Ami-chan Writes

The kitchen is mostly empty of people. Only the technicians working on the venting system and one cook are in there when Johanna, Delly and the two guards bring me in. Johanna is pissed that we had to bring guards, but she wasn't able to negotiate that out. The higher-ups don't know that Finnick walked me out and nothing happened, and this is an “infinitely dangerous environment” as far as Keller is concerned given all the knives and other kitchen items I could start a war with. There was apparently a heated argument between him and Johanna in front of Coin about potential situations that might occur and the end result was that if there weren't guards with tranquilizing guns standing within 300 yards of me at all times there wouldn't be any me in the kitchens at all.

The kitchen is overly warm because of the lack of vents but we're stationed on the side where they are working they're just not on yet as we're not. Finnick and Annie aren't going to be down unless called to say that it's okay. Delly is holding one of my sketchbooks and two from a set of pencils that she got from Haymitch after he left my room ready for cake designs because she and Johanna have faith that will happen.

The head cook nervously works her way across the room towards us around one of the guards and stands next to Johanna, “So...” she says, “you're a baker?” she looks me up and down as though this is the opposite of everything that should be. Is she the only person in the nation who hasn't heard of this Girl on Fire and Baker's Boy crap? Of course, whether or not I can actually remember how to do any of this...

“I was raised as one,” seems a safe answer.

“We're hoping doing some work in the kitchen will help his memory straighten out some more,” Johanna fills in, “Activities that are practically second nature like me and axes,” she gives a devilish wink.

The cook looks slightly pale but then turns to me, “Bread then?”

“Alright,” I nod and follow her to the storage area where ingredients are kept trailed by our entourage. The room is larger than part of me was anticipating but then this place stores for what's essentially a city not just one little shop which is what I grew up in, right? And it produces all the “varied” meals that they eat not just one type. From things we've gone through District Twelve had a butcher's shop and other different types and a lot of families cooked their own meals it wasn't provided. Whereas most people here in Thirteen are fed on the other side of this wall in a sort of cafeteria situation where they have a semblance of selection.

She gets one of the all too familiar carts and starts loading things on to it as we walk through, and I look around making note of things that are there. Most everything is very plain and only what's necessary. I feel as though at least in Twelve we had more excitement in our food and this is why Prim was so excited about the prospect of food deliveries from the other districts.

“There,” she says, putting a jug of yellow liquid on the top of the cart and wiping her hands on a cloth on it.

I look over what she has, wheat flour, white flour, yeast, something looks amiss but I can't. The liquid is the wrong color. I pick it up.

“Everything alright, Peeta?” Johanna asks.

“This isn't--” I look down at it.

“What's wrong with the oil?” she asks.

Oil? That is not what my brain was expecting. Honey? That's—yes. Something rolls in: an ounce and a half of yeast added to nine cups warm water and a cup of honey make sure it's chuckling before you add fifteen cups white flour, then a half cup and a bit melted butter and another cup of honey. Six cups of whole wheat flour once the dough has proofed enough...

“Oil?” I shake my head, “No. Oil doesn't—no. Where's the butter? Do you have butter? Especially if there's a cake to be made later on there has to be butter and honey. Honey for the bread, or sugar at the very least. You must have that? It helps activate the yeast and the bread tastes better overall too,” I find my hand going to my temple, “You just—no.”

I realize Johanna is laughing, and when I turn around Delly seems torn between doing the same and crying. She has a hand on Johanna's arm for support. The cook lady looks almost terrified though.

“I'm sorry,” I tell her, “It just...” I take a deep breath, “It explains some about the way your bread tastes if all you've had is oil.”

“How—how much butter would you be talking?” she asks.

“We...would apparently make what I'm thinking about in batches that used a little over a half a cup during the mixing and then more to glaze before baking. There was only so much we could fit in the ovens at a time.”

Delly gives a small clap and when I turn again she looks self conscious and plays with the edge of the sketchbook.

“But it's not more than a cup of butter all told,” I finish.

“We can do that,” the cook says, “Honey though...I'm not sure. How much there?”

“Two cups; but it can be substituted for sugar just straight. We've...we had to do that before if it was a bad time for the bees. The honey was more important for the apothecary at times.”

“Alright,” the cook says, “I'll check for the other things. You take this out to the main room and I'll follow with whatever I find.”

