Archive of Our Own ^beta

Peeta only had one appointment left for the day, and then he’d be getting the hell home. It was mid-afternoon on a Friday, he could feel a fever coming on, and the sooner he got himself home and in bed the better. He checked his watch, then the clock on the wall. 2:05. His 2:00 was late. Unusual, considering the amount of money clients spent for a down payment at booking, and the amount he talked them into spending once they sat down with him. He’d barely glanced over her paperwork when he picked it up that morning, just a cursory glance at her gender and who she wanted.

Katniss Everdeen. Of course she wanted Katniss. Everyone did. And the fact that her line was exclusive to Capitol Clinic meant she was at least half of the sales he made every day to both male and female clients. Selling to a woman wasn’t something most of his male coworkers were very good at. It required a softer touch and significantly more romance. Peeta excelled at it. It earned him plenty of ribbing, good-natured and otherwise.

Peeta straightened out one of the cases lined up on the table in front of him, smoothing his finger along the edge before drumming his fingers against his client’s folder. It was thin; a first-timer. She’d be nervous, and probably had a very limited scope of what she’d want and no real idea of the product range. A cold. Maybe a 24 hour flu. Something to carry through the weekend but clear up before Monday morning rolled around. He flipped open the folder, glancing over the information idly just as the door opened.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, a little out of breath, her purse dangling from her elbow as she closed the door. She smoothed her hair away from her face, looking everywhere in the room but at Peeta. “I didn’t think I’d hit so much traffic. It’s not even rush hour, and I’m not that far-”

“Delly?” Peeta asked. He hadn’t seen his childhood best friend in nearly a decade, but she was virtually unchanged. A bit thinner; some of the roundness had gone out of her face, her curls pinned up at the back of her head instead of spilling around her shoulders the way she’d always worn them, but otherwise the same. He looked down at the paperwork again. She’d given a pseudonym. Not uncommon, given the controversial attention Capitol Clinic had been getting recently.

“Oh my god,” she froze, her eyes going wide. “Peeta? Um. Oh my god. I should, uh—I should go, maybe. I didn’t know that you-”

“Dell,” he cut her off as she began turning back toward the door. “It’s fine. I work here. I get it. Come sit.” He gestured to the empty chair across the table from him.

“I’m so embarrassed,” she said quietly, her face flushing as she crossed the small, perfectly white room and sat down. She fiddled with her purse in her lap, unable to bring herself to look up at Peeta.

“Don’t be. I understand,” Peeta said. Delly looked up at him and he gave her the warmest smile he could summon. He held her gaze for a moment before looking at the screen mounted on the wall beside them. A short video clip of Katniss was playing on a loop; she tucked a stray lock of her dark, silky hair behind her ear before looking directly into the camera; a brief, soft smile flitting across her lips. “She’s beautiful. Perfect, even. Of course you’d want to share a connection this intimate with her.”

“Right,” Delly breathed, biting down on her trembling lip as she watched the video.

“I think it’s harder to understand why anyone would pass up the opportunity,” Peeta said. He leaned forward against the table, watching the expressions that crossed Delly’s face, trying to read her the way he did when they were kids. She took a deep breath and turned to face him again.

“You don’t have to sell me,” she said, feigning confidence. She gestured toward the cases on the table. “I know you have a whole, y’know, thing you’re supposed to go through, but, um. I know what I want, and if you don’t have it I’m just going to call it a loss on the deposit and go.”

“I promise we have something that’ll suit you,” Peeta smirked. No one had ever walked out of an appointment with him uninfected, no matter what sort of attitude they’d brought with them.

“She had, um-” Delly paused, blushed deeply, and gestured to her mouth. “A sore. A few months back. I don’t know if you, um-”

“E-451,” Peeta pushed one of the black cases toward Delly. Each virus had a product code, both to identify the celebrity it originated from and to make referring to the diseases a bit more palatable. “A herpes simplex variant. That’s a pretty big commitment. You’ll carry that forever.”

“That’s the idea,” she said, dropping her gaze and smoothing her hair back behind her ear, subconsciously imitating the video clip.

“It’s also an excellent choice,” he said. Delly looked up at him. Peeta smiled at her and gestured to a reclined chair on the opposite side of the room. Delly set her purse on the table, standing and crossing the room to sit as Peeta got up. He carried the case to a counter along the wall, washed his hands at the sink, and glanced toward Delly as he pulled on a set of gloves.

He would never have pegged her for the type to buy into all of this. The desperate and intrusive level of interest celebrities had begun attracting when they were kids had progressed over the years, far beyond what some considered tasteful. Even he had a hard time truly believing his own sales pitches. He was supposed to be selling intimacy, but he had a hard time finding anything intimate about administering an injection in a blindingly sterile room.

“Have you given any thought to where you’d like it?” Peeta asked as he prepared the syringe.

“What do you mean?” Delly leaned over the edge of the chair to watch him.

“I’d recommend your left upper lip,” he said, moving to sit beside her and pulling his rolling stool closer to her. “Katniss’ infection originated on her right upper lip. So if she had kissed you, it would be here.” He reached out, brushing his thumb lightly over Delly’s lip. Her eyes fluttered closed.

“Okay,” she whispered.

“Just a pinch,” he said, leaning over her and rolling the flesh of her lip up to inject the virus. She winced. “It may swell, and burn a bit, but that will go down in a few hours. It’s not contagious, of course. You’ll never spread that to anyone else. It stays between you and Katniss.”

Delly nodded, pressing her shaking fingers over her lip as soon as he pulled back. He offered her another warm smile as he disposed of the needle, stripping off his gloves and tossing them into the biohazard bin along with it. Her voice was quiet and shaky when she spoke. “Thank you.”

“You’ll have your first outbreak in a few weeks.”

Once Delly was gone he leaned against the closed door and tried to fit the celebrity obsession into the impression of her he’d carried with him through the years. It aligned with her natural enthusiasm a little too easily and made him question everyone else he knew that he’d thought was above it all. They’d exchanged phone numbers and promised to catch up. A promise he didn’t really think either of them would keep after so long.

Peeta let out a sigh, reaching into his suit jacket’s inner pocket and producing a digital thermometer to pop into his mouth. He guessed his fever had risen to something just shy of 100, likely putting him on track to reach the point he needed to collect samples by 2am. Not really what he’d hoped for; groggy, feverish, middle-of-the-night nasal swabs were torture. At least it meant he’d feel well enough to dedicate his full Saturday to working them over. When the thermometer beeped, he checked his watch and made a note of the reading along with the time, packed up his samples, and went to return them to the pharmacy. Thresh beat him to the counter.

“You skipping out early, too?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder toward Peeta as he popped open his briefcase and turned it toward the pharmacist.

“Yeah,” Peeta nodded. “Getting a head start on the weekend.”

“You got plans?” Thresh didn’t even bother hiding his surprise. Most of the guys he worked with went out together every week, but Peeta avoided them in favor of going home. Another thing the guys teased him for from time to time.

“Not really,” he said. Nothing he could talk about, anyway. Thresh chuckled.

“Why am I not surprised?” He snapped his empty briefcase closed, tugging it off the counter and stepping aside for Peeta to take his place. “I’m headed home. Visiting the family. I haven’t seen my parents in months.”

“Enjoy,” Peeta said, dropping his briefcase on the counter and popping it open. He turned it around toward the pharmacist, a fox-faced young woman whose name he’d never bothered to learn.

“Another one?” she smirked, one of the open cases in her hand. Peeta raised his eyebrows in question and she held it up in response, tapping her finger against the graphic identifier on the lid. “Honestly, we’ve had O-204 for less than three days. I don’t think Finnick has gotten over that flu, and you’ve already sold two of them?”

“He’s an easy sell,” Peeta shrugged. In reality he’d sold one and a half. The other half he’d injected into himself the day before, as soon as the client had left his office. He’d hoped the incubation period would be over in time for the weekend. It was moving a bit faster than he’d have liked.

“Still,” she said. “Everyone else has checked it out, but only one other has been sold.”

“Overachiever,” said a raspy, dull voice behind him. Peeta turned around as he pulled his empty briefcase off the counter. Cato stood behind him, his collar open and his tie loosened. He had bags under his eyes, a film of sweat broken out over his face. He was sick. Very sick.

“Yeah,” Peeta raised an eyebrow. “Have a good weekend.”

“Fuck you,” Cato croaked.

Peeta rolled his eyes as he walked away. He handed over his briefcase and jacket by the exit, holding his arms out for the scan he endured every day. One person had been caught trying to smuggle samples out of the Clinic since he’d been hired, and as far as he knew, she was still in prison. The security guards stepped back to let him pass. As soon as he hit the sidewalk, Peeta popped the thermometer into his mouth, checking his temperature again as he walked home.

He lurched awake in the middle of the night, groping for his alarm clock and turning on the light. He didn’t need to check his temperature again to know he’d hit the high point of the fever. Peeta groaned as he sat up, his head pounding with every movement, and sucked in a heavy breath as he grabbed the nasal swab off his nightstand. His shaking fingers shredded the sterile packaging and he had to stop and collect himself. Scooting back to lean against the wall, he took a deep breath, leaned his head back, and slid the swab into his nostril. His eyes watered as he collected his sample, and he yanked the swab out of his sinuses, coughing and sputtering in an attempt to get rid of the feeling it left in his sinuses. He capped the sample, leaned over the edge of the bed to toss it into the minifridge under his nightstand, and then collapsed back into sleep.

When Peeta woke the next morning sunlight streamed in through the windows. His sheets were drenched in sweat. The room spun as he sat up in bed, though it seemed as though he’d managed to sleep through the worst of it. He stumbled into the bathroom to shower. As the water warmed he downed a fistfull of pills; vitamins, antivirals, immune system boosters, 1000mg of acetaminophen for the fever and headache. He stood in the shower until the latter kicked in, face tilted into the water, hoping he’d feel better—and finish his work—before the time he’d agreed to meet with Plutarch in the afternoon.

After dressing and forcing down some toast, he retrieved the sample he’d made the night before. Peeta turned his TV on, turning up the volume enough to drown out the noise his stolen machine generated. The news was airing an interview with Coriolanus Snow, founder and CEO of Capitol Clinic. His too-patient chuckle filled the apartment as Peeta turned to open his closet doors, shoving the clothes aside and carefully removing the false wall in the back.

“I do understand the detractors. I really do. Anyone who takes a close, hard look at what we do, however, will see there’s nothing wrong here. We’re certainly not trying to create some sort of public health crisis, as some seem to think. People aren’t forced to be a part of this. Those involved are enthusiastic about what we do.”

Peeta did his best not to roll his eyes. The health crisis going on was a mental one, and not one Snow had any hand in creating. Just one he profited from furthering. Peeta submerged the swab in a test tube of saline and plugged it into the machine.

