Chapter Text
My first thought as I pry my eyes open is that I'm freezing. I am absolutely freezing.
I don't have the faintest idea where I am, but I already know it's cold. I already can feel it's wet. It's wet and it's dirty and it’s uncomfortable, and my head swarms with confusion as I struggle to identify where I am and how I ended up here.
I strain my eyes, trying to take in my surroundings, only to find my left lid fighting me. It physically pains me to force my eye open.
When I finally manage to, I realize I'm inside a darkened, concrete cell. There's a wall whichever way my head turns, excluding the thick metal bars, dripping with brown murky water, that sit exactly to my left.
And to my right sits a man, who I think for a moment is far too big to be real.
I've never seen a person so alarming in size in all my life. His neck could match the width of both my thighs pressed together, his biceps are more than my entire frame, and though I can't even begin to estimate his height — as he is currently kneeling down to my level — I know in my bones, he’s undoubtedly enormous.
"Hello," he greets and he flashes me a sickening smile, his yellow teeth the brightest color I've seen here thus far.
All it takes is that one interaction for me to flee. I instinctively scramble away, trying to put as much distance between me and him as I can get, when I feel a harsh tugging at my wrists, yanking me back against the wall, holding me hostage.
My head snaps up at the same time the strange man's does, only his gaze don't show an ounce of surprise upon seeing the chains. I suppose they shouldn't.
Clearly, he's the one who confined me to the wall.
"Who are you?" I ask, my voice making a sudden appearance, my mouth suddenly able to make words form on my parched, cracked lips. "What do you want from me?"
The man snickers again and it hits me, rather abruptly, how ugly this man is. It's not even his facial features. It's something so deep in his eyes that is entirely void and almost feral, that makes him so completely hideous to the stare at.
"One question at a time, little girl," he taunts, and blows his breath conspicuously in my face.
"Can I be unchained?" I blurt out then, my brain finally beginning to catch up. My current predicament, the circumstances that led me here, come rushing back with a vengeance.
I blew out the arena. I blew it out with my arrow and it paralyzed me. The electric shock paralyzed every muscle in my body, and I was frozen on the ground when Peeta found me.
There wasn't much time I remember in the arena after that. I remember Peeta's arms around me, holding me, and him yelling my name, screaming at the top of his lungs. Screaming apologies and promises and horrible wails of fear.
And I remember coming to on the hovercraft. Coming to with a large mask over my face, in a clinically piercing white room, and not another soul in sight.
I remember seeing the velvet hall carpets and the golden trimmed walls and I remember the exact moment I knew I was inside a Capitol hovercraft.
I searched for Peeta manically after that. I searched for him with a wide, long needle, with every intention of ending his life before the Capitol could touch him. Before anyone could tortured the life out of his soft, gentle blue eyes.
Before he could end up wherever he must be now.
But I never found him. I was discovered in the hallway, by three of Snow's men. I didn't stand much of a chance then, half-dazed, bloody arm, weak legs and empty stomach. I don't even think I put up a fight when the men knocked me back out.
With their fist, I realize now with absolute clarity, automatically reaching my hand to touch my swollen eye when the chains containing my wrists repel against the action.
"No," the man replies to my inquiry, and then smirks, like he's proud of himself for holding me prisoner. "You're stuck exactly where you are."
I feel myself swallow hard, showing involuntary weakness. "Well then, where am I?" I whisper softly, though I already know the answer.
But the man's grin only widens with my question. "Why, where do you think you are? You're in the Capitol. President Snow's mansion, to be specific."
He stands then and he's every bit as large as I feared he would be. I'm almost too afraid to utter another vowel, now seeing him from this vantage point, but something inside me, the part of me that's still stubborn and unafraid of anything, that's even unafraid of President Snow himself, blurts out, "Where's Peeta?"
The man opens the door to my prison cell, and I watch as the bars creak cacophonously, wondering in the back of my mind how the most expensive, most exquisite, most talked about place in this entire country has such a nasty place hidden inside.
I look around again, though it's hard to see in here, even with my unbruised eye. The dark concrete walls, the wet, freezing floor, the bars. It's an even fouler imprisonment than the stocks back home in Twelve.