“If you're sure,” I answer, taking hold of the cart and turning it around. I'm followed out to the kitchen station we started at and I begin examining the cabinets and drawers for the supplies we'll need. I find a saucepan to warm up the water for the yeast and honey or sugar and a couple of large mixing bowls. I'm only able to find about ten bread tins of varying sizes so I get out a few trays as well figuring I can make rolls or braided bread. It's very refreshing to actually be remembering things. It takes a moment before I realize that I’m beginning to feel lighter and there’s a weird rattling, which when Johanna puts a hand over mine and then the pans stop clicking together was my fault.

“Easy, Blondie,” she says.

“Are we going too fast?” Delly asks.

“Right now we can go as slow as we need,” she says, “Right? Nothing’s actually going yet.”

“Right,” I agree, “and...” no, too much. Too much, I drum my fingers against the counter and take a deep breath, “...with baking there’s a lot of time to wait. The—the yeast as to chuckle, the dough has to rise and then rise, and then...no, it doesn’t...it just bakes then, after you get it...oil...they were using oil. My mother would...”

“Probably shouldn’t go that way,” Johanna says.

“No, maybe not.”

“Oh!” Johanna turns, excited, as the cook returns with a metal jar clutched to her chest, “What do you have for us?”

Delly is helping me fill a pan with water and set things to heat on the stove so that the yeast will have a nice warm bath to activate in. There’s something in the back of my mind about the freshness of the yeast, and a young boy, older than me though having a minor freak out at being told that yeast was tiny little creatures that might come to life and creep into his bed and tickle him in his sleep.

“I got the sugar...” she says, cautiously, setting it with the rest of the things. I can feel her jump when Johanna whoops and applauds her but she doesn’t get bitten or hugged. She settles back to watch but doesn’t relax, neither do the guards standing nearby, if anything else they’ve moved slightly closer.

“They’re waiting for a bread attack,” Johanna remarks to Delly and she shakes her head in reply.

Not being able to find a lid I cover the pan with one of the flat trays for braided bread to help the water heat faster, and examine the sugar and flour, realizing it’s a habit ingrained to check for bugs, even though everything is so sterile down here there’s not much chance of that, and once we start to hear the water bubbling I take it off and pour it into the mixing bowl and wait for it to cool down a little bit while dissolving sugar into it.

“You should--” the cook starts.

“Let him,” Johanna replies, from where she’s sitting a little ways away on the counter top, “this is about him remembering what he used to do.”

“But you’re not...the yeast...” she explains before Johanna can hush her again.

“If the water’s too hot it’ll die, if the water’s too cold it won’t wake up right,” I answer. It’s one of those rote things, but I can still see the other boy wriggling away from someone’s fingers running up his legs, hurry, hurry, the yeast bugs are coming! The yeast bugs!
Oh, come on, now! We were just having fun.

When she doesn’t say anything to that, but make a little thinking noise.

“One way the bread won’t rise at all, and just sort of crack when you try to proof it, and the other...” I can feel things bubbling up in my own head, “you can still wake it up, warming the dough after and it’ll do different things to the flavor the yeast waking up after, it can make things more buttery, though...you lot haven’t been using butter, so...that explains so much, and the crust is crunchier that way...but if you’re baking it too long as well, and...”

“Peeta,” I hear Delly, by my side, “You’re going off a bit--”

“Focus on your bread, huh, Blondie? Or your water’ll be too cold as well?”

“Right. Right,” I put a knuckle in to check it, just safe, scoop in the yeast and give it a little swish and then cover with the towel and put on the stove top but not right by the burner just close.

By the time the first batch of flour is measured out and checked for clumps everything should be fine. Yeast is definitely chuckling. I feel that was a Dad term more than a Mom one, and I have Delly scoop flour in while I mix it up by hand something else the Thirteen-Cook seems perturbed by even though I washed them again before hand. Hand-washing is also something that comes second nature. Any time you stop and do something out of the bowl you wash your hands before they go back in to the bowl, that was definitely something—beaten—in by Mom. You don’t want to make anyone SICK. If they get SICK they won’t COME BACK.

But Thirteen being so sterile, everything is done with utensils. Flour all mixed in, back under the towel and onto the oven it goes, because the oven is heating now and warming, and that helps things rise, rise, rise.

Now it’s the half hour wait. Measure out the other flour, and there’s butter to be melted but that can wait for a bit, but they were right. I can feel things beginning to click together in my head. Other things to do with the bakery, and working in it as I was mixing the dough and working, and not just the bits and pieces about Mom and her Methods.

“We had little pastries? With fruit jam—when that was possible?”

“Yes,” Delly nods, and she has that look where she’s trying not to get too excited.

“But mostly it would be things like berry bread, and swirl bread, or sweet cakes? And well, this bread and grain bread?”

