don't have the Hunger Games—it's just a book and a movie there—but not everyone has the same rights and there's violence and poverty and hunger, just like here."

Katniss' eye takes on a soft, wistful look. "I knew there were no safe places," she murmurs before slipping into her room.

After dinner, we all head to the television room where they announce the tribute scores. When they get to my name-Peeta's name—I'm not surprised to see a flashing 8. Of course, the book would have reverted to this score even if I'd shot the arrow at the Gamemakers.

I'm even less surprised when they show Katniss' 11. As the others congratulation her, her eyes find mine, and in her stunned gaze I see that she finally believes me—about the book, about the Games, about everything.

She believes me and I'm still stuck here.