Of course it is though. Because this isn't a jail to sober up or scare a little sense back into you. This isn't even a prison for the sinister criminals in the Capitol. This is a prison right inside President Snow's mansion itself.
And it's one that no one in the country knows exists.
It's purpose was to be the most frightening. To frighten it's captives before they meet their impending doom.
And it definitely succeeded, as even just glancing around the space, I feel a chill run up my back. A chill that has nothing to do with the temperature of the cell itself.
"Peeta?" The man repeats, his grin becoming a smirk. His words and facials don't match in the least. He seems excited I asked about Peeta.
Still, I answer as if he's just unaware who Peeta is. "Peeta Mellark? My district partner? My fiancé?" The word burns in my throat, as I suddenly see behind my lids the beach in the arena. The kisses, the locket, the declaration. The internal confusion I ignored, because I wasn't supposed to still be alive right now. The feeling of elation that vaguely felt connected to Peeta when I woke again.
I open my mouth to add another adjective to the list of descriptions for him, only to come up short, at a loss how else to define him. "My..."
But the enormous man seems to either finally grasp who I'm asking for or is giving up on playing mind tricks with me.
"Oh, him," he says dismissively as he slams my cell door shut and locks it. "He's dead."
/
I stare at the wall blankly for hours. Processing the words I heard, turning them around in my mind, trying to create a semblance of meaning out of them.
Peeta's dead? The idea doesn't even compute in my mind. He was on the hovercraft, he was somewhere, trapped in a room, just like me.
Or was he? What if he never made it to the Capitol after my stunt on the plane? What if Snow's men killed him right then and there? What if instead of taking his body to a cage, like mine, they deemed him unworthy of imprisonment and buried him, shoved him deep into a box somewhere, burned him to a crisp like they do criminals here in the Capitol.
The idea of the boy with the bread, the sweet boy who saved my life before he knew me, the boy who was kind and gentle and sincere and cunning, ceasing to be, takes my breath away. I feel my heart drop to my stomach, the image unimaginable.
Somewhere inside my head, I wonder what happened to the others. What happened to Finnick and Johanna and Beetee. Did they get captured too? Did Snow's people murder them as well?
Am I the last one still alive? Or is this a game being played? Am I still playing the game, here in the house in which Snow himself resides? Am I still in an arena?
Is Peeta really dead?
I know I should be grateful, and on some level I am. I wanted him dead. I wanted Peeta to be spared any of the suffering that's surely planned for me and whoever else Snow got.
But, deep inside, the part of me that isn't so strong, that isn't so selfless, craves the strong arms that fought off my nightmares, that gave me hope when all else felt doomed.
And, deep inside, there's a part of me that doesn't buy it. That doesn't believe in the idea that Snow's men would kill Peeta, after going to the trouble of capturing him.
But there's little ways of finding out, as I don't see a soul for hours upon hours. As I sit in chained silence, with nothing but my thoughts to keep me company.
Until the enormous man returns again, looking as sinister and guiltless as before. "Did you kill him?" I rasp out, as he enters my cell again. I don't know how much exact time has passed. The small slot of a window that resides above my cell, almost touching the ceiling, shows a crack of light that wasn't there earlier.
It's morning, I note, detached. The time of day has evidently lost all meaning to me. As has a lot of things.
What is the importance of time anyway when you have so little left?
If they've really killed Peeta, I surely can't be far behind. Surely there's little use for me if he's already gone.
At least, that's what I try to tell myself. That's what I try to convince myself of, in order to keep from climbing out of my skin at the thought of what else I could be waiting for. At what I am expected to endure.
At the thought of enduring it alone.
But, even as I try to stop myself from thinking it, the words and rumors I've heard of the years—everyone in the country has heard whisperings at some point in their lifetimes—of the things the Capitol does to traitors still inevitably plays in the back of my mind.
Beatings and whippings and electrocution and torture. And worse.
Fates worse than death.
I suddenly feel a wave of real, genuine gratitude, just at the realization that Peeta was spared of this reality. That, if he truly is dead, no one can hurt him any longer.
I still failed him though, I think sullenly. I wanted so badly to save his life, to take his place in certain death and in the end, I unequivocally failed him.
