Blaine Abernathy: A Canary Caged
Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games
Chapter 63: The Capitol's Mind Tricks
Blaine's POV
It was like a spider web. Cleo thought I should try the laser obstacle course and learn how to maneuver around laser security. The dark, small, rectangular room was pierced by countless sensitive green rays. One touch or disruption of the beam would set off the alarms. They weren't advanced lasers that would slice skin, though the limited space made the challenge intimidating.
Cleo showed how it was done. As I stood in the room from above, that monitored the course. She moved easily, flexing her body, so I questioned if she was human. Then again, she had been an agent for a long time, and she and Jason would face similar challenges. She hasn't told much about what her missions are other than to obtain information. I wonder if she was like me in manipulating people. However, seeing how she moved around, the lasers told another story.
After the demonstration, I felt nervous. Cleo assured me the first few tries would be difficult and might not be successful. Not even three feet in, the lasers turned red, and the blaring alarm went off. Cleo, over the intercom, pointed out that my hair got in the way, even though it was in a braid. So, I tucked it inside my gym uniform and tried again.
Five feet in, and the alarm goes off. My toe, a centimeter in a beam, triggers the alarm.
"Take your time," Cleo instructed. "Study your surroundings before you take your step."
"It's easier said than done," I grumbled.
Cleo reset the course. The room went dark as the green rays scattered about. I took several deep breaths, ensuring myself that I was in a safe place. Yet, with my eye gone, my peripheral vision was cut in half, and a quarter of my sight was missing. Let alone the strain my right eye is going through to compensate for it all.
So, taking a deep breath, I maneuvered cautiously in the grid, bending, sliding, and crawling hesitantly in a difficult position. I was a third of the way in when there was tension in my left ankle. I had set it at an awkward angle to avoid a beam, only to compromise myself from moving it properly. One false move and I would trigger the three beams around my left leg.
"Pause and think," Cleo advised over the intercom. "If you move too fast, you'll trigger the alarm. Look at your openings."
I stared at my surroundings, trying to figure out where to lift my leg and move it. After a moment, I noticed a spot and tried to slither there. However, taking the risk resulted in my shoulder disrupting a mid-beam. I cursed as the annoying alarm went off.
Cleo turned the grid off and turned on the normal lights. I blinked and sat down, rubbing my ankle. Many emotions were swirling inside my head. I should be able to see this course and make good estimating moves. Yet, I can't see anything. I can't predict. This is supposed to be easy. And yet, I'm faltering. If I went on a mission in this state, I would be putting my team at risk.
The door opened, and heavy footsteps could be heard. I looked up to see it was Acre. I sighed, betting he wanted to give it a try. Thus, I got up only to stumble, mentally cursing in front of my comrade.
"Hey," he softly said. "You're spiraling."
I snorted, "What gave that away."
The intercom blurted, "She's trying."
Acre turned his attention to the window, "We don't do fancy shit."
It is still strange to have a conversation with Acre. He only talks when necessary, and his actions are limited. Ever since arriving at the Nest, he has checked on Miya during breakfast, bobbed his head towards me, and then gone into training with Jason, in which Jason tries to get him to be social.
The Victor of Eleven turned his attention to me, "We're trained to fight. Not this bullshit."
I tried hard not to laugh, and a small scoff of a chuckle escaped my lips. Acre was right; the Trainers taught us about straightforward fighting and survival. Even though I used gymnastics to add a flair and, by sheer luck, used it against the yetis.
Acre nodded as he led me out of the room and took us to the gym. He grabbed some padded boxing mitts and gloves before leading us to the mat. I was confused as he put on the gloves. We hadn't sparred before, and knowing his reputation of killing people with his bare hands, let alone our size difference and strengths, if we were to fight, he would have the advantage. I may be able to prolong the fight and get him down to escape, but not enough to take him down.
He tossed the gloves over to me, "Put them on."
"What are we doing?" I asked, putting the gloves on.
"Isn't it obvious," he answered as he helped put the second glove on me.