“And how do you feel about Clinic D13, your new rival in this industry?” the interviewer asked.

“I’m assuming you’re referring to Miss Coin’s criticism of our exclusivity contract with Katniss Everdeen,” Snow said. The interviewer let out a simpering chuckle. Peeta spun his stool around as the machine booted up, watching footage of Katniss arriving in the city earlier that week that was being run on a split-screen beside Snow’s interview. “Simple jealousy, I’m afraid. We were the first to patent the latest technology and the first to court Miss Everdeen as her popularity began to skyrocket. The things she’s had to say about Capitol Clinic in recent months sadden me. I have a great deal of personal and professional respect for Miss Coin, so I’d be lying if I said it didn’t surprise me to find those feelings are not mutual.”

Once the encryptor booted up, the screen was filled with a slightly altered version of the flu’s graphic identifier. Peeta’s goal was to use the machine to bring that image back to the one the Clinic produced, guiding the internal computer to compile the correct DNA sequence without rewriting it letter by letter. The pathogen encryptor technology that Capitol had patented turned a painstaking science into an art form.

Peeta excelled at reproducing even the most abstract identifiers and had written a software patch that automatically deleted copyright sequencing. Once he was satisfied with the image all he had to do was load a vial into the machine, run his program, and wait for the sample to generate. From there he passed it on to someone else.

Plutarch Heavensbee ran a butcher shop a few blocks away from Peeta’s apartment. His legitimate business involved growth and sale of cloned muscle tissue from some of the biggest stars in the world. Where his money really came from, though, was reproducing and selling pirated copies of the viruses sold by Capitol and D13.  And he paid very, very well. The right name, the right virus, and Plutarch would pay as much as Peeta made in three or four months at the clinic.

Peeta pushed open the glass door to the butcher shop, raising his chin and catching Plutarch’s attention with a brief wave. Plutarch nodded towards the swinging doors at the end of the counter, stripping off his gloves as he passed through and holding one open with his foot for Peeta to follow.

“What do you have for me, kid?” Plutarch asked, casting a cursory glance at Peeta before opening one of the refrigerated cases along the back wall. They were lined with trays labeled by name.

“Odair’s flu,” Peeta pulled a vial from his coat pocket, wiggling it between his thumb and forefinger.

“I already have it,” Plutarch said, lifting a slab of meat from the tray and dropping it with a wet slap to the countertop.

“What do you mean you already have it?” Peeta snapped, watching Plutarch slide the tray back into the case. “We just got it.”

“Someone beat you to the punch,” Plutarch shrugged. “You’re not the only one out there, as you are well aware. Work faster if you want to keep being the first on the market.”

“Fuck,” Peeta muttered, slouching against a set of shelves behind him.

“Don’t lean on those,” Plutarch frowned, looking up at Peeta before slicing and weighing the slab of dull pink meat. Peeta turned around, raising an eyebrow at the spires of fleshy tissue that stood on the brightly lit shelves. “Impressive, eh? Cell gardens. Developed the entire setup myself. Don’t touch.” Peeta pulled his hand back; he’d been reaching for the one with Katniss Everdeen’s name attached to it.

“How is this any different than what you’re already doing?” Peeta asked. He didn’t even bother hiding how pissed off he was. The last 24 hours of suffering through that flu had been for absolutely nothing. He’d spent his day sitting hunched over that machine and earned nothing but a kink in his spine and a sore ass.

“That’s natural organic growth,” Plutarch said. “Not this bland cloned petri dish garbage.”

“Isn’t cannibalism still illegal?” Peeta asked, tearing his eyes away from the display and turning around to face Plutarch again.

“It’s not cannibalism if it’s artificial,” Plutarch retorted, setting his knife down and looking up at Peeta.

“You just said these are organic.”

“They’re not for the shop,” he said. “I’ll give you three hundred for that flu. Can’t hurt to have a backup.”

“Three hundred dollars?” Peeta said, raising his eyebrows. “That’s a fucking insult.”

“Then leave with nothing, what do I care?” Plutarch chuckled. “I’ll throw in dinner. Johanna Mason finally caved. I got the first steaks fresh today.”

“Just give me the money,” Peeta sighed, setting the vial down on the counter.

On Tuesday morning he was greeted by the sight of Cato in handcuffs. Peeta craned to see what was going on as he endured his entrance scan, but he couldn’t quite see past the knot of his coworkers that had gathered to watch from a distance. Once it was over, he picked up his coat and briefcase and joined Thresh off to one side.

“What’s going on?” Peeta asked. Cato stood just outside the door to his office, back to the wall, staring up at the ceiling as Snow oversaw the security guards overturning the place. Officers stood to either side.

“Apparently someone got a tip about Cato having a stolen console at his place,” Thresh said without even looking away from the scene. “You missed the real show, I think. Snow had some colorful words for him. Who would do shit like that?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty fucked up,” Peeta said. Cato lurched away from the wall, one of the officers taking him by the elbow and leading him toward the door. He stared Peeta down, narrowing his eyes as he was led past. Peeta just held his gaze, keeping his face carefully blank.

“Mr. Mellark,” Snow said, his voice carefully restrained. “I need to speak with you. Now.”

“Okay,” Peeta nodded, his heart dropping into his shoes. He glanced at Thresh, who offered a brief shrug, and followed Snow. The CEO led the way to his office, and Peeta tried desperately to remember how well he’d covered his tracks. He’d burned his own samples. There was no trace of what he’d been doing with his weekend left in his apartment, save for the console carefully concealed behind a false wall. That was still in place, he’d checked it before leaving that morning. There were no security cameras in their offices, where they saw patients, and where Peeta administered his own injections. That was likely to change, though. He took a deep breath as Snow held open his office door, gesturing for Peeta to step in ahead of him.

“I’m sure you’ve heard what happened with your coworker this morning,” Snow said, pulling the office door closed.

“I have,” Peeta said. Snow nodded toward the chairs facing his desk, and Peeta sat down, setting his briefcase on his lap. He bounced his leg nervously as Snow dropped into his chair.

“This is a massive compromise of our clinic’s integrity,” Snow sighed. “And for it to come from him is… well. Disappointing is an understatement. I need you to step up in his place.”

“What do you mean?” Peeta asked.

“I’ve scheduled a demonstration of the latest pathogen encryptor with key investors this afternoon,” Snow tapped his fingers against his desktop. He didn’t even bother making eye contact with Peeta. “Cato was meant to run it. After this incident I’m not entirely sure I trust anyone else not to completely fuck up in front of the money.”

“I’ll find someone to cover my appointments,” Peeta said.

“They’ve already been reassigned,” Snow waved his hand dismissively. “Afterward, I need you to collect a sample from Katniss Everdeen. They’re unsure of her exact diagnosis as of yet, but eager to sell. The demonstration is at one, you’re expected at Miss Everdeen’s suite at two, and once you return the sample you’re finished for today.”

“Okay,” Peeta nodded, hoping the flush he felt rising wasn’t showing in his face. Snow glanced at him briefly.

“Peeta.”

“Yes?”

“When our inventory was reviewed this morning two encryptor consoles were found missing,” Snow turned his chair to face Peeta, resting his hands on the edge of the desk. “And only one was found in Cato’s apartment. That means there is another of my machines out there, and I don’t know who has it. If you hear anything about this, I need you to tell me. Immediately. And I promise you I will make sure it’s worth your while.”

“Of course,” Peeta nodded, tightening his grip on his briefcase. He knew exactly where that console was, and he wasn’t going to tell a soul about it. Especially knowing it would end in arrest, something he’d always suspected but never had actual confirmation of.

“The new machine is in the conference room, spend the morning familiarizing yourself,” he said, before dismissing Peeta with a wave of his hand.

The minute Peeta was out of the office he breathed out a massive sigh of relief. He’d walked in expecting an interrogation at the very least, and walked out with the closest thing he could get to a promotion without a bump in pay. Cato had handled Katniss’ contract exclusively, along with a few other major stars. Peeta had been out on a few collections himself, even filled in for Cato from time to time, but he’d never even seen Katniss in person. He wondered if she would be as frigid and annoyed with the process as Johanna Mason had been, or if she would turn out to be more like Finnick Odair; warm and open and more than a little lonely.

He worked through the demonstration on autopilot. The new console proved far easier to use than the older model he had secreted away at home; he barely needed to think about what he was doing to process the sample. Within a few minutes he had a perfectly encrypted, non-contagious, copyrighted duplicate of a chronic skin infection from some low-tier actress he’d never heard of ready for mass production. It certainly impressed the investors enough. After a few handshakes and an approving nod from Snow, he packed up and headed for the hotel Katniss was staying in.

There was a slew of paparazzi lining the sidewalk in front of the place. In spite of his best efforts to be discreet, more than one photo was snapped of him as he showed his Capitol Clinic ID badge to the guards at the door. A pink haired, heavily made up member of Katniss’ staff was waiting in the lobby for him.

“Who are you?” she asked, one perfectly plucked eyebrow twitching toward her hairline.

“Peeta Mellark,” he said, offering his hand to shake. She merely glanced down at it before looking up at him.

“Where’s Cato?”

“Indisposed,” Peeta said, dropping his hand to his side.

“Alright, then,” she said, clicking her heel against the marble floor as she straightened her posture. Peeta only barely managed to contain his eye roll until she turned around, leading the way to the elevators with tiny, quick steps. As soon as the doors closed she turned toward Peeta, pursing her lips and looking him over. “Miss Everdeen is extremely ill, and your employer is dropping a small fortune on this ordeal. She also finds the entire process off-putting. It’s imperative that you be as quick and quiet about it all as possible. You will not speak to her; she will not speak to you. In fact, with the migraines this has brought on, you’re lucky we’re allowing light in her room for the procedure. Nothing you see or hear is to be spoken about when you leave.”

“I understand,” Peeta nodded.

“Do you?”

“Yes,” Peeta said, offering the best smile he could summon. It seemed to appease the woman. She gave a brief, tight smile, a curt nod, and led Peeta down the hall when the elevator doors opened.

The woman turned to him after knocking on the door, holding up one finger to her lips. A middle-aged man with dark hair and deep bags under his eyes opened the door to let them in. The sitting room was filled with flowers, every possible surface completely covered in lavish arrangements. He spotted the roses sent from the Clinic, a card signed with Snow’s elegant script hanging from the vase. He also spotted two women he recognized as Katniss’ mother and sister standing by the window. They eyed him suspiciously before turning away.