I failed him in every way someone could have and I'll never be able to tell him I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry.
The giant speaks again and catches my attention. "Not a fan of preamble?" The man says, blatantly laughing to himself, blatantly making fun of me, right in front of my face.
But I bypass his entire demeanor, too foggy from the massive ache in my skull and the throb coursing throughout my entire body to be snarky. Too out of my element in this strange, foreign environment. "Did you kill Peeta?" I say again, demanding this time.
The man pulls at the chains and twists them in an odd way, intentionally ignoring my inquiry.
And still smirking with a horrible grin as he does so.
And I can't take this even for a second longer. This man's constant, smug smile, his lack of response, the games he's playing. The idea, the very notion, that Peeta Mellark ceases to be, drives me to the brink of insanity without warning.
Because he can't die. He couldn't have died. He was the one who was supposed to live.
Peeta was the good one. The kind one. The one who everyone liked and admired, who could speak to a crowd of thousands, who could paint pictures in people's heads, who could make anyone believe anything.
Even if it means he was saved from the undoubtable torment waiting for me, I can't make sense of Peeta dying. He can't be gone while I'm still here, waiting for him to find me.
Because I'm supposed to take his place.
The chains come loose suddenly and my hands are abruptly free. I suppose the large man is waiting for me to note this change to my situation but instead, I repeat myself once again.
"Did you kill Peeta Mellark?" I growl, fuming at this point for the answer.
Apparently I've earned his ire now, with my tenacity.
Good, I think to myself. I'm glad. I wanted that horrific, gut-churning smile off his face.
"Get up," He orders, like a military sergeant, and grabs my arm that Johanna Mason already took a chunk out of inside the arena.
I yell involuntarily at the contact, hissing as I get to my feet. My legs are like jelly beneath me, no doubt from lack of substance. I don't even know how many days have passed since I was in the arena, since me and Peeta and our allies ate the fish and bread on the beach.
The spinning in my head, probably from the beating I must have received on the hovercraft, isn't helping matters much either.
But the man doesn't have the time nor does he have the patience to wait for me to steady myself.
"You better move now," he snarls and propels me forward roughly.
I stumble involuntarily, like a baby deer finding its feet for the first time, and it dawns on me that he's dragging me out of the cell. Out of my imprisonment and into a dark, shadowy hall of empty cells alike.
The fact that I'm leaving isolation doesn't give me hope though. It only makes the feeling, the feeling of certain doom, in my core that much stronger.
The enormous man drags me down the hall, down a long winding pathway, and through a electrically locked steel door. I'd scarcely seen doors this thick and this complicated in the Capitol, as a tribute preparing for the games.
And I wonder how many people Snow has locked up and confided inside these cells. How many people died here while everyone in the outside world remained none the wiser.
We walk down hall after hall after that, in a confusing maze I could never retain the pattern of, my eyes bleary and my legs still weak, until finally, we reach what I can only suppose is our desired destination.
The word desired though couldn't be more opposite of how I feel. Despite the fact that I wish to be dead, that I wish I'd died in the arena, I can't help feeling absolutely petrified for whatever I'm about to face inside this room.
And I can't help craving Peeta beside me. Even if it is better for him to be gone, even if I should wish for it to the truth and not another game, I still wish he was beside me right now, more than anything else in the world.
My thoughts of Peeta glue me into place. When I don't make a move towards the door, I feel a harsh push forward. "Go," the man snaps, like I'm stupid, like I'm an animal that he's training. "Open the doorknob and go in the room."
But I know who must be awaiting me when I enter and for that reason alone, I have the sickest desire for this horrific stranger to accompany me.
"Aren't you coming too?" I press, my voice uneven as I ask.
He only laughs at my words. "No. Snow wants to meet you alone. Now, go."
I suppose he's tired of waiting for me to make the move myself, because after only a moment more of my hesitation, the man uses his elbow to knock the door wide open and shoves me inside.
And, just as I thought, perhaps the only thing I have correctly seen coming, President Snow is waiting for me when I stumble into his office.