She nods again, and her hands are twitching but it’s not a threat. We’re safe here, and she’s safe. Delly will always be safe. It’s how she is. Delly is safe. It’s a different safe than Johanna. Johanna is safe, but she’s also pointy, because that is Johanna, but Delly is round and safe, she always has been even if she’s been angry.

“And meat pies, with onions and potatoes?”

She nods again, but it’s a little hesitant now. Oh, because of where the meat must have come from. Johanna slides closer down the counter. So, we’ll leave that then. Upset Delly not good. Stay good, Peeta.

“Fancy cakes like the wedding cake, that’s not an often thing? That’s not how weddings were in Twelve, though?” I can almost, almost see a party table in a building there, but I really, really don’t get wedding from it, that seems all tiny and private and little meal with a special tiny pastry thing just for the happy couple and no one else. I can see two of them coming in holding hands, snuggle close, pointing to just a little almost biscuit thing and asking if there was anyway to make it red swirled because that was her favorite color.

“That’s not how weddings are most places,” Johanna says, “but they want to show off for Snow. We’re alive and well and living large here in Thirteen. Look how awesome it is. We can throw fancy parties too. We’re not all gray and drab and boring!” She leans her head back so that she almost hits it on the wall, “We want our seven tiered cake and our--”

“Three,” Delly says, “I think Plutarch got it where he was allowed three, finally.”

Johanna sighs, “You know what I meant.”  

“Three tiers?” I ask them.

They both nod.

“That’s still a lot to work with. I don’t know that I would have gotten that much to work with very often if at all.”

Delly shakes her head, “Not that I got shown at least. Do you want the book?”

I look at the clock. It gives me an excuse because nothing has hit me yet, “No. It’s butter melting time. Let’s move the dough so it doesn’t get over stimulated, and melt the butter and sugar together on the stove top. It’s a bustle again for a bit, butter melting, sugar being dissolved into it and then cooling a little so that hands aren’t burned while it’s mixed into the dough, which has ballooned up, quite obviously given the towel is no longer hanging down slightly into the bowl itself.

Johanna finds the act of beating the dough quite appealing, but says she’ll try that if we get allowed back into the kitchen again for a second, and just lets me go for this time. Soon enough the bowl has been greased with the last of the melted butter mixture and the dough is sitting in there again, covered with the towel and is on it’s last rise before it’s in the tins waiting to be baked, and then I take the sketchbook from Delly and go to a blank page and stare at it for a moment, but really this is Finnick and Annie’s cake and they’re not here, so I just write their names and instead stare at that.

I must have been to District Four during the tour but I know nothing of it and that would have taught me so little anyway. Johanna has at least known them more than I do through her years of being a Victor.

“So, tell me about the happy couple and District Four,” I tell her.

“Why?” there’s an old edge of suspicion creeping in.

“He needs ideas before he can draw and they’re not here,” Delly explains.

“Oh, right...” Johanna says, “I can see about getting them down...” she glances over to the guards but neither of them budge for the moment and she glowers, “Has he not been fine?”

“The part with the knives hasn’t happened yet,” one of them points out. Which they are right about. They were told that after this part I will be chopping the dough into sections and then rolling and dividing it between different tins and trays and things. They tried to get it that someone else would do the cutting but it was pointed out that I needed to be allowed to use these things to prove that I can be trusted.

“FINE,” Johanna retorts. Then she turns to me, “Fishing. Boats. Fish. Nets. Shells. Waves. Ocean. I’m not sure how much of that you get out in Twelve. It’s much the same as Seven, I imagine. Trees. Trees. Grass and trees.”

Delly nods.

“You saw the river upstairs though?”

I nod, “I know what some things look like, and there’s recordings.”

Johanna nods, “I’m sure Beetee can get stuff for you,” she glances towards one of the corners of the room.

“She has such lovely red hair,” Delly remarks, “and he does use that trident in the games, but I don’t know you want to bring that up in the wedding.”

I shake my head, “but that’s up to bride and groom,” I make more notes on the paper, sketching also a few different variations of three tier sizes at the bottom of the page. Tall, short, square, round...a lot of it depends on how much ingredients they allot us too, as to how big the sections can be.

Speaking of sections. There’s cutting dough now, and putting it into the greased tins and then separating it into groups now and Johanna leaning closer as I roll it into strips and braid the loaves and lay them onto the trays, rolling the ends under and sealing them with butter that part surprises me, but again an automatic thing to do. We set the soon to be bread on the stove for a few moments to rise again before it goes in the oven to bake.