Peeta was led into the bedroom and nearly stopped short at the stark contrast as he stepped through the door. There were no flowers in this room, no real décor to speak of. The curtains were drawn, the only light cast from a single lamp by Katniss’ bedside. She was reclined against the pillows, a thick white blanket drawn up over her chest, her arms folded over it. Her dark hair lay in a neat, thick braid that curled across her shoulder like a snake. A stool had been placed by the bedside and Peeta took a seat, his eyes on Katniss as he set down his bag. She had a sleep mask on, her eyes hidden from view. Her only movement was the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Peeta startled when she extended her arm and lay it on the bed at her side, palm up, offering it to him to collect the blood sample he’d been sent for.

He pulled his stool closer to tie a tourniquet around her arm, too conscious of the woman standing in the doorway watching him. He glanced back at her after cleaning a small patch of Katniss’ skin, and she gave him that same tight, cold look of disdain she had in the hotel lobby. Turning back to the work at hand, he quickly and carefully collected two vials of blood before pulling the tourniquet off her arm. He watched her face as he smoothed a patch of gauze over the tiny bead of red that collected on her skin once the needle was out, but she remained as motionless as ever. After taping a fresh piece of gauze to the site, he allowed his hand to linger on her arm for a moment, feeling the warmth of her skin through the latex of his glove.

As Peeta tucked the vials into the security canister Katniss took a deep breath. It rattled in her lungs, drawing his attention as he passed the canister to the woman supervising for her to close and lock. Katniss turned her face toward him, her lips parting. Before she could speak her breath caught in her throat, and she lurched up, coughing against the back of her hand. The man that had let them in rushed into the room with Katniss’ mother on his heels.

“Will you get him out of here?” he snapped, glaring at the pink-haired woman as he pushed past Peeta to Katniss’ side.

“Come on,” she reached for Peeta as he was picking up his bag, hooking her hand around his elbow and pulling him out of the room. She slapped the canister against his chest as she shoved him out into the hallway. He could still hear Katniss coughing, even after her mother closed the door to the bedroom. “Tell Coriolanus we’ll be in touch.”

“Of course,” he said, looking down at the canister in his hand as she slammed the door in his face. He listened to Katniss’ heavy, wet coughing and a brief moan of pain before the suite fell silent again. What had she wanted to say to him? Peeta slid the canister into his bag and glanced down the empty hall before turning toward the elevators. He had an opportunity, and he wasn’t about to pass it up.

When he reached the lobby Peeta took a sharp right, heading for the hotel’s bathrooms instead of the exit. He locked himself in a stall and sat down, setting his bag at his feet. He fished a bump key and a wrapped syringe from the interior pocket of his coat, using it to pop open the canister. He’d purposefully overfilled one of the vials, and carefully lined up the needle of the syringe with the perforation that had already been made in the vial’s stopper. Whatever this illness was, there was no way anyone would beat him to the punch.

With the injection finished, Peeta leaned his head against the side of the stall, willing his heart to stop racing. His fingers trembled as he held the empty syringe. He had no idea how long the incubation period would last, when the symptoms would begin to hit him, or how severely. Either way, it would be a day or two before the sample was properly processed, and it wouldn’t be sold until a diagnosis could be made public.

And in the meantime, he had Katniss Everdeen’s blood racing through his veins alongside his own.

He woke two days later just before dawn, drenched in sweat and gasping for breath. He barely made it to the bathroom before he began vomiting, emptying himself of what felt like everything he’d eaten for the past week and a half. When he was done he collapsed backward, slumping against the wall, too shaky and weak to stand. He reached for the cabinet beneath the sink, fumbling with the doors as he yanked them open. Peeta just barely managed to wrap the tourniquet around his arm, and he pressed his hands against the cool tile floor in an effort to still their shaking. Once he’d collected himself, he drew a blood sample, capped the syringe, and dropped it just inside the cabinet. He ripped the tourniquet off his arm and rolled onto his back, the room spinning around him.

In the next room his alarm went off, the urgent beep reminding him he was meant to be at work in an hour. He hauled himself up off the floor, flopped onto his bed, and groped at the switches on the top of his clock to turn off the alarm. He fired off a text to Thresh, asking him to cover for him for the day, and barely managed to hit send before falling back to sleep.

The next morning he rolled out of bed with a pounding headache. His tongue felt like sandpaper. He’d alternated slipping in and out of a feverish sleep with rushing to the bathroom to vomit up anything he tried putting in his body. He sent another apologetic text to Thresh, dropping his phone on the counter and swallowing his usual round of supplements one by one, slowly sipping a glass of water. The phone buzzed a moment later.

T: Don’t sweat it. Snow’s in love with u rn anyway. Told us u got the Everdeen contract. Congrats shithead.

T: Btw the clinic dropped the charges on Cato. Fucker’s not getting his job back tho. Ha.

Peeta tapped out a quick thank you and tossed his phone onto the kitchen table. How the hell had Cato gotten himself out of trouble? He leaned against his kitchen counter, staring out the window and waiting for the medicine to kick in. Once he was convinced it was worth a try, he choked back some toast and another glass of water. He still had the sample to get to, and hopefully he’d still be ahead of the curve.

After turning on the television for noise cover, Peeta went into the bathroom and retrieved the syringe where he’d left it under the sink. He held it between his teeth as he pulled away the false wall in his closet and sat down on the low stool in front of the console. He carefully emptied a portion of it into a test tube, attached the tube to his console, and spent a few minutes sitting with his face buried in his hands, willing the room to stop spinning. He felt woozy, and every deep breath he took made his chest ache. He flicked on the machine, hunching forward to rest his elbows on the edge of the desk and watch the screen as it booted up. The welcome screen with the Clinic’s eagle logo appeared, and Peeta caught the briefest glimpse of what must have been the virus’ graphic identifier. Then the screen flashed white before winking out completely.

“What the fuck,” Peeta muttered. He leaned down to check that he hadn’t kicked the plug out of the wall, head pounding as he did. It was still plugged in. He pressed the power button again and leaned closer. Peeta could just barely make out the whirring of the fans. He pried off the case and stood to look over the inside. He’d pieced it together by hand after smuggling it out of the Clinic piece by piece, and it took him less than a minute to spot the dead lights on the CPU battery. He swore under his breath, reaching in and carefully popping the small, square casing off the pins without unseating the entire unit.

It was barely an inch square and a quarter of an inch high, but it was also one of the many pieces of hardware completely unique to the console. The only matching parts were locked away in the inventory room at Capitol Clinic. Which was now under far stricter surveillance than it ever had been before, thanks to Cato’s arrest. Of course that part would go now, when there was no way he’d be able to smuggle another out of the Clinic.

He unscrewed the blood sample from the machine, capped it, wiped down the console, and stood to move the wall panel back into place. The image of Katniss on the television stopped him in his tracks, and he nearly dropped both the battery and the sample as he registered what, exactly, was being reported.

“At the young age of 25, just barely approaching the peak of a dazzling career, Katniss Everdeen has died of an as yet unidentified viral infection.”

Peeta tuned out as the anchor began analyzing the footage of Katniss’ arrival in the city the week before, attempting to point out possible signs of her illness. He stared down at the blood sample in his hand. Three days ago. Or was it four? She had been alive. He hadn’t yet developed the cough he’d heard from her. Peeta pressed his hand against his chest and drew a slow, deep breath. Could he feel it rasping through fluid or was he imagining that? Peeta’s phone buzzed with an incoming text from where it sat on the kitchen table and crossed the room to pick it up. He needed to find a replacement part. If he could manage to synthesize the virus then there had to be someone out there with the means to find a cure.

T: Damn man. Just when u get the contract.

Peeta set down the tube and the battery, flipping through his contacts to find Plutarch’s number. He was really the last person Peeta wanted to see, but the only one he could think of that might have the part he needed. It took two hours for Plutarch to respond to the text, and Peeta spent it pacing his apartment, pausing in front of the TV to watch the news, wondering how long it would take for someone to realize they’d photographed him going to see her on the Clinic’s behalf just days before. He put the false wall back into place and hid his blood samples inside a panel that snapped off the door of the tiny refrigerator beside his bed. As soon as Peeta got the go ahead from Plutarch to stop by the shop, he dressed and left his apartment.

There was a line of customers stretched halfway down the block. One of the women that worked in the shop stepped out as Peeta approached the door, announcing that they were down to their last tray of Katniss for the day, and passed out tickets for it to those at the head of the line. Another of Plutarch’s employees caught Peeta’s eye and pointed to the back room. The man was standing in front of the wall of refrigeration units, cutting and measuring dull pink slabs of meat.

“Making a fortune today,” he said, glancing at Peeta as he stepped in. “Tragic and all. Her death. Obviously. Definitely not tragic for my bank account. You look like shit.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Peeta said.

“You know you were the last person outside of her staff and immediate family to see her alive?” Plutarch asked.

“How’d you hear that?” Peeta frowned.

“I hear a lot of things,” Plutarch looked him over and raised an eyebrow. “If you have that virus, you know, that thing is the holy grail in this industry. Capitol will never let it go. I’d make you a very rich man.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” Peeta said, his breath catching in his throat. He coughed into the crook of his elbow.

“What is it, then?” Plutarch asked, getting back to his work.

“I need one of these?” he said, pulling the battery out of his pocket and holding it up.

“What’s that, the CPU panel?” Plutarch squinted at it.

“The battery pack,” Peeta clarified. Plutarch nodded.

“I know a guy,” he said, setting his knife down and wrapping the steaks he’d cut. “Let me just make sure he has the part and doesn’t mind the company. And stop fucking texting me. Please. Nothing traceable between you and me. In fact, get my number out of your phone. I don’t want to get caught up in any of this Everdeen shit if they start investigating things.”

“What do you mean investigating?” Peeta asked, slipping the battery back into his pocket. “She died of a virus. She wasn’t murdered."

“Still,” Plutarch said. He picked up one of the wrapped steaks and tossed it to Peeta. “On the house. Last we’ll have of her for a while. Come back on Friday when you get out of work. If my guy’s got what you need, I’ll take you to him.”

“Okay,” Peeta said, looking down at the wrapped cut of meat in his hand. He chewed the inside of his lip as he left, slipping the steak into his pocket. He ate it that night in front of the TV. Halfway through his meal, his own face flashed across the screen along with a closeup of his Clinic ID badge, his name clearly visible. His phone vibrated with a new text less than thirty seconds later. Then another. And another. And it didn’t stop for nearly an hour. Numbers he didn’t even have in his contact list anymore. Names he could barely still connect to faces. He ignored every single one of them, except the one from Delly.

D: Did you really see her before she died?

Yes.

D: What was she like?

She was perfect.

The next day he went to work, in spite of the fever he was still running. Staying out longer would just arouse suspicion. He moved through the rest of the week on autopilot, accepting a few misplaced condolences from coworkers as if losing the chance to work on an exclusive contract were somehow more tragic than a person’s death. He was called to Snow’s office and spent a few long minutes in silent panic until he realized Snow was simply trying to pass on a compliment from Katniss’ staff on his appointment with her.