"But your gloves are different," I countered.
"That's because you're gonna punch them," he confirmed. "Get the anger out."
"I'm not angry," I grumbled.
Acre snorted, "Sure you're not."
I glared at him.
He leaned down to my level and stared at me, "You're a victor. You've always been angry. You might have masked it all these years but can't hold it in."
I ground my teeth. So many emotions have taken over that anger has been on the back burner. I hardly let my anger out. For the last time I was angry, I said terrible things to Cinna. He had forgiven me, saying the pain was in control. But it was not that. The anger simmers in how the Jabberjays are keeping me in the dark. How the Rebels are doing a lousy job in handling the war. Angry that I didn't know anything about what was going on.
Acre smirked when noticing the anger finally revealing itself and lifted up the mitts, "Come on, let it out. You can't do that fancy shit with that anger in ya."
I snorted and began to punch at his padded hands. There were no corrections. No comments. Acre merely stood there as he accepted all my punches. I made sure I struck the two targets and not anywhere else. Acre held a neutral expression as his dark eyes focused on me.
Time vanished as I continued to punch at his hands. After some time, I was a sweaty mess, heaving for air while Acre stepped back with approval.
"Feel better?" he asked.
"A little," I answered.
Acre nodded, "It's a start."
There was clapping, but it was more sarcastic. We looked to see it was Jason. Cleo was there, but she merely watched rather than clapped.
"Not bad," Jason complimented.
"Don't push it, Goat," Acre muttered, crossing his arms.
"What, that you have a soft spot?" Jason taunted.
"You know he killed a man with his bare hands," I reminded.
Jason was going to make a remark, going through memories of the games he saw, but he stopped. I used distractions and opportunities if he was thinking about my previous kills in the games. Other than my blind rage on Static, I tried to use my surroundings if necessary. Acre was different. He did avoidance, but when confronted, he killed straight forward, even killing a Career by repeatedly punching their face to oblivion.
Acre smirked, smacking Jason in the back, "Careful, your face might freeze like that, Goat."
Goat was just a nickname Acre gave Jason for the golden ram on his right shoulder. Jason hated being called a goat, so Acre does it as a comeback. Though there are times Jason would call Acre a Jerk, to which Acre returns Bitch. Fortunately, Cleo and I have some proper respect for each other, and we do not use puns or sarcastic nicknames. Although, Cleo told me her name was actually Cleopatra. As she explained, her parents named her after a Queen in ancient history. It was strange how the Capitol could easily name its citizens, but there were restrictions in the districts.
I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn't realize Acre and Jason's roughhousing.
Cleo sighed, "Seriously, you two act your age and not your shoe size."
"Don't bother, they're guys," I replied.
"You're tellin' me," She muttered, arms crossed.
"What's next?" I asked.
"…lunch."
And on cue, both Jason and Acre stopped wrestling on the word lunch. Us girls couldn't help but laugh as they got up, wiping the invisible dust, and headed off to the cafeteria. Who would have thought food would be the referee for those two?
.o0o.
Today's lunch was grilled meats with salad, fruit, and a dinner roll. There were other food options. The Chef provides a buffet style, and right now, my stomach is not in it for a heavy dish. Although there are limitations, it doesn't help when there is a craving. I need to blame Peeta for enabling my sweet tooth and artisan bread.
I sat down at the table with the others. A few televisions showed the latest from the Capitol. It seems the Capitol is not broadcasting anything about the war.
Ignorance is bliss, I thought bitterly.
Everybody was enjoying their lunch when a loud ring disturbed the moment. Many televisions immediately change channels to the Caesar Flickerman Show. Probably a pause from Panem news, away from war footage, propaganda, the bombings of District 12, the riots in District 8, and media hypotheses. Silences engrossed the room as everyone noticed the screens, seeing Caesar dressed in his dark sequin suit, colorful hair, and painted face. A few murmurs go around suggesting it's the latest gossip to distract the citizens of the Capitol about the war.