Johanna turns to the guards with her arms folded but somehow manages to look ready to spring, “Nobody died,” she says, “I’m so surprised. Can you call Finnick and Annie down now?”  

 Johanna waves at her as she closes the door, “Now you may have new digs but you're not able to leave them...” she says, sadly, “well, theoretically. You weren't supposed to be able to get out of the other one.”

“I didn't,” I point out, “I have no idea how that happened.”

“Yes, well...” she puts the bag down on the bed, “I thought we might do something different today. No tapes, of course. No worries there. No visitors,” she opens the bag, and pulls out something wrapped in cloth. The smell of fire wood becomes stronger and as she unwraps the cloth I see why. It's a bundle of charred sticks, about a dozen or so, thin.

I suppose YOU know how to light a fire, lover boy.

I do actually, give it here.

“What are those for?”

“They're for you,” she says, “I thought we could draw today. There's a whole wall over here,” she points to the blank wall in front of the bed, “or the floor over here,” she points to the corner behind the cabinet against that wall and going towards the wall of the bathroom, “anywhere you like. No spare paper and no paint at all in Thirteen, I'm told and I haven't been able to raid your house yet,” she pats me on the shoulder.

“Right,” my brain is trying to grasp on to something, “but Twelve was destroyed. How can you raid my house?”

“They left Victor's Village intact,” she explains, “Your house, Haymitch's house, Katniss' house, and the empty houses. I think the dear president was trying to make a point of some sort. Though the official reason was for Capitol people to stay at when they went to assess damages. I really don't think anyone's actually been out there.”

I have a house? I try to conjure this up. With the whole bakery thing I had figured that's where I lived and it's destroyed along with the rest of the District. Johanna—she asked about something about picking things up yesterday, didn't she? I wasn't really following...things properly.

Still—surely I lived with the family at the bakery like Delly lived with her parents and...wait...brother, did she have a brother too? I should have asked her about him that would have been the polite thing to do, wouldn't it?

“You okay, Blondie?” Johanna asks.

“Yeah. I just—Delly. I think she has a brother, and her parents. I didn't ever ask about them I don't think.”

“You've not been yourself,” she says, “and there's a long way to go. She understands.” She offers me the stick again, “come over here. Take a load off your feet and just draw—see what comes up.”

“I don't know what,” I take the stick anyway, “I would draw.”

I follow her the few steps to the corner of the room. She has the bundle which she lays down next to her as she flops down. It feels like it should be more difficult for me to get down on the ground. I'm prepared for a protracted maneuver, bracing, moving carefully with my left leg, but as I start I realize that's not necessary. Things bend more easily than I thought.

“Alright?” she asks.

I nod, “My leg works differently to how I feel it should.”

“It does look pretty sleek,” she says.

I'm about to ask how, then I remember yesterday and what went on between her and...me, and the nakedness that entailed. I feel my cheeks heating up. My whole body even. She gets a strange smile.

“I told you it's okay.”

“That's easy for you to say. I apparently have different ideas about these things.”

“Which would be a thing I would be more accepting of you getting hung up on if you and I were the ones who had sex. We didn't.”

“That's easy for you to say too.”

Johanna sighs, “Look, if I grabbed your hand and started punching myself, would that be you doing it?”

What kind of?

“No?”

She nods, “Right, it would be me using your body to do it. So, the assassin using your body to do things is only different because it's inside you where it's harder to see,” she puts a hand on my arm, “They hijacked you, split you somehow, it is not you and we are going to work on finding you again, okay?” 

“Okay,” I toy with the stick in my hand, looking at the floor.

“And if the assassin comes out, well, maybe I can get it to behave, this won't be the first time I've tamed something deadly.”

I don't know if I want to ask what that's about or exactly what she's meaning either. She's leaning down on the floor resting on her forearms. I'm more just sitting.

“Got any ideas?” she asks.

“No.”

She starts playing around with her stick, the charred end making black lines up and down, branching out. There's nothing I can think of to draw. Maybe that's it...thinking too much. It has to just flow. I close my eyes and breathe in. The scent of firewood brings up several different images all at once. A dark haired girl teasing me, but at the same time being mad that she can't light a fire. Groosling crackling. Crouching down to clean the ash out of the bottom of the bread oven before stacking the wood and kindling to start it again.

I lean over with the wood to start drawing but it doesn't feel like the right way to be doing this. I shift my position until it feels comfortable and wind up lying on my chest more like she's doing and start to work with the stick, but that's not right either. To be working with the pencil size is more comfortable sitting down with a pad rested on my knee. I can see myself doing that, landscape whisking by out of the windows, where is that? Train.