His smile isn't quite as obvious as the massive guard's but it's almost twice as deadly. Almost twice as sinister. It makes me feel even sicker inside than even the bleak, cold cell did.
"Have a seat, Miss Everdeen," he insists, setting his teacup down on the table between his seat and my proffered one.
I look back, as if hoping the guard or anyone else will be there, hoping that someone will be there to bear witness to this exchange.
As if having a witness will stop whatever must be waiting for me now.
I blew out the forcefield, ruined the games, lived. All unforgivable acts of rebellion in Snow's eyes.
"Marcus isn't there, Miss Everdeen," Snow says, reading the desperate searching in my eyes.
Marcus? That's an unexpected name for someone so threatening, someone so intimidating. From the Capitol, no less, where people name their children after fabrics and animals.
"Sit down," the president says again and I see in his eyes, I don't really have a choice.
I find my seat gracelessly, trembling a little. I feel like I'm a fish from District Four, washed up onto the shore, touching dry land for the first time. Feeling a foreign sensation beneath my feel, unsure what I'm doing or why I'm here. Feeling like I can't breathe and I'm being suffocated in plain view.
"Why am I here?" I ask, and note that my voice still sounds distant and small.
The president smiles again and chuckles to himself. The skin on my back and legs becomes gooseflesh at the sound.
"You're here, my dear, because you blew out the arena. You caused a rebellion," he explains, so simple, so plainly, with no anger in his tone and I almost don't comprehend his meaning at all.
"I caused a rebellion?" As I say the words, Bonnie and Twill's face appear in my mind. The news of District Thirteen's existence. The idea that I gave inspiration to rebels, all over Panem.
But Snow continues, explaining as if he believes I have zero indication of any of this. "After your arrow destroyed the arena, a list of rebels all ran to District Thirteen for refuge. On that list is your mentor, Haymitch Abernathy. Along with your allies from the arena."
I let that sink in for a long moment. Haymitch knew about an impending revolution? He knew that there was a District Thirteen, that there was active efforts for a rebellion and he never said anything?
The idea is too difficult for me to wrap my head around and I just stare at the president, with one blackened eye, my gaze as blank as the white on his walls.
"Well," Snow continues after a moment, as if correcting an error in his speech. "Most of your allies in the arena."
That startles my mind out of it's shock. "Where's Peeta?" I murmur, unable to stop myself. Unable to accept the words that strange, huge man—Marcus—had said.
Snow's face doesn't change though. "Where do you think he is, Miss Everdeen?"
And, I don't know if it's the glint in his eyes or the upturn to his lips, but my heart summersaults in my chest. As the possibility of Peeta's death fully hits me.
"Did you kill him?" I whisper, my brows knitting together painfully, trying to piece together what no one will tell me. "Is he dead? Did you have him killed?"
My legs suddenly find new life and I'm standing up, with a confidence I never knew I had when staring into the face of the country's most deadly man. I lean over the small table between us and my head swims and my bruised eye aches and I feel more alive in this moment than I've felt since I blew out the arena.
"Did you kill Peeta?" I demand, my voice growing more and more raspy.
"Miss Everdeen-"
I don't even let him finish. He's expression contorts into a look of pleasure, of arrogance, and I pounce. I fly across the table and towards the president of the country, ready for someone to kill me right here and right now. Willing it to happen. Wanting to finally be free, once and for all.
I just want to do some damage first. I want to do something, anything, to avenge Peeta, the one who deserved to live, before I too am taken out of this life.
It doesn't happen like I want. I do get a good swipe at Snow, taking satisfaction in seeing my jagged fingernails scratch across his face. But in a single breath, he beckons his security and I'm tackled in seconds by four different men.
Four different men that must weigh a combined thousand pounds. In less than a moment, they all knock me for me ground, knock the wind out of me, slam my nose into the marble floor violently, causing blood to spew.
But it's not the pain I pay attention to. It's not the absorbent amount of weight pressing down on my frail, starved body. It's not even the pleasure I should feel for the red liquid coming out of the president's cheek.
Instead, it's Snow's words I hear above everything else.
Words that I never in million years expected. That I'm completely unprepared to hear.
"I didn't kill Peeta, Miss Everdeen. You did."