Until the camera pulled back to show today's guest, Peeta. My mouth dropped, the fork falling out of my hand and clanging onto the table. His appearance was flawless and clean, with no sign of burns or lacerations, indicating he had gone through a remake. He sat in his chair, slightly annoyed by his body posture, though his face remained poised. Caesar leaned over his chair, giving a long, observant look.
"So... Peeta... welcome back," Caesar greeted.
"I bet you thought you'd done your last interview with me, Caesar?" Peeta asked with a smile.
"I confess, I did," Caesar fiend embarrassment announced while keeping the allusion of a friendly gesture. "The night before the Quarter Quell... well, who ever thought we'd see you again?"
"It wasn't part of my plan, that's for sure," Peeta said, a scowl hanging hard on his face.
Caesar leans into him a little, "I think it was clear to all of us your plan was. To sacrifice yourself in the arena so that Katniss Everdeen and your child could survive."
"That it was. Clear and Simple." Peeta leaned back in his chair, slightly uncomfortable, trying to contain his emotions. "But other people had plans as well."
"Why don't you tell us what happened the last night in the arena?" Caesar suggested. "Help up sort a few things out."
Whoever had the remote turned up the volume, though Miya and Acre didn't dare look at the monitors. Each and every one of them was thinking about the arena. Nobody could completely describe their experiences of the arenas. And if you could, your emotions would fill you with sullen rage or mourning weeping.
"That…That last night... to tell you about that last night…well, first of all, you have to imagine how it felt in the arena. It was like being an insect trapped under a bowl filled with steamy air. And all around you, jungle... green and alive… and ticking. The giant clock ticking away your life. Every hour promises some new horror. You had to imagine that in the past two days, sixteen people had died- some of them defending you. At the rate things are going, the last eight dead by tomorrow morning. Save one. The victor. And your plan is not you."
I closed my eyes for a moment, thinking about the footage I had seen of my friends and associates dying in the arena.
"Once you're in the arena, the rest of the world becomes very distant. All the people and things you'd loved or cared about almost cease to exist. The pink sky and the monsters of the jungles and the tributes who want your blood become your final reality, the only thing that ever mattered. As bad as it makes you feel, you're going to have to do some killing, because in the arena, you only get one wish. And it's very costly."
"It costs your life," Caesar injected.
"Oh, no. It costs a lot more than your life. To murder innocent people?" Peeta replied, knowing the answer. "It costs everything you are."
"Everything you are?" Caesar repeated quietly in awe.
The cafeteria hushes down, as does Panem, who is watching this. This was practically the first time I had heard somebody confess what it's absolutely like to be in the arena, to be in the Hunger Games. And the Baker son, the painter, the voice of reason, spoke calmly of his personal experiences like it was a story.
"So, you hold on to your wish," Peeta continued. "And that last night, yes, my wish was to save Katniss. But even without knowing about the rebels, it didn't feel right. Everything was too complicated. I found myself regretting I hadn't run off with her earlier in the day, as she suggested. But there was no way in getting out of it at that point."
"You were too caught up in Beetee's plan to electrify the salt lake," Caesar said.
Now, Caesar is trying to manipulate Peeta to catch him in his lowest emotion. Trying to get the truth. This was probably one of President Snow's plans for information after three weeks of war: to figure out who—if anybody—was part of the invasion by using pressure from a crowd and audiences.
"Too busy playing allies with the others. I should have never let them separate us!" Peeta barked. "That's when I lost her."
"When you stayed at the lightning tree, and she and Johanna Mason took the coil down to the water," Caesar clarified.
"I didn't want to!" Peeta flushed in agitation. "But I couldn't argue with Beetee without indicating that we were about to break away from the alliance. When the wire was cut, everything else went insane. I can only remember bits and pieces. Trying to find her. Watching Brutus kill Chaff. Killing Brutus myself. I know she was calling my name. Then the lightning bolt hit the tree, and the force field around the arena…blew out."
"Katniss blew it out, Peeta," Caesar reminded. "You've seen the footage."