He woke Friday morning with an angry looking rash that stretched from his above his elbow to halfway down his forearm. When it came time to meet with Plutarch about the replacement part that afternoon, the cough began settling in. It brought dizziness along with it, and he had a hard time keeping his sway from showing in his step. He leaned against the wall in the back room of the butcher shop, waiting for Plutarch to finish a meal and take him to where he needed to go.

“You look worse, you know,” Plutarch said. “You sure you don’t have that virus?”

“I’m sure,” Peeta said. “My body’s just giving up on me. You know how many infections I’ve carried in the past year?”

“You are a hard worker,” Plutarch chuckled, shoving the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth. “The best I’ve got, by far. Smarter than that dumbass you used to work with. Come on.” He nodded toward the back door, lifting his coat from a hook on the wall.

“You buy from Cato?” Peeta asked. He’d suspected as much, but Plutarch had never shared the names of any of his other suppliers.

“I used to,” Plutarch said, pushing the door open and holding it so it didn’t slam shut in Peeta’s face. “Until he got himself fired and lost his source.”

“Do you know why Capitol dropped the charges against him?”

“You didn’t hear?” Plutarch glanced at him, shoving his hands into his coat pocket. “That console they found in his place wasn’t stolen. Wasn’t even theirs.”

“What?”

“There’s a few rumors about it,” Plutarch shrugged. “Mostly that it was given to him by D13 for one reason or another. Wouldn’t put it past them, but I haven’t seen him in weeks to find out what the real story is.”

Peeta frowned, staring at the sidewalk ahead of him as they walked. Plutarch led him through a few alleys, taking shortcuts through the neighboring city blocks that took them further downtown than Peeta usually ventured. They passed through an unmarked, blacked-out glass door that opened to a narrow, poorly lit staircase. Peeta braced his hands against the walls as they descended. The hall they moved through was lined with mostly closed doors, loud music mostly blocking out the sounds of whatever was going on behind them. Peeta still had a pretty good idea of what it was. A woman leaned against the frame of one of the only open doors, wearing nothing more than a pair of panties and an open robe that just barely covered her breasts. In the low light she very nearly passed for Johanna Mason. If Peeta hadn’t met the real thing in person himself, he might have bought the stony glare and faint smirk he caught as they passed as completely genuine.

Plutarch led him down a second flight of stairs, the music fading behind them as the door at the top swung closed. He stopped Peeta, looking toward a heavy door on one side of the room before turning around to face Peeta.

“Wait here,” he said. “Let me go talk to him. I’ll come back for you.”

“I thought you said you were only going to bring me if he didn’t mind the company,” Peeta said, raising his arm to cough into the crook of his elbow.

“He is, he’s just,” Plutarch paused, searching for the right word. “He doesn’t like surprises. I’ve been here, you haven’t. Just hang tight, okay?”

“Fine,” Peeta shrugged. He certainly didn’t have any other options. Plutarch knocked on the door, and it cracked open a moment later; a tall, slender blonde blocking the narrow space. She smiled briefly at Plutarch and stepped aside to let him in, her expression falling at the sight of Peeta. She closed the door, and Peeta heard the click of a lock from the other side. Something about the young woman was familiar to him, but he couldn’t quite place her.

He leaned against the wall, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. He coughed again, his breath rattling when he inhaled, and tried reassuring himself that he still had days left, if not more. That it was plenty of time to get help. He scratched the back of his hand, looking down as he did and realizing the rash had spread below the cuff of his sleeves. Peeta swore, and heard the quiet answer of a female voice from behind a curtain to his right. Unsure if he’d actually heard it, Peeta stepped forward, nudging the heavy curtain to one side and squinting against the bright light that poured out from behind it.

“Oh, thank God you’re here.”

Katniss. No, it couldn’t be. He pressed his eyes closed for a moment, struggling to adjust to the drastic shift in lighting. There was a large, glass-front box in the room, the interior bathed in light just as bright as the rest of the room. Katniss lay on her side inside it, legs drawn up, arms covering her bare breasts. Her eyes were wide and fearful.

“Please come closer. Please. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Katniss?” he said softly, moving closer and craning to see the top of the box before leaning around to look at the side. He ran his hand over the smooth laminate wood, looking for a seam, a way to open it.

“Could you repeat that?” she said. He moved to look into the front again, realizing once he was up close that it wasn’t glass, it was a screen. It wasn’t a box, it was a television. He tapped on the screen and Katniss curled in on herself, looking at him from behind her hands. “Please. I’ll do anything. Do you want me to show you my body?”

“Hey,” Plutarch said, shoving the curtain aside. Peeta jumped, turning away from the screen. “He’s ready.”

“Okay,” he said, glancing back toward the screen as he left.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Plutarch paused. “The resolution on that screen? Those scans were all pulled from that music video she did last year. This guy’s tweaking the AI and patching in some new animations. Smoothing out the kinks in the voice replication. Talented. Too talented for this shitty underground work.”

“Why does he do it, then?” Peeta asked, casting one last look back at the screen before Plutarch let the curtain swing closed. He recognized the pose as she rolled onto her back, her arms still obscuring her breasts.

“Why do you?” Plutarch countered. Peeta smirked, stepping through the door as Plutarch opened it. The blonde was sitting on a couch to one side of the room, a magazine in her lap. She glanced up at him disdainfully, popping a strawberry into her mouth and turning one of the glossy pages before looking back down at her reading. A dark-haired, broad-shouldered young man looked up from a mess of electronic equipment scattered across a table on the opposite side of the room. He stood as they approached. He had the stoop of someone who had grown too tall too fast and never bothered correcting their posture before the habit settled in for good. “Peeta, Gale. Gale, Peeta.”

“Hi,” Peeta said, hesitating a moment before extending his hand to shake.

“So you work for Capitol, huh?” Gale said, smirking as he shook Peeta’s hand. Peeta nodded. “Inside man. I guess if you have to suffer through it, you might as well dick them over for it.”

“Something like that,” Peeta chuckled. He nodded toward an alcove beyond the table Gale had been sitting at and the machinery that filled it. “Is that your rig?”

“Yeah,” Gale rubbed the back of his neck, leading Peeta over to it. The machine was massive. Easily two or three times the size of what Peeta had at home. And there wasn’t a single component attached to it less than five years old.

“Where the hell did you even find this dinosaur?” Peeta asked, walking around it and leaning forward to look at the parts. None of it was housed, and it looked as though Gale had layered together multiple pieces of hardware to get the same power out of it that newer models would have.

“You’d be amazed what Capitol used to throw out before the piracy market picked up,” Gale said. “She’s ugly, but she’ll keep up with that thing you guys are getting ready to unveil in the next couple weeks.”

“How did you know about that?” Peeta asked.

“I’m not really an investor,” the blonde said without looking up from her magazine. Peeta looked over at her. She’d been one of the people observing the demonstration he’d run before he saw Katniss. She looked up at him and smiled. The tattered jeans and tight t-shirt she had on were a far cry from the skirt suit she’d been wearing then.

“You want to give it a try?” Gale offered, nodding toward the machine. “Run your blood through it? I heard you’re not feeling too great.”

“I’m fine,” Peeta said. He reached into his pocket for the battery pack and tossed it to Gale. “I just need one of those.”

“Sure,” Gale said, turning it over in his hand. “It’ll take me about a week, but I’ll track one down for you.”

“I thought you said he had one,” Peeta looked over toward Plutarch.

“Did I?” Plutarch said without looking up.

“And you won’t mind if I take payment in advance,” Gale said. It wasn’t a question. “Gesture of solidarity, of course.”

“How much?” Peeta asked, reaching for his wallet.

“I’d say about four vials. Nasal and throat swabs. And a biopsy of that,” Gale pointed toward the rash on the back of Peeta’s hand before tossing the battery pack back to him.

“Forget it,” Peeta said, shoving the battery into his pocket and heading for the door. “You’re an asshole, Plutarch.”

“You’ve been holding out on me, Peeta,” Plutarch said. “You know how I hate that.”

“Yeah,” Peeta said. A slightly younger near-carbon copy of Gale stepped into his path, blocking the door. Peeta hadn’t even noticed anyone else in the room. He sighed and tried moving around him, but the kid just stepped into his path again.

“We can do this nice and easy,” Gale said, suddenly right behind Peeta. “Or you can be a dumbass and we can do it the hard way.” Peeta glanced back at him, squaring his jaw, and turning to shove the kid out of his way. He very nearly made it to the door, but Gale snagged him by the arm at the last minute, swinging him down onto the floor. Peeta drove his elbow back into Gale’s stomach and wrenched out of his grip. He barely even got up onto his knees before the other man drove a hard punch across his jaw. Peeta went down too fast to even break his fall.

“Rory, what the fuck,” the blonde snapped. “Calm down. Just get him over into the light.”

It took both Gale and Rory to hold him down and Plutarch to hold his head in place as the woman took swabs from him. Even with the mask she’d put on to cover her face he could see her grimacing as she did it. Peeta tried to pull away again when she finished, and it just ignited a coughing fit. She pressed a clean white cloth over his face, stifling the cough as Plutarch wrenched his arm away from his body.

“We’ll get you to a doctor,” Plutarch said, examining the first vial of blood he collected. “Get you fixed up. As long as it doesn’t kill you, you can keep working for me. No hard feelings, okay? I know this is less than ideal.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Peeta croaked, hawking a heavy glob of mucous out of his throat and spitting it at the side of Plutarch’s face. It just earned him another hard blow across the face. His head lolled to one side and he slipped into unconsciousness.

Peeta woke face down in a gravelly alley, his back against a different building than he’d gone into. He seemed to be in a completely different part of town. His head felt ten pounds too heavy and two sizes too small. It took everything he had just to move to sit up. There was a strip of gauze taped over the back of his hand, and he carefully peeled it back. Part of his rash tore away with the tape, and under the gauze he could see a hole in the back of his hand nearly as wide as a pencil eraser. He tore the entire strip away, wincing as he did, and threw it to the ground. Bracing himself against the wall, Peeta pushed himself to his feet and moved to the end of the alley, leaning against the side of the building and trying to figure out where the fuck he was.

He was as far as he could possibly get from his apartment and still be within the city limits. Of course. Not to mention the sun was entirely too bright for the evening hours he’d gone into that building with Plutarch. He’d been unconscious the entire night. How much of it had he spent laying in that alley? Peeta took a tentative breath and patted down his pockets, hoping they hadn’t robbed him of his wallet on top of robbing him of the virus. It was still there, but his cash wasn’t, and he was far from feeling stable enough to withstand the subway. They’d taken too much blood and left him even dizzier and weaker than he’d been when he stepped into that room. The building he was leaning against housed a diner, and Peeta kept his hand on the wall to hold himself steady as he turned the corner and went in to sit and recover.