“You alright?” Johanna asks.

“Just trying to get comfortable.” It's not thick enough like the chalk. Maybe just my fingers? I rub the charcoal onto my fingers and smear some onto the tile, that does feel slightly better. The charcoal isn't quite the same texture of material I feel I used, but the motion is right for this position. I realize that Johanna has stopped drawing herself and is watching me, “Are you alright?” I ask her.

“Sure,” she says, “You just had this focus.”

“Like I said, trying to get comfortable, remember how to do this...” I shake my head, “Does that make sense?”

 “Perfectly.”

“Good,” because it doesn't quite to me. I push my fingers around on the floor a little. I feel like I'm just going to be making a nonsense mess. Smudges and then smears, things start to click though; more familiarity of movement. I suppose I should just go with it, allow the smudges and smears to keep forming, is that clouds? I add more charcoal to my fingers changing the layers on the clouds, and then shading beneath them slowly it stops being clouds and instead is hair around a forehead. Johanna shifts to my side instead of across from me.  

 

 

“Stupid fucking, son of a bitch.”

“Johanna?”

“Oh, good. You still remember me.” She appears out of the shadows in the corner of the room, “We're going to be doing some work. Our little secret. Well, ours and a few other peoples...” she looks towards the ceiling.

“Huh?”

“Oh, well, some people are idiots, but some people are not, and well, they also owe me for the fact that their asses got out of the god damn arena when ours didn't, and they know that if they don't loop security footage so that it doesn't look like I'm not in here I will break their fancy wheelchair and shove parts of it places they really don't want it and it will take them ages to work out with their fancy brain how I even got it there in the first place; but maybe if they see further proof the other people will stop being idiots.” She gives a toothy grin, “So...how are you doing?”

She lost me some of the way there, but, I recognize that part, “I've been worse.”

“No shit,” she comes over to me, “You're awake, and talking to me, which is great.”

“You got out,” I point out to her, “and still have all your fingers and toes.”

“This is true,” she says.

Do I get to call you Baldie instead of Blondie?

She's working at the straps around my wrists with her hands. Something deep in the pit of my stomach tells me this is a bad idea. Something tied to the memory of throwing her across the room into a wall and trying to rip her...in half? Which doesn't make sense given I haven't—have I been places? Where she is?

Come on, Blondie. Tell me what you think of the look. Can I pull off bald or what?

“What-what are you doing?” Trying to pull away is not effective at all given there's not very far to go, stuck on this bed with little give in the straps, but I remember her hugging herself around me, too, apologizing for something, and it's not just—that seems very real, as real as the screams, and the quiet girl voice saying someone was dead, and that was—that was my fault.

“I'm undoing you. What does it look like?”

“No!” I push at her hand, “No—those are there for a reason.” She can't. She can't. That is a very, very bad idea. I'm not allowed to be out.

“Hush, Blondie. Do you want to get out, or not?” She asks, “I'm getting you out whether you want to or not. Didn't I promise?”

“I don't...”

She makes a tutting noise with her teeth and I hear a buckle clink and more straps.

“C'mon, talk to me. Keep it real, remember?” She tuts some more, “Like I really wish I could have just punched Flickerman in his big fat smile during that last interview we had to do,” do you know how many times I had to watch the tapes, Caesar?, “and you still had to talk to that bastard. We gotta tell everyone what you went through. Make them pay for it, but...” she's working on another strap, why is she undoing me? She can't undo me, “...we can only do that if you stay with me, okay, Blondie? Why am I the one doing all the talking?”

“...tapes?”

“Yeah? What about the tapes?” I feel the strap loosen on my other wrist.

My arms feel so light. I might float away like a feather but I'm tied down by my foot. Wait, I have my leg. I have both my legs.

“Doing okay, Blondie?”

“I have...two...legs. When did they give me my leg back?”

“You'll have to tell me that one when you can put things together,” she's unstrapping my not foot, “You think you can do the other foot and help me out?” She offers me a hand to pull me forward more. My hands still feel very light I don't know what they're going to do, “Come on,” she says, “You can do it. I know you can.” She grabs my elbow and upper arm and pulls me forward, puts my hands on the leg strap, massaging my fingers for a moment with gentle taps until I start working. My fingers fumble as they pull at the buckles everything is tingling. Things starting to come clearer.

“You got out...aren't people going to be coming for you?”

“It's not quite like that, Blondie. We're going to try and clear some things up, okay?”

Straps clang down. My foot begins to tingle as well. This is a bad idea. It fills my head how bad this is. I can't get air. My body doesn't want to work. I'm not safe. There's danger. Danger. Threat.