"She didn't know what she was doing." Peeta snapped. "None of us could follow Beetee's plan. You can see her trying to figure out what to do with that wire."
"All right. It just looks suspicious," Caesar retreated. "As if she was part of the rebels' plan all along."
The people in the Nest murmured softly, unsure if that was true. Not many victors knew about the rebels or insurgents unless they came to you asking questions to determine where your loyalties lie. Plutarch went to Haymitch since probably the beginning of this establishment, drafting Beetee, Wiress, Finnick, Mags, Johanna, and anybody else who wanted to keep the Star-Crossed Lovers alive. Katniss is the Girl on Fire, who defied the Capitol in the Hunger Games, and Peeta, the young man who can speak like a leader or a Wiseman? Peeta stomped onto his feet, leaning in on Caesar's face, trapping him in the chair.
"Really? And was it part of her plan for Johanna to nearly kill her? For that electric shock to paralyze her? To trigger the bombing?" He yelled. "She didn't know, Caesar! Neither of us knew anything except that we were trying to keep each other alive!"
"Peeta," I breathed, clenching my hands together. "Don't let him get to you."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Acre asked.
"Caesar is using shallow manipulation tactics to make people emotionally compromised," I explained. It's rare, but Caesar is trying to confuse Peeta into not… encouraging the rebels or anybody other than their words."
"You'd seen it before?" Acre asked.
"The Circle and Government do it on everybody," I whispered.
Back to the screen, Caesar placed a hand on Peeta's chest, gently pushing him, which could be defining self-defense and understanding consonants. "Okay, Peeta, I believe you."
"Okay." Peeta breathed, returning to his seat, slightly exhausted.
A moment passed, so the men on the television gathered their bearings of the outburst. I began to worry about Peeta, never having seen him like this. He was completely alone, facing the lion's den, who tried to eat him alive mentally and emotionally. Once things seemed to calm down, Caesar continued.
"What about your mentors, Haymitch and Blaine Abernathy?" the host asked. "Before you answer, I'd like to remind everyone that Blaine Abernathy passed away in the previous bombing in the Capitol."
I stiffened when Caesar declared I was dead, his facial expression showed sympathy while his eyes were watery as if he'd actually mourned. A growl rumbled in my chest while I clenched the table to a point. My knuckles were bone white, and red flusters in pure anger dusted my cheeks. Peeta's face hardens, glaring at the camera.
"I don't know what Haymitch knew," Peeta's face hardened when answering that, then he sighed sadly. "But I'm sad to hear Blaine is dead. She was my friend, an older sister who helped me a lot. Now that she's gone…I might possibly be the only family from Twelve who is mourning."
Peeta's eyes watered when he looked down to pull something out of his coat pocket. The camera zoomed in to find it was a snowdrop…my mother's snowdrop pin, my token. A lone tear escaped as I stood up, walked to the closest monitor, and placed my hand on the glass. I so desperately wanted to tell him that I was still alive.
"And may she rest in peace," Caesar prayed, patting Peeta on the shoulder. "Could Haymitch have been part of the conspiracy?"
"He never mentioned it," Peeta sneered, putting the pin away.
"What does your heart tell you?" Caesar asked.
"That I shouldn't have trusted him," Peeta answered. "That's all."
I sighed, closing my eyes, understanding how he felt about the betrayal among friends. Everyone betrayed somebody here, as Haymitch betrayed Katniss and Peeta, I betrayed Katniss, and so on. But to know my father was a rebel since the beginning feels like a sharp, piercing blade amongst kin. I was his daughter, and he could have helped me through the darkest moments and prepared me for war. The Jabberjays even helped him to save my life during the sixty-ninth game. Instead, he hid himself from society, drinking his life away through alcohol. I open my eyes to watch my friend.
Caesar patted Peeta on the shoulder, "We can stop now if you want."
"Was there more to discuss?" Peeta asked wryly.
"I was going to ask your thoughts on the war, but if you're too upset…" Caesar began.