A waitress brought him a cup of coffee and a menu. She hovered at the end of his table for a moment, looking down at him, her lips pursed as if she were trying to place him. He wondered just how often his face had been plastered across the television, and leaned his forehead against his hand, hoping she’d get the point and leave him alone. As soon as she walked away, a man slid into the opposite side of the booth. He folded his hands against the edge of the table and smiled at Peeta through a full, red beard. His suit strained over broad, heavily muscled shoulders.

“You look pretty sick, Mr. Mellark,” he said. A nearly identical man slid into the side of the booth Peeta occupied, pushing him further towards the wall. “A bit beaten up, too.”

“Do I know you?” Peeta croaked, looking from one man to the other.

“No. We’re going to help you,” the man said.

“Things didn’t go very well with the last person who said they were going to help me,” Peeta responded. The man chuckled.

“We’re actually going to help you,” he said. “Well. Not us. Our employer. Someone you do know.”

“Wonderful,” Peeta said.

“Breakfast first,” he said, thanking the waitress with a smile and a nod as she poured two cups of coffee and offered the men menus. They both waved them off. “Fried eggs, toast, and bacon. All around.”

“Three orders?” she asked. He nodded. She took Peeta’s menu and spun away from the table on her heel.

“Your friend doesn’t talk much,” Peeta said, looking at the man blocking him in the booth.

“He’s my brother,” the man said. “And no, he doesn’t. Born mute, I’m afraid. He’s Pollux, I’m Castor.”

“Twins,” Peeta said. “Gemini. Cute.”

“Our mother had an odd sense of humor,” Castor said. Pollux smirked.

“Does that mean you have to die first?” Peeta asked, his voice flat and tired.

“Cute,” Caster said, letting out a brief chuckle as the waitress set their plates in front of them. “Shut up and eat your eggs.”

“I’m not paying for this,” Peeta said, picking up his fork and stabbing it into the egg yolk. Pollux’s shoulders shook, an odd sound leaking from him that Peeta guessed was laughter. The three of them ate in silence, and Castor tossed entirely too much cash onto the table when they’d finished. The two men ushered Peeta out front to a waiting car. They sat on either side of him in the back, and Peeta dropped his head back against the seat, closed his eyes, and wondered exactly what sort of shit he’d gotten himself into this time.

After twenty minutes of driving the ride got bumpy. Peeta opened his eyes and looked out the window but saw nothing but forest. The view out the windshield was just of a narrow dirt road. The jostling made his stomach flip, and he was afraid the eggs and toast were going to make a reappearance before they got to whatever ditch the burly twins were going to bury him in. A vast white house came into view, and Peeta immediately recognized the pink-haired woman waiting on the steps.

“Her name’s Effie, by the way,” Castor said. “She’s very distressed about the fact that she didn’t actually introduce herself the first time you met.” Pollux’s shoulders shook with laughter as the car pulled to a stop at the steps of the mansion. He opened the car door, reaching out to steady Peeta when he faltered on his way out of the car.

“Oh, dear,” Effie said, wringing her hands and rushing down the steps to the car. “You look atrocious. I’m so sorry. Please, come in, come sit.” She set one hand on Peeta’s back and the other on his arm, guiding him toward the stairs. Pollux and Castor smirked at each other and climbed back into the car. It was gone before the front doors to the mansion closed behind Peeta. “I’m Effie. I’m so sorry for my behavior at the hotel. You have to understand how stressful things have been. How much more stressful they’ve gotten—oh, I know I don’t have to tell you. You poor thing. I can’t imagine how this even happened.”

“What is going on?” Peeta asked, staring at the woman as she guided him into a sitting room. The man he’d seen in Katniss’ suite and another he recognized from the recent news reports as Katniss’ doctor stood as he walked in.

“I think it’s better we leave that to Dr. Aurelius to explain,” Effie said, guiding Peeta to a chair and all but pushing him down into it. “I don’t think any of you have formally met. This is Haymitch, Katniss’ manager.” She gestured to the dark-haired man. He looked as though he’d aged years in the week since Peeta first saw him. “And Dr. Aurelius, though I’m sure you’ve seen plenty of him on television recently.”

“Too much, I’m sure,” Dr. Aurelius said, as he sat back down.

“I’m going to go check on her,” Haymitch said, turning and abruptly leaving the room. Effie let out a huff of disapproval.

“Do you need anything?” she touched Peeta’s shoulder gently.

“Um,” he swallowed and cleared his throat lightly, trying to do so without setting off another painful fit of coughing. “Water. Please.”

“Of course,” Effie nodded and bustled out of the room, her heels clicking across the marble floor.

“Well,” Dr. Aurelius said, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap. “You’ve become a popular young man, haven’t you? Has D13 come calling yet? Or just the black market?”

“I’ve been unconscious for about fourteen hours,” Peeta said. “I don’t fucking know what’s going on.”

“Katniss Everdeen is still alive,” Dr. Aurelius said. Peeta raised his eyebrows. “Though she is, truly, dying. You may be the only viable source we have for a cure to what’s killing her.”

“Oh,” Peeta said, accepting the glass of water Effie brought to him. He stared down at the glass. “Wow.”

“That is, assuming it’s true you have contracted the virus,” Aurelius raised an eyebrow.

“That’s the popular theory,” Peeta said, cautiously taking a sip of the water. He could barely keep his grip on the glass. The meal hadn’t done much to restore his strength, just barely dragged him back from what felt like the brink of death.

“I’ll need to run a few tests to find out,” Aurelius said. “But from what I hear you’ve been ravaged already, and you absolutely need to take the time to recover. You’re safe here. There’s a room prepared for you upstairs.”

“We’ll take care of anything you need,” Effie chimed in.

“A shower,” Peeta said. “And a nap.”

“Of course,” Effie nodded.

“Can I see her?” he asked. She looked towards Dr. Aurelius for an answer.

“Briefly,” Aurelius nodded.

“Come with me,” Effie gestured toward a door at the opposite end of the room. Peeta finished off the rest of his water before setting down the glass and pushing himself up out of the chair. He followed Effie’s quick little steps, just barely managing to keep up with her. She led him to a broad, curving staircase, slowing to walk beside him as he gripped the banister on his way up. She lowered her voice to a near whisper as they reached the second floor. “Your rooms are at the other end of the house, so you’ll both have quiet and privacy.”

Peeta hesitated at the open double doors. The room inside barely fit the décor he had passed. It was smaller than he expected, the ceiling far lower than the vaulted glass ceiling of the hall outside. Haymitch was leaning over the bedside, speaking quietly and blocking Katniss from view. Peeta took a step forward, his shoe clicking against the wood floor, and Haymitch snapped upright, turning to look at him.

“What’s he doing here?” he asked.

“Dr. Aurelius gave permission,” Effie said softly. Haymitch let out an impatient sigh.

“You found him?” Katniss grabbed onto Haymitch’s arm, pulling herself up to look at Peeta. Her voice was breathy and faint, but still unmistakeable. A relieved smile settled onto her features as she looked at Peeta, and his heart leapt into his throat. “You did.”

“Hi,” Peeta said.

“Hi,” Katniss said, her smile broadening for a moment. She eased herself back against the pillows without taking her eyes off of him. “You’re here.”

“Yeah,” he said, marveling at how happy she was to see him. No one had ever looked at him that way before. Katniss’ eyes fluttered closed, and Effie touched his arm gently, urging her to follow him down the hall to his own room.

The shower felt like heaven, the hot water rinsing away the grit that felt embedded in his skin from laying in the alley, the layer of dried sweat from his struggle, and the violation of those samples taken from him by force. When he finished and dressed in fresh, new clothes that had been placed in the room for him, Dr. Aurelius gave him a shot in the upper arm that he assured would help slow the infection and restore him to where he needed to be to for the tests. Whatever it was, it also knocked Peeta out cold. He was asleep before his head even hit the pillows.

When he woke the house was dark, and he felt as good as he had since his symptoms began to set in. He folded back the blankets and carefully eased himself out of bed, sliding his feet into a pair of slippers waiting for him on the floor. He slipped out into the hall, trying to remember which way he’d been led from Katniss’ room. He wanted to get back there; to see her again. The memory of his dreams was already nearly gone, but he remembered her face, and that grateful, relieved smile featured prominently.

One end of the hall was completely dark, but he could see a faint light from the other end, shining from around a corner. He vaguely remembered a turn before he was deposited into his rooms and the door closed behind him. He followed it and found Dr. Aurelius sitting in a chair at the end of the hall, outside of the closed double doors that led into Katniss’ room. He was leaning toward the dim lamp, a book in his hands and his glasses perched on the end of his nose.

“Ah, you’re awake,” he said, setting the book aside. “Good. Feeling up to a pinprick?”

“Sure,” Peeta said, staring at the closed doors.

“What did you think?” Aurelius asked as he stood from his seat. Peeta looked at him and he nodded toward the doors. “About Katniss.”

“She, um,” he paused, biting down on the inside of his lip. She looked beautiful. Impossibly so. She sounded like a dream. He wanted to crawl into that bed and languish alongside her, feel the heat of her fever mixed with his. “She looked frail.”

“She needs your help,” Aurelius said. “Come with me.”

Peeta followed the doctor back down to the first floor to a small study at the back of the house. There were notes and photographs scattered across one of the two broad desks in the room, his own photo among them. Not just the one snapped by the paparazzi as he entered the hotel. There were others; leaving his apartment, going to work. One of him going into Plutarch’s butcher shop.

“We’ve been doing some research,” Aurelius said, gesturing to a chair as he turned on another light. Peeta sat down, watching the doctor pick up a tablet, the screen flickering to life at his touch. He sat down beside Peeta and placed it on the narrow table between the two chairs, plugging in a small black box and placing it on the table in front of Peeta. He pulled on a pair of gloves and tore open a small piece of sterile packaging. The white square of plastic inside snapped over the box neatly, a portion of it hinged to close over the base. Peeta could just barely make out the needle embedded in the center. “Place your middle finger on that, please.”

“Is this what I think it is?” Peeta asked, resting his finger on the box. Aurelius tapped the screen and he felt the needle bump up into his finger. Aurelius nodded and he pulled his hand back, allowing the doctor to snap the plastic cover closed.

“Not quite,” Dr. Aurelius admitted. After a moment the screen was filled with the same graphic identifier that had flashed on the screen of his console at home. It looked like a face, though the distortion was so heavy the features were little more than a blurry, twisted nightmare. “It’s just a diagnostic tool, really. And this little bastard did not want to be diagnosed. I learned the hard way when it fried my primary. This is just a backup, and I had to do a little work on it just to get it to cooperate. You’re a match, though.”