“No, you don't!” She snaps. Tensing. Ready to spring.

A scream loud and piercing.

Anger. Keening. Banging.

A ringing in my ears. Curling me up.

Make me a deal, Blondie. Keep it real, okay?

“Doing better?” Johanna asks.

“I...don't know.”

She takes my hand and my arm by the elbow, “Let's get you off the bed. Ready to walk?”

I turn on the bed and swing my legs down. My right foot still feels slightly tingly but it's not so bad when I put it down on the ground. It's weird still being on a bed. There are echoes of hanging on a wall and barely having room to move.

“Things aren't right.” I reach out with the hand she's not holding. There's so much space.

“Things are more right,” she says, “This is not the Capitol. We were rescued.” They got us out. You and me and Annie. The bastard's had Annie too. Finnick's Annie.

“They got us out...”

“Yeah. You, me and Annie. We're living it up in District Thirteen now.” She brings me level with the wall, “I got right in here from the other part of the hospital wing. No chains to break out of. No brackets. I didn't have to kill anyone to get in here...you got a comfy bed in here, right?”

I look back at it, “It's weird.”

“Yeah, I know. I got used to sleeping hanging from the wall too; but we don't have to do that any more. We just gotta work on getting them to let you off of the straps.”

“That's not a good idea.”

She sighs, “Blondie...”

“I'm confused a lot, and things keep getting lost but I know I've done horrible things. I should be kept in that. It's not safe. Why did you let me out?”  

 After they've taken the food tray out the one who comes in regularly comes back in. He has that annoying click-clack board. Someone stands behind him at the door.

“Keller. My name is Keller,” he waves that one away though and the door is shut, “Do you remember where you are?”

“This is not the Capitol.”

“No,” he sounds slightly appeased? Is that a word? “This is not the Capitol. This is District Thirteen. District Thirteen was not destroyed. This is not District Twelve.” He sounds like he's said these things often, “You cannot go to District Twelve. It's unsafe. Let's just move on, shall we?” He picks up a chair from one side of the room and moves it so he's sitting sideways to me. He can look at me and the fake window that I'm set up to be facing.

“Fine.” There's a very familiar feeling surfacing of want to stab him in the eye with the pen thing that he has poised over the flat thing.

“Alright,” his tone says he'd have moved on anyway. Click-click-cli-click. It's starting already, “I thought we'd try something different today. See if we can clear up some of those memory problems you've been having. Fortunately with the way things have gone. We have footage of some of the more recent sections of your life. He looks down at the board and presses some things with the pen he likes to hit against it. The window changes and smaller windows come up. I can make out little people and here and there seals and images in the squares, “Let's see. We decided this would probably be safe.”

A forest at night fills the screen. There's a group of...kids, in dark clothes, colored jackets. It's a small clearing with a fire, they seem to be talking but at first there's no sound. Boys, girls, dark hair, blonde hair, is that one me?

“Hey, lover boy, are you sure you want to keep on with her? I could show you a much better time,” dark haired girl crawling up me.

“Leave him alone, Clove. Even if he wasn't whipped you know they give us shots before we come in here.” Sarcastic tone, “Don't want a repeat of forty-three.”

“No fun,” she pouts, sitting down hard on my lap, folding her arms, “Well, there are other ways,” leans in close to my face.

“Clove!”

On the screen the image has changed. Same group, but the forest is different, running fast, chasing a dark blur. Camera moves to focus. It's her. The sound is on, can hear branches cracking, breathing hard, or am I just remembering actually what's there? Is this real? She climbs up a tree, quick, lithe, hands sure of where they're going. One of the group with me tries to shoot her with arrows misses horribly.

“Stop,” I tell her, “Don't waste them, moving target is hard to hit.” Is that me though? It doesn't sound like me.

Then the other blonde boy he starts to climb after her, but he's angry, not thinking, he's holding a sword in his hand. It means he can't get proper purchase. They're goading him on though, “Yeah, get her, Cato!”

“She'll have to come down sooner or later,” the one who looks like me says, “We should wait her out.” Alien thoughts float through, finding a way to lead her down while they're asleep, finding a way to get the bow from Glimmer while she's asleep, finding ways to help her. Why would I want to help her?

Buzzing, choking death all around. Trying to get away.

You have to run! What are you doing? Get away. Get away. Keep going!

Come on, lover boy!

The playback freezes.

We must have known how dangerous she was. That's why we treed her. Tried to stop her.

Where were we though?

“Does this seem familiar to you?” Keller asks.

“Maybe?”