"Oh, I'm not too upset to answer that," Peeta said and took a deep breath looking into the camera. "I want everyone watching—whether you're on the Capitol or the rebel side—to stop for just a moment and think about what this war could mean. For human beings. We almost went extinct fighting one another before. Now, our numbers are even fewer. Our conditions more tenuous. Is this really what we want to do? Kill ourselves off completely? In the hopes that—what? Some decent species will inherit the smoking remains of the earth?"
Suddenly, the insurgents exclaimed in agreement with Peeta that this war was going to be the cause of our extinction. It got so loud I didn't hear Caesar's question.
"We can't fight one another, Caesar," Peeta explained. "There won't be enough of us left to keep going. If everybody just laid down their weapons-and I mean very soon…" Peeta explained. "It's all over anyway!"
"So… you're calling for a cease-fire?" Caesar asked.
"Yes. I'm calling for a cease-fire." Peeta answered tiredly.
.o0o.
I felt numb, no longer caring what was being broadcasted after the interview. Peeta was alive; he wanted both rebels and the Capitol to cease fire, declaring Katniss innocent. Haymitch betrayed a deal and believes I'm dead. My body went on autopilot, leaving the cafeteria as the insurgents watched me or were focused on my reaction. I slowly walked down the corridor, thinking about the message Peeta had left.
It was something Peeta would say, though a tiny voice of doubt. A month, and now President Snow lets Peeta on television. Many things could have happened during those three weeks. Hacker invaded the Training Center security camera, keeping a watchful eye on Peeta and Annie and making sure they were okay. There was no report of an act of cruelty, no evidence of torture other than the harsh words of a compromise. Peeta would probably make an excellent Mockingjay for the Insurgents, while Katniss would be for the rebels.
Though the Games continue, "There can only be one winner. You win, or you die. There is no middle ground."
He's okay, I thought in a mantra. He's physically okay.
I collapsed onto my knees.
I just hope the rebels don't do anything irrational. They're probably arguing about Peeta's speech, debating whether he's a traitor. Katniss would probably get a wake-up call from her delirious state, and Haymitch…guilty. Peeta once asked that no matter what happens, Katniss has to win and stay alive. My response to his request seemed amiable. I told him, 'Only if she's standing, but I'm supporting you.' Katniss was Haymitch's tribute, while Peeta was mine during the 74th annual Hunger Games. When Peeta was injured after Cato's wrath, I was there for him by sending him food and medicine. Afterward, I requested a cure for blood poisoning.
Still, Peeta is my responsibility.
I need to get him out of there before the worst is yet to come.
.o0o.
"Please, you have to send out a rescue or-"
"Blaine, I can't do that," Varick said, remaining calm as I followed him through the countless pristine corridors. After regaining my composure, I hunted down Varick, desperately needing to know his strategy. Three weeks and nothing has been done other than communication disputes between the rebels and insurgents while countless people are dying each day in the districts.
"Why not?" I challenged. "You know their location."
"You have to have faith in me," he said. "Right now, my objective is to stabilize you so you can come out to the public."
"Xavier!" I exclaimed, grabbing his arm to stop him. "You're doing what the rebels intend for Katniss to do. Don't you see—having my face out there will be a distraction and a risk."
Varick paused, taking the method in as I continued. "What President Snow did with Peeta was a distraction."
"They'll be debating on whether the captives are traitors." Varick finally realized.
"We need to get to them before the rebels consider them enemies," I implied. "Peeta knows how to use words, and if we have him on our side of a cease-fire before the rebel's final plan, then there won't be an extinction. If we have him, then Katniss will be on our side."
"Out of curiosity, why do you prefer Peeta over Katniss?" he asked, walking into a room.
I stopped momentarily, choosing my words wisely, "Peeta has been my tribute since he entered the arena last year. I've taken responsibility for him during the games, his recovery, and company. I wasn't there for him during the Quell. Xavier, please, he's like a younger brother."
"What about Katniss?"