“I think that virus fried my console,” Peeta said, realizing too late what came out of his mouth. Aurelius just chuckled at the fear in his face.

“Very likely,” Aurelius said. “It’s a deliberate behavior. It’s been engineered somehow, which is why we released her death to the press. There was a very public funeral this morning. This may have been an assassination attempt, and if that was the case, then this will allow us to safely treat her in private.”

“And if she survives?” Peeta asked.

“Then she gets to go back to the obscurity she so desperately misses,” Aurelius said. “Stardom isn’t something she’s entirely pleased with.”

“Must be stressful,” Peeta said. “But who could want to kill her?” Aurelius shrugged and shook his head. The two of them sat in silence for a moment.

“I know what you were doing, and I understand,” he said. “Wanting to be the first—I get it. There’s a company overseas, still brand new, haven’t even officially named themselves yet; they offer these.” Aurelius unbuttoned his sleeve, rolling it up and turning his forearm toward Peeta to show a series of flesh tone rectangles on the inside of his arm. “Skin grafts. We were there first. This one. That’s Katniss.” He touched the one closest to his hand, but he didn’t need to point it out. Peeta recognized the olive tone immediately. Aurelius let out a sigh and tugged his sleeve back down. “No judgment. I do need to ask you a laundry list of medical questions, though. Settle in.”

“Okay,” Peeta said, shifting in his seat. He was just trying to get the virus to the market first. Just trying to cash in on what that would net him. Being lumped in with the kind of obsession that drove him to get those skin grafts, or drove clients in for repeated infections at the Clinic, made him uncomfortable. He focused on the questions instead, answering to the best of his ability. He sat patiently as the doctor checked his heart rate and blood pressure, listened to his breathing, and tried to determine exactly where he was in the virus’ progression. As good as he’d felt when he woke up, by the time Aurelius finished, Peeta could barely keep his eyes open. He went right back to bed and slept until the sun rose over the surrounding trees to flood his bedroom.

Peeta’s slippered feet barely made a sound against the marble floor as he moved down the hall. He fully expected to find someone occupying the chair outside Katniss’ door where Aurelius had been sitting last night, but when he rounded the corner he found it empty. The entire wing of the house was dead silent. So quiet he could hear the rasping of Katniss’ breath as he approached the partially open door. There was no one by her beside, either. They were alone.

He paused in the doorway, soundlessly nudging it open wider and pressing the sleeve of his bathrobe to his forehead to soak up the sweat that had broken out in thick beads on his skin. His vision swam for a moment and he leaned against the frame, watching Katniss sleep. Her breathing was labored, heavy, and slow.

She coughed, the shallow rasp progressing into a hard, deep hack. Katniss lurched upright, clutching the blankets to her face, and Peeta was at her side in an instant. He sat down beside her, rubbing her back as she choked briefly before drawing a wheezing breath and collapsing against him. The white down blanket was stained with blood.

“Why?” she asked, her voice barely more than a harsh whisper. He wasn’t sure how to answer. Or even really what she was asking. Why he’d wandered into her room without being summoned? Or was she speaking on grander terms? “Why did you do it?”

“What?” he asked, pulling back just enough to look down at her where she sagged against his chest.

“I know what you did,” she said, her eyelids fluttering as she looked up at him. “I mean. I know it was on purpose, anyway. I want to know why.”

“You sell to Capitol,” he said. “You have to know why people want it.”

“I don’t understand it,” she said, pressing her eyes closed and grimacing. Her throat was bruised, her glands visibly swollen. “You must, though. Working there. Infecting yourself.”

“I, um-” Peeta took a breath, staring across the room and trying to sort out what to say through the fog of his fever. Before he could summon a coherent answer Katniss began coughing again, spasms wracking her narrow frame. Blood spattered through her fingers onto the front of his robe. He pulled her closer and she tucked her face against his neck. Her breath was hot and sour against his skin.

“Have you started that yet?” she asked. “The blood?”

“No.”

“You will,” she sighed, her eyes fluttering closed. “I think I’ve started coughing up lung tissue.” A long stretch of silence passed between them, barely broken by the ticking clock in the hall. Katniss’ voice was nearly as quiet when she spoke again. “I just don’t understand why.”

Peeta carefully lowered her back against her pillows, holding his breath to listen for any sign of movement in the house. None came, and he shifted onto the bed beside her, laying on his side and watching the rise and fall of her chest beneath the thin, sheer cotton of her nightgown. Part of him wanted to shift the blankets and move them down below the gentle swell of her breasts, recalling the smooth, flawless olive skin he’d seen in high resolution behind that heavy curtain. He wanted to know what she truly looked like. Katniss shuddered, turning toward him and hugging her arms against herself as she begin to shiver. Peeta pulled the blankets up over her shoulder, folding the edge to conceal the splatter of blood she’d coughed onto it earlier. He ghosted a kiss against her forehead and let his hand drift down her side before pulling back.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?” Haymitch’s gruff, angry voice tore Peeta out of sleep. He didn’t even realize he’d drifted off. The man was leaning down over the bed, hissing into Peeta’s ear. Katniss was still curled up against him, clutching at the edge of his robe as she slept. “Get. Up. Now.”

“Haymitch,” Katniss wheezed, squeezing her eyes closed tighter. “It’s okay.”

“No,” he said firmly. Peeta tried to pull away but Katniss clung to him, grimacing and drawing in a breath before unleashing a slew of wrenching coughs. She buried her face against Peeta’s robe and he glanced up at Haymitch. The older man just frowned at him, waiting for Katniss to collapse back against the pillows before pulling Peeta away from her. “Get out. Go get dressed. You’re leaving.”

“What?” Peeta asked, backing toward the door. “You guys said-”

“That you’d be safe here,” Aurelius finished. Peeta hadn’t even noticed him standing in the doorway. “And you are, but we need to ask you to do something very important, though possibly very dangerous. Haymitch just has no tact. I’ll meet you in my study in a few minutes.”

“I’ve cleaned your suit,” Effie said, gesturing for him to step out into the hall. He looked back at Katniss as Aurelius closed the doors to her room behind him. He caught sight of her leaning over the edge of the bed, vomiting blood onto the floor. Effie touched his back, urging him down the hall. He caught her grimacing at the front of his robe as she ushered him towards his room and looked down. There was a heavy spatter of deep red blood spreading over the white terrycloth. As soon as he was behind the closed door of his room, he touched his fingers to it, but it had already soaked into the fabric.

Peeta ate the meal that had been placed in his room before showering and pulling on his clean, freshly pressed suit. He stood at the bedside, rubbing the edge of his bathrobe between his fingers. The memory of her frail, trembling body curled up against him made him suck in a deep breath. He began coughing, hunching forward and clamping his hand over his mouth as his throat spasmed. When he was able to breathe again he looked down at his hand. A spray of blood covered his palm. Peeta swore under his breath and wiped it on the robe before turning to leave the room.

Aurelius was waiting for him in the study, sitting behind the desk full of photographs and papers Peeta had spotted the night before. The doctor gestured for him to sit, flipping through an open folder for a moment before sitting back and looking Peeta over.

“Any new symptoms?” he asked.

“The coughing is worse,” Peeta said. His voice had also grown steadily drier, as though he were trying to speak through a lump of sand gathering in his throat.

“The shot I gave you won’t last much longer, and it only works once, I’m afraid,” Aurelius fished a bottle of pills out of his pocket and set them in front of Peeta. “That will help slow things down, but there’s only so much they can do. It doesn’t seem to matter what I throw at Katniss, this virus adapts and renders it useless within a day or less.”

“Wonderful,” Peeta picked up the bottle, popping the cover off to look at the thick blue pills inside.

“She’s not going to last much longer, Peeta,” Dr. Aurelius said, leaning back in his chair. “I need you to do a few things for me, and they need to happen as quickly as possible. When we find a cure for her, we find one for you, as well. You know that, of course.”

“What do you need?” Peeta asked.

“I need information,” he said. “And I think you may know how to find it. This virus is a modified version of a lung infection Katniss sold to your clinic nearly a year and a half ago. E-274. The original structure of it has already passed through her once, and I believe that’s part of why it’s proving so efficient at killing her. Add the right modifications to that base and it’s absolutely lethal.”

“Is that even possible?” Peeta frowned, capping the pill bottle and dropping it into his pocket.

“It’s killing you as well, isn’t it?” Aurelius said with a humorless smirk. “We need to know who made this, at the very least. At the very best we need to know how and why. It’s clearly someone in the industry, and someone who knows how to work with preexisting samples. I need you to find out everything you can. Go back to work tomorrow as if nothing has happened, find out what you can, and we’ll be in touch tomorrow evening.”

“Okay,” Peeta nodded. He was loaded into the back of a car flanked by the twins again, and deposited a few blocks from his apartment.

“You dropped this in the alley,” Castor said. “Forgot to give it to you yesterday. Sorry about that. You’re a popular guy.”

“Thanks,” Peeta took the phone. 587 new emails. 189 new text messages. 34 new voicemails. He dialed into his inbox as he walked home, rapidfire deleting most of them. Calls from news outlets requesting an interview, though he wasn’t quite sure how any of them got his number.

“Peeta, what the fuck, dude?” His brother, Rye.  “The first I hear about you in a year and a half and it’s on the fucking news? Not gonna lie, I kinda thought you were dead at this point. Miss you. Mom’s mellowed out, sort of, if you’re feeling up to risking a visit. I didn’t know you were in the viral business, you weirdo. Call me.”

The next was from his father. “Peeta, I know you don’t really want to hear from me. Please just keep yourself safe. I’m sorry. I love you.”

He deleted the rest without bothering to listen and slipped the phone into his pocket. Peeta let himself into his apartment, hung up his suit for the next day, and dropped into bed to sleep. When he woke his pillowcase was covered in a mist of bloody splotches. Every breath hurt. He took his usual round of supplements, adding in the pill Aurelius had given him, and dressed for work.

Going about business as usual with the memory of Katniss clinging to him in her bed was exhausting. Her “death” had sent sales of her products through the roof, and save for a single stomach virus from model/actress Cashmere, everything he sold was Katniss. He spent his entire day looking at her face, talking up her beauty and talent and charisma to every person who sat in front of him. All he wanted was to be back in that bed beside her.

“Busy weekend?” the pharmacist asked when he turned in his samples at the end of the day. He looked up at her. “You’re a wanted man. And you look like you’ve been through the wringer.”

“I feel like it,” he said.

“We’ve had four magazines and three news outlets trying to get ahold of you today,” she said. “Snow won’t let any of them through. I think he’s planning on grilling you himself.”

“Lucky me,” Peeta said. She laughed as she sorted the black sample cases back into their cabinets. “Could I ask you a favor?”