Keller makes notes on his thing, “What seems familiar?”

“I see her in the tree. Hiding. That looks...like me...”

“Hm.”

“It doesn't sound like me.”

“Everyone's voice sounds different in their own head instead of outside. I don't think I sound like myself when I hear myself played back from lectures.”

Convenient. “If you're not just lying to me.”

“This was taken during the 74^th Hunger Games,” he continues.

I survived the arena.

I am from District 12.

I am a prisoner of the Capitol.

Remember who the real enemy is.

“When does the real stuff start?”

“Excuse me?”

“This seems really slow today...is Lethate out sick? I think you're gonna get fired.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I don't know what you're talking about so I guess we're even.”

He looks down at the pad he's holding, “I'm not—who is Lethate?”

I sit back. This has to be some sort of trick. I'm not going to say anything else. This is stupid.

How can he not know? He's trying to confuse me. Trick me into saying something...or...or...what were they...what were we doing?

She'd built a fire.

A strange choking, coughing sound.

Blood spattering on a jacket in the dark, pleading eyes.

It was a kindness.

They were monsters.

She's the monster. Dressed up all pretty. Trying to kill me.

“Let's try something else,” I hear him say.

Maybe now it'll make sense. Maybe now. He hasn't done much with things. That's for sure. There's been no needles. No burning. Maybe he's not allowed to touch it. Maybe that's the thing. But no. He's put me to sleep before, hasn't he? But it's not been burning. He has me confused. Damn it. And all this mess about Thirteen and not the Capitol. Just more tricks. Best to just not say anything. Just keep quiet. Keep quiet.

“Alright,” he says in my direction.

The screen changes again. It's dark, much darker. There are no trees. Rocks. It's all rocks. I feel it deep inside my chest. Danger. Danger. Danger. Where is she? She's going to be there soon. Have to get out. Have to get out. She will come. She will come. With the claws. And the scraping.

“Well, that answers some questions...” he sounds almost sad.

But then there's the needle.

It still doesn't burn.  

Door. Another visitor. Keller with his clicking?

No—the face—something--school books, leather smells, hammering?

“Did you see it, Guwar? It was like a sculpture, pond with fish, trees, even little people having a picnic and fishing in the grass.”

“Why would you make him walk up all those steps Delly Cartwright? I thought I taught you better manners.”

“Delly?”

Her face lights up. Happy. I've not see that on Keller or..or..Brandon? Or any of the others in and out of here.

“Yes! Peeta, it's so good to see you—I-I've been worried but they wouldn't let anyone in...how—how do you feel?”

“Terrible,” I pull on the straps, “Maybe you can tell me where we are?”

“...District Thirteen, you mean?” She takes a few steps closer. They still have me strapped. Don't want me to eat her. She looks at the walls and the fake window and steps again.

“So they say,” I pull on the straps a bit, “People keep lying to me though. I want to go home. Why aren't we home?”

“Haven't they—I know it's got to be confusing with everything that happened to you; but District Thirteen, here, that's where we're living now.”

“So...they got you too, huh?”

She shakes her head, “No...it's the truth. There was an accident and we live here now. They've taken us in...but I miss home, I do. I keep thinking about things we used to do when we were kids together. Doooo...you remember when we would do chalk drawings together?” Scratching houses, trees, cat, sun, big boots nearby laughing, goat, cow, cloud, “You would make different animals?”

“Pig. Cat.” Big deal. Root out the lies, “Accident. You said there was an accident?” They've said other words. Maybe she's not real.

She looks uncomfortable. This is a face I've seen on the others, “Yes. It was bad. Ve-very bad. No one could stay. That's...why we had to come here,” she takes a step closer, reaching for my hand where it's still in the cuff, “but once-once you're better and can come see everything you'll really like it here. There's food every day, safe...safe place to sleep and...and...clothes, and school is differ—better, much more interesting.”

School. Great.

“Peeta,” she puts her hand on my hand. It feels warm.

“Why did they send you in and not my parents or—or I have brothers—why not them?”

She grips my hand tightly, and her voice catches, “They coul—they can't. Not everyone made it to Thirteen. Only—only about a thousand of us...we're trying to find a new way to live here. You know, once you're feeling better they can probably use a baker.”

Useless. Can't even leave you to watch the oven.

“Do you remember when your Dad use-used to show us how to make those dough boys and we—we would...”

Burning. Planes dropping bombs. I see her cackling in the flames as they burn around her.

“Was it a fire?”

“Yes,” she says softly.

“Twelve burned down,” Bombs. Bombs cause fire. Her grip tightens on my hand, “Twelve was destroyed because of her,” laughing in the flames, braid whipping in the wind, “because of Katniss.”