I sighed, covering my face, trying not to groan in irritation. "Katniss and I don't see eye to eye. And even if she did, I'm betting the rebels told her every possible negative thing about me as President Snow's spy."
We entered one of the labs where Hacker enjoyed tinkering with inventions during breaks from computer hacking software. He lifted his head, causing a mop of black hair everywhere while his dark eyes were analyzing through large ringed goggles. "Do I want to know?"
"Not now, Hacker," Varick sighed, turning around to face me. "If I find any possibility that Peeta is harmed, I'll send a rescue team. But until then, I want you to focus on your recovery."
"Sure, send me to Dr. Caduceus for my therapy and physical rehab with Cleo." I sarcastically agreed.
"Is this a good time to talk about the Scope?" Hacker asked, putting a solder away.
Varick and I stopped ranting to turn to the insurgents' top computer master and inventor. On the table lay several gadgets, with a strange device on a stand. The device was rectangular with a curve. Two marble-shaped lenses were attached to it; the largest was blue, while the next was red but smaller. However, a ball was behind it. It reminded me of an unfinished mask as if somebody had cut it in half with a metallic marble attached to it in the back.
Varick sighed frustratedly, "Hacker, where's the bionic eye?"
Hacker ignored the complaint, "Did you want her to look like a cyborg?"
"What's going on?" I asked.
The victor gave a small smile, "Well, I made you your new eye."
"It doesn't look like an eye?" I said, confused.
"It's not; it's a Scope," he explained. "With the chip we put in your occipital lobe, this device will act as a real eye. You will be able to see from your left side, along with other features that can help you on the field."
"What kind of features?" I asked.
I was still not pleased that the Jabberjays put a chip inside my head, especially being one of Hacker's, as he has a record of his inventions exploding. They assured me that they have done human trials and have been a success, even though the Capitol has not allowed it to the public, more precisely, district citizens.
Hacker cleared his throat, "I managed to put a camera that provides several different visions such as night vision, infrared, and others. Including a telescope feature for long distances. "
"Why would I need those?" I asked.
"In case you go on missions." Hacker answered.
"I requested a bionic eye," Varick demanded.
Hacker shrugged it off and handed me the scope, "Put it on like you are putting on a contact."
Cautiously, I held the scope, surprised by its lightweight, and carefully put it in my eye socket. The cold material was uncomfortable for a moment until I gasped, able to have full vision. Hacker explained that the orb is a miniature magnetic technique that sends messages into the chip to activate the scope's sight.
I tried not to cry, even though my right eye began to water. Cautiously, I raised my left hand into my blind zone, and I could see it for the first time in over a month. I got my peripheral vision back.
"But this is not a permanent fix," Hacker said. "You can only wear it for missions for a short period of time."
"What would happen if I did?" I asked.
"The chip will burn out, and you'll fry your brain," Hacker answered.
Immediately, I took the scope out. "Never mind."
Hacker snorted slightly, "I assure you, it won't explode."
Doubt it, I thought, crossing my arms.
"What about the blood sample?" Varick asked, "Anything about the serum that Blaine was injected with?"
Hacker sighed, "There are a lot of drugs and chemicals used in the serum. I managed to detect high dosage artificial dopamine, acetylcholine, and GABA."
"And these chemicals do what?" I asked.
"In theory, gives you temporary schizophrenia." Hacker answered.
"The hallucinations," I sighed in defeat.
"Dr. Caduceus is working on methods we can use to remove the serum," Varick informed. "However, we might have to wait until your body burns it out of your system."
I took a deep breath, sighing in defeat.
"When was the last time you had an episode?" Hacker asked.
I thought for a moment, "Almost a week when the news declared Cinna and me dead. Although I do get migraines and headaches."
The men nodded to that.
Hacker then rolled his chair away and grabbed something off his desk: a tablet. "Place your hand on this."
"Why?" I asked.
"It's for your weapons," he answered. "I want the weapons to recognize your palm and fingerprint so they can only be useful to you."
I nodded, allowing it, though I wondered what Hacker was making for me.
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