“Sure,” she closed and locked the glass cabinet doors before returning to the counter.

“I need you to look up a product for me,” he said. “E-274? It’s an old one.”

“It certainly is,” she said. “Planning a revival now that she’s gone? There’s only one person who’s had that out in the past eight months.”

“Something like that,” Peeta said. “Who was it?”

“Cato,” the pharmacist raised her eyebrows. “Back in April.”

“Thanks,” Peeta said, pulling his empty briefcase off the counter. “He lives over on Second and Stone, right? That building behind the pawn shop?”

“Oh, um,” the pharmacist blushed deeply, dropping her eyes to the computer screen. “I think so. Yes.”

“Thanks,” Peeta said, flashing her a smile as he left.

Cato’s apartment was ground level, outdoor access, shielded from the neighboring buildings by a tall, rotting wooden fence. There was no response to Peeta’s knocking, no sign of motion in the darkened rooms. He couldn’t have possibly asked for an easier place to break into. Even moreso when he found that his bump key was still somehow tucked away in the interior pocket of his suit coat. He let himself into Cato’s apartment.

If there were any signs of his participation in creating the virus, they’d be carefully hidden. Something that illicit would need even more caution than Peeta exercised. Though with the state of the place, he’d be lucky to find anything. The narrow studio was dark and cluttered. Peeta bumped into a table, sending a stack of old mail sliding to the floor. He frowned, bending down to pick it up as he pulled his key ring out of his pocket to switch on the flashlight he kept attached to it. The return address on more than one of the torn open envelopes was D13. Peeta peered inside and found a check stub. For $4,500. He looked through the others, all for similar amounts or higher. One way or another, Cato was doing some serious work to be on the payroll for that much.

He moved through the apartment, looking for anything odd or out of place. Peeta’s apartment was neat and clean, and he was starting to wonder if that was the wrong way to keep things hidden. Someone couldn’t possibly live as sloppily as Cato seemed to, though, and be able to hide something on the level he was working on. Then Peeta spotted it. A thick black electrical cord that disappeared into a panel in the wall a couple of feet above the outlet.

“You dumbass,” Peeta muttered. He held his flashlight between his teeth as he lifted the panel away from the wall. The recessed opening had more than enough space to house a console nearly the same size as Peeta’s, though all it held was a small, glass doored refrigeration unit. The entire space had been swept clean. Recently. He shone his flashlight along the walls and a barely visible seam on the side caught his attention. He had to use his keys to pry it open. Inside he found an electronic device the size and shape of the test tubes that plugged into the pathogen encoders. It had a tiny D13 logo etched into the clear plastic housing.

Footsteps approached outside, and Peeta swore under his breath, switching off his flashlight and rushing back toward the door. He ducked behind the table he’d bumped into, clamping his hand over his mouth and forcing himself to suppress a cough. The door swung open slowly.

“Hello?” Cato called, stepping into the apartment cautiously. Peeta took a breath and lunged, shoving Cato to the ground before rushing out through the open door. “What the fuck?” Cato snapped. He bounced back to his feet, darting out the door, but Peeta was already too far. “Mother fucker. You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, Mellark!”

Peeta glanced back over his shoulder as he rounded the corner at the end of the block, watching Cato kick over a trash can and run his fingers through his hair. Peeta didn’t stop until he’d boarded a subway train back to his apartment. He doubled forward in his seat, wheezing and coughing into his hand, spitting up bloody phlegm and trying to hide it behind the collar of his peacoat. He fully expected someone to be waiting for him when he got off the train, but he realized his antisocial habits had the happy side-effect that it would likely take Cato some serious effort to track down his address. He locked his door, shedding his jacket and hunching over the sink to retch up everything he’d forced himself to swallow on the trip home.

There was a knock at his door before he even had time to do more than wipe his mouth and loosen his tie. Peeta stared at the door, hoping maybe his fever had risen high enough that he’d started hallucinating, and no one had really knocked, but the sound came again. He approached the door cautiously, hesitating before he looked through the peephole.

“You know, the knocking is a courtesy,” Castor said, his voice muffled through the door. “We made copies of your keys.”

“That’s comforting,” Peeta said, unlocking the door and pulling it open.

“We had to get your machine out of here somehow,” Castor said. Pollux smiled at him. “It’s fixed, by the way. Up and running, back at the house. We figured it would come in handy.”

“That fast? How?” Peeta asked.

“Dr. Aurelius has some impressive connections,” Castor said before nodding down the hall. “Come on. We’re going back. You’re not safe here.”

“Okay,” Peeta sighed, lifting his coat off the hook next to the door, checking to be sure the device he’d found in Cato’s apartment was still in the pocket. He pulled it on as he stepped into the hall, turning around to lock his door only to find that Pollux was already doing so with his own set of keys.

When they arrived at the mansion Peeta found Dr. Aurelius in the study, the console set up beside him. Peeta stepped over to it, popping the front of the housing off to find the battery back hadn’t just been replaced, it had been upgraded.

“I’m afraid I don’t know enough about this model to be able to adapt it to the virus the way I did my own,” Aurelius said. “I’m hoping that won’t be a problem.”

“It might not be,” Peeta said. He held up the device he’d found before sitting down and attaching it to the console. “I found this in Cato’s apartment.”

“How did you get into Cato’s apartment?”

“I broke in,” Peeta said. His answer was met with silence, and he glanced over his shoulder at the doctor. “You look awful surprised for someone who had no problem kidnapping me and stealing illegal equipment from me.”

“And providing you free healthcare and private access to a woman you idolize,” Aurelius added on. “A woman the rest of the world thinks is dead.”

“I don’t idolize Katniss,” Peeta said, tapping the console’s power button. He raised his arm to cough into his elbow, and the doctor offered him a handkerchief.

“The twins saw your bloody pillowcases,” he said. “I hope this is the break we need. You’re going to get very weak, very quickly.”

“Great,” Peeta wheezed. The screen flickered to life. The usual Capitol Clinic logo was replaced with D13’s, and a cool female voice greeted Cato by name. The words Modification Interface: Please make a selection scrolled across the top of the screen, the graphic identifier for E-274 filling one half of the screen, and a series of lesser, abstract images tiled on the other half.

“Well,” Aurelius said. “Looks like we have the who and the how. I may have figured out the why.”

“Why?” Peeta asked, looking up at him. Aurelius crossed the room and picked up his tablet. He tapped at the screen before turning it to face Peeta.

“I found this embedded in the genetic code,” he said, enlarging the image. In the middle of a near endless string of Gs, As, and Cs there was a single line of legible text. Copyright Clinic D13.

“Shit,” Peeta said, turning over the implications in his head. Contracts were a far cry from copyright. So far as he knew, the only copyrights and patents held in the industry were the equipment used to encode, duplicate, and store the diseases that were collected. This was an entirely new step.

“I feel it’s best if you stay here,” Dr. Aurelius said. “For your personal safety, as well as your health.”

“I have to get some things from my apartment,” Peeta said. “I just left. I didn’t even bring anything with me but this.” He gestured toward the device plugged into the console. “Even just my phone, if anyone gets ahold of it-”

“Security compromise,” Aurelius said. “Of course. I’ll have the twins take you back now, before anyone catches up with your little burglary here.”

“Okay,” Peeta nodded, getting up from his seat. “How is she?”

“There’s hope,” Aurelius said with a faint smile. “Thanks to this.”

“Good,” Peeta said. He piled back into the car with Castor and Pollux and was driven back to the city. The two men stood outside the building’s entrance, watching for anything out of place. They told Peeta if anything felt wrong to just turn around and leave. It had barely been an hour and a half since he’d left Cato’s apartment. He highly doubted there was any way the guy had even managed to track down his address. He stopped short at the top of the stairs. His apartment door stood wide open. Peeta’s heart caught in his throat, and he turned around to leave, only to walk straight into Cato.

“Hey, asshole,” Cato said, hauling back and punching Peeta across the face. He was unconscious before he even hit the floor.

Peeta woke in a brightly lit, all white room, curled up on his side on a narrow bed. He sat up, blinking against the harsh light and rubbing at his forehead. His throat felt like sandpaper, and his breath came in shuddering gasps. His jaw was sore, and he looked down at himself as he rubbed it, trying to piece together what the hell had happened and where he was.

He’d been stripped down to a plain white undershirt and a matching pair of cotton pants. The shirt was already dotted with blood, as was the pillowcase and blanket beneath him. Each wall was dominated with a massive, identical photograph of Katniss, the only features to the room aside from a single door and two cameras mounted high in opposing corners. He coughed feebly, curling in on himself and trying to shield his eyes from the light.

“Good, you’re awake,” a voice spoke. It took a moment to place it as Cato’s, and he looked around the room to find the source. He was alone. There was a speaker mounted in the ceiling. “I was starting to get nervous you weren’t going wake up, and that would have ruined this entire project.”

“Wh-what?” Peeta looked up toward the speaker, and then over toward the door.

“Well, see,” Cato said. “There’s a bit of a gap between Katniss Everdeen contracting her disease and the untimely end of her life. She has a lot of fans out there left deeply troubled by this. What happened to her, really? How, exactly, did she die?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Peeta groaned, heaving himself to his feet as he realized what Cato was doing.

“That’s where you come in,” he said. “By watching you die, they’ll be able to fill that gap.”

“Let me out,” Peeta said, leaning against the door and staring through the narrow, eye-level window in it. He leaned his weight against the handle, knowing good and well it would be locked.

“I had a plan, y’know,” Cato said. “I was supposed to collect my product the day I was arrested. But someone tipped off the police that I was hiding an illegal console in my apartment and marketing stolen diseases to the public.”

“That wasn’t me,” Peeta rested his forehead against the door, staring out the window into the empty hallway beyond it.

“You’re a shitty liar, Mellark,” Cato snapped. Peeta chuckled, but just ended up coughing, doubling over and leaning against the door as he sank to the floor. “I’m pretty good at thinking on my feet, though. Even if that Heavensbee asshole thinks I’m an idiot. Once he confirmed you were infected with something that blew out every console it touched, I found a way to make sure all the hard work I did still paid off. D13 pays much better, you know. Though I bet you realized that when you went through my mail.”

“I’m not going to die in here,” Peeta croaked.

“Yes you are,” Cato said. “And you’re going to make me a shitload of money when you do.”

“Fuck you,” Peeta said, dropping his head back against the door. The speaker remained silent. Eventually Peeta hauled himself back to the bed and buried himself beneath the blankets. If Cato wanted video footage, Peeta was going to make damn sure he didn’t get it. In spite of the stifling heat of his fever, he eventually fell asleep.