She releases my hand, “No. No, that's not...” she's looking around as though the window can help her. Does it have writing on it that I can't see? Is Katniss out there signing things to her?

“She's telling you to say these things isn't she? All these lies?”

“No, Peeta! That's not true either!”

I can't reach her. She has to understand. She's not safe.

“No! She's not true! That's not her real face! She's a mutt! She'll show you! She'll show it to you when you think you're safe! Let me out!”

The door opens and people come in and take her out.

“I'll show you! You can't trust her, Delly! Look what happened to me!”

Keller comes in then with two others on either side.

“Where did you take her? You can't let her get hold of her--She's going to go back out there and who knows where Katniss is. If she's not just watching right out there. Toying with them. Toying with everyone. But it's just a matter of time before the daggers and claws come out and everything else is burning down. Twelve is already gone and you've got her right in here. It's all wrong. It's all wrong. It's all wrong.”

“You need to be apart so that you can calm down,” Keller responds.

“So, she can fill her with more lies?”

“No,” Keller says, “Delly was here to help you just as we are. To help you regain--”

“I don't—just let me out of these things! I don't want you in here with your clicking and your—your face. Why don't you just let the mutt in here and we'll sort it all out and it'll be done with?”

 

“We'll just let you rest and continue this discussion later.” Keller closes the door and the room goes dark.  

 I don't know these people. I don't know these people.

They say I'm safe but I don't know these people. They insist; but who are they?

White walls. Grey walls. Those things I recognize.

Medical equipment. These things are familiar.

But people no.

Stay still.

Watch.

Wait.

Things don't burn me but they ache.

"Peeta," soft, breathy, relief.

That voice. A trick. Always a trick.

Watch. Wait. Where is she? Where is threat?

I can play too. Get close before...all shaky breaths and fake happiness.

Good mutt actress waiting to strike and break me.

Not this time.

Not this time.

Hands around her throat before she can strike.

Shock on her face.

Good.

I have upper hand this time.

She gags, struggles, rolls. I'm thrown.

Strike back. She's reeling from the attack and I get her again before she has a chance to turn.

No more claws.

Not this time.

She won't hurt me. Won't hurt anyone.

No more mutt. No more pain.

No more.

Not again.

But then darkness.

 

#%#%#%#%#%#

 

Everything is itchy. Can't sleep. Can't be still. Noise everywhere. It's all over the sheets and the bed crawling inside my flesh but they won't chew through the straps and let me out. Where is the fog? It's not shown up yet and I don't see him coming in with his syringe.

Oh, wait, there's the door.

It's someone different. Two. No, three.

They circle the bed. Two come to other side of my head and one stays at the foot of it.

I don't know them. One I saw before she came in.

The other two I don't know. Both have brown hair. All have gray on under their pale blue pinafores. The one I've seen before is more red in hair, pinched. There are nerves. Oh, there are the needles.

“We need blood,” one of the brown hairs says.

Looks exchanged. Wrist grabbed. I try to pull. Not much move though.

“Who are you?”

“You were told,” Other brown hair says.

More looks between them. I pull again. No give.

“Stay still! Do you want to bleed everywhere?”

“Where is this? You aren't the same!” Have to go. Have to go. Not safe. Not them. Not the same. Pop thumb. Then back in place. Grab. Throw over bed into other one, “Stay off me! You're not right!” I can undo the legs get the other hand out. There'll be more. Guards, but things fade. Unexpected.

“You didn't expect measures? Have fun with that...we'll get the blood anyway.”

 

#%#%#%#%#%#

 

Mouth is thick. Everything is scratchy.

The door has opened and someone is coming in with something on wheels. Things chink together. They wear gray, all gray, long sleeves, long pants, short red hair. Letters I can't read. Their movements are stiff.

“Good morning,” They say carefully, brushing down the front of their clothes, “You may not remember where you are. This is District 13. We rescued you from the Capitol,” the words seem clunky, “I brought you food,” They point to the tray, “Attendants will come in to help you eat,” They slap their feet together, spin and leave the room.

Two other people come in now. One is the same one I've seen each time so far. The other is different again and looks uneasy with their red hair and pale skin. Does no one see sun?

“Are we going to behave today?” The known one asks.

I don't say anything. I just look at him.

“We-we have water and porridge for you,” the red head says. Both of them with the gray overalls and the blue pinafores. It's so strange after the way everyone looked in the other place. The Capitol. So, this is not the Capitol. This is District 13. That sounds odd. Why