Peeta lurched out of bed, throwing the blankets back and nearly collapsing face down onto the floor. His stomach heaved, his throat seized, and he dropped onto all fours, coughing up a thick, dark red bile onto the spotless white floor. He sputtered up the last of it, taking a deep, painful breath and trying to spit the taste out of his mouth. It wouldn’t leave. He sat back on his heels, wiping the back of his hand across his chin and staring at the portrait of Katniss on the far wall. It was one frequently used in Capitol Clinic advertising; a tight, ring lit closeup that gave her eyes an otherworldly beauty. He wondered if she was even still alive; if Aurelius had managed to solve things without him. Peeta hunched forward, coughing until his strength gave out completely. He collapsed onto his side with a pitiful groan.

The door opened, and two figures in head-to-toe coveralls, latex gloves, and masks stepped into the room, holding the door for a third person carrying a camera. Peeta was hauled onto the bed, unable to do anything more than let them move him like a rag doll, checking his vitals before moving to clean up the mess on the floor.

“So what do you think, Mellark?” Cato said, pulling his mask down as he stepped closer with the camera. “This it? Do we get an up close and personal death from you?” Peeta turned away from him. Cato sat down on the edge of the bed. “You really think it was this messy for her? Not a very attractive way to go. I need to work on the elegance factor next time around, I think. Don’t you?”

One of the two people that had come in pulled Peeta’s arm away from his body to draw a blood sample. He glanced at the syringe in her hand, and the open door beyond her. Summoning every bit of strength he could find he lurched forward, spraying the blood that had collected in his mouth all over Cato, praying some of it got into his mouth and eyes. The two people staggered back and Peeta rolled to his feet, yanking the syringe out of his arm and brandishing it at them to keep them at bay.

He stumbled from the room, completely unsure of where he was or where to go next, and followed the corridors. Every person he encountered shrank back against the walls or ran completely. Peeta hit a dead end and turned to look back at the bloody smear he’d left along the wall, then doubled back to a set of doors. He erupted into the Clinic D13 waiting room, sending waiting clients into a complete panic as security guards swarmed the room. Peeta dropped the syringe as they closed in on him, too weak and breathless to go any further. He fell to his knees, hands on his head, waiting for one of them to be brave enough to lower his tazer long enough to cuff him.

Within an hour he was cleaned up, a mask strapped to his face, and deposited in a chair in front of the CEO of D13, Alma Coin. She stood by the window in her office, arms folded across her chest as she stared out across the city. Peeta waited for her to speak first, partly because he was afraid of what would happen if he did.

“I’m sorry for the position you’ve been placed in, Mr. Mellark,” she finally said. “Though I hope you understand and accept your own personal responsibility in the matter.” She turned to face him, raising an eyebrow as she looked him over. “I wish we could help you.”

“You made it,” he said. “You have a cure.”

“I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.

“Bullshit,” Peeta said. Speaking took a tremendous amount of effort. “I saw the copyright. Pretty smart. Anything that comes out of Katniss belongs to Capitol, but you create your own virus, embed your own copyright in it, then it doesn’t matter who it goes through. You still hold the rights. And if you kill her, you get to have the be-all, end-all of the industry. The holy grail.”

“You’re a smart man,” she said, leaning against the edge of her desk in front of him. “It’s a shame you’re going to die in a few days. I’d like to offer you a job.”

“You made it,” he repeated. “You have a cure.”

“You just said we aimed to kill her,” Coin said, a smirk on her face.

“If,” Peeta said. “If you kill her. But if you kill her, you can’t do it again. And Katniss is still too popular. I think you fucked up.”

“You really are smart,” she said, pursing her lips for a moment. “I should have approached you in the first place.”

“Give me the cure,” Peeta said, punctuating the sentence with a wheeze.

“Why?” Coin scoffed, standing up and returning to the window. “Who the fuck are you? Why would I waste any more resources on you.”

“What if I had something to trade?” Peeta asked. Coin glanced at him.

“I’m listening,” she said.

“Katniss Everdeen is still alive,” Peeta said. Coin turned away from the window, lowering her arms to her sides. “And I know where she is.”

Peeta guided Coin’s driver turn by turn, leading the two of them and one of Clinic D13’s doctors out of the city toward the white mansion in the woods. He had no idea what Aurelius had figured out, nor how they would react to him pulling into the drive with Alma Coin in tow. Katniss may have already died, but he hoped he wasn’t too late. Not just for his sake, but hers as well.

Castor and Pollux were standing at the head of the driveway as they pulled up. They exchanged nervous glances, straightening their posture as the car stopped. A look of confused relief crossed over Castor’s face when Peeta got out of the car, immediately replaced with stony anger when Coin stepped out from the other side.

“What the hell is this?” Haymitch called as he stepped out onto the front steps. Peeta started for the stairs, but Pollux moved to block his path.

“What’s going on, Mr. Mellark?” Castor asked.

“I made a deal,” he said, his voice rasping in his throat. “For Katniss. Please tell me I’m not too late.”

“You aren’t,” Haymitch said. “That doesn’t mean I want that woman in this house.”

“Haymitch,” Aurelius said, stepping into the doorway. “It could save her.” Haymitch turned to look at the doctor for a moment.

“Fine,” he snapped, shoving past Aurelius and going back into the house. The doctor beckoned them in, and led Coin and the doctor up to Katniss’ room. Peeta followed behind, unable to quite keep up. They were already in her bedroom when he reached the end of the hall. Peeta sat down in the empty chair, watching them through the open door. After a few minutes, the group returned to the hallway, closing the door gently behind them.

“It’s too late,” Coin said, her voice completely devoid of sympathy. “For what we have. I’m sorry we couldn’t help you.” Aurelius nodded, staring down at the floor, his arms crossed tight over his chest. Coin and her doctor turned to leave.

“Hang on,” Peeta said. “Where the hell are you going? What about me?”

“The deal was if Katniss lived, so would you,” Coin said. “And she won’t. It would have been nice to continue to do business here, but we have, as you called it, our holy grail.”

“No,” Peeta said, shaking his head and pressing his eyes closed. He coughed, pressing his sleeve over his mouth. Coin sighed, turning to leave. “Stop. I know how to keep her from dying.”

“If I have her, then clearly I don’t need to keep you alive,” Coin said.

“No,” Peeta said. “Not alive. Just—not dead. The technology already exists, and I know who has it. I think I know how to apply it here, and if I don’t, they do. But I need you to fix me. And I need to talk to her first.” He pointed toward her room. Coin sighed, looking toward her doctor. The woman shrugged. Coin turned to Aurelius.

“The man’s nothing if not resourceful,” he offered.

“Fine,” Coin sighed. She waved Peeta toward the room. “Go. Then tell us what the hell you’re talking about. If I like it we’ll start your treatment tonight.”

“Thank you,” Peeta sighed. He heaved to his feet and stepped into Katniss’ room, closing the door behind him.

“They said you disappeared,” Katniss said. Her voice was barely more than a whisper, the words strung together in a light slur. Blood gathered in the corners of her mouth.

“Would you believe me if I told you I was kidnapped and locked in a room wallpapered with your face?” he asked, sitting down on the edge of her bed. The corners of her mouth twitched into a faint smile.

“Sounds like a nightmare,” she said, her eyes fluttering closed. She reached for him, and Peeta took her hand in his. She tugged at it weakly, and Peeta took it as a cue to lay beside her. “Can I tell you something?”

“Anything,” he said quietly, smoothing his hand over her hair as she leaned against him.

“I get letters from people who say they love me,” she breathed. “Thousands of them. But I’ve never felt it. Ever. And now I’m dying.” She inhaled slowly. “I think this might be close.”

“What?”

“Being held like this,” she said, tilting her face toward his neck. “I think love might feel like this.”

“I do love you,” Peeta said quietly.

“And you’ll stay with me?”

“Always.”

Coin loved his idea. Aurelius did as well. Effie was a harder sell, but in the end she agreed. Haymitch hated everything about it, wanted absolutely nothing to do with it, and didn’t give in until Effie dragged him from the room to give him a lecture on selfishness that everyone could clearly hear through the closed door to Aurelius’ study. Peeta’s treatment began that night, at a hospital of his own choosing, under the supervision of both Aurelius and the doctor from D13. During his six-week stay, the components to put together his plan were confiscated from their creators and the preliminary measures were put in place for Peeta to take over upon his release from the hospital.

A new ad began to air, featuring a smiling, healthy-looking Katniss. The animation was pulled from a cameo appearance she made in a movie, carefully cropped, retouched, and colored to disguise its origin, giving the illusion of new footage. It featured a perfect replica of her voice, thanking her fans for their support and devotion during her life, and expressing hope that they would continue to do so. Three months later, Clinic D13 released Afterlife, a product line exclusive both to their company and Katniss Everdeen herself. Peeta Mellark was named sole developer and operator of the project.

“I’m sure you’re all anxious to find out how this will work,” Coin smiled at the room full of D13’s top investors. Peeta stood beside the machine he’d helped design, a chamber five and a half feet long by two feet square, temperature and humidity controlled, and hermetically sealed. “Everything within this chamber is either a part of Miss Everdeen’s original body or has been grown directly from it. This is a far cry from the ordinary cell steaks you may be thinking of. A complete environment in and of itself, this chamber allows for constant growth. Miss Everdeen is, in a sense, with us forever.

“Mr. Mellark, the brilliant young man who enabled this entire project to be possible, is going to administer what will become the first ever product in our Afterlife line,” Coin continued. Peeta unlatched a panel in the side of the machine, exposing a portion of what had once been Katniss’ arm. He flicked the air bubbles out of the syringe before injecting the virus. “This disease will pass through the body, and in just a short time will be the most highly anticipated product in the history of Clinic D13’s inventory.

“I want to thank you all for coming,” she said. “This is just a sneak peak; we’ll have more detailed information, as well as a look at the nature of this infection, at this quarter’s investment conference.”

Peeta stood by the door as Coin led the investors from the room, shaking hands and expressing thanks. Once they were gone he closed the door, flicking the deadbolt before returning to the chamber. The gardens had been easy enough to replicate on a large scale, easier than he’d anticipated. He’d left a critical detail of the design out, though, and with Plutarch Heavensbee incarcerated for illegal distribution of infectious substances, no one would find out.

He smoothed his hand over the smooth stretch of exposed skin, closing his eyes and focusing on its warmth. He could just barely make out the artificial heartbeat beneath his fingertips. He unscrewed a cap at the top of the machine, setting it aside before pulling a flask from the inner pocket of his coat. It contained a vital concentration of nutrients and minerals the system required at a minimum of 72 hour intervals in order to produce new growth. Without it, Katniss’ body, new and old, would wither and die. He poured it into the hydration system, replaced the airtight cap, and tapped a button to flush the solution through the machine.

Katniss was his, and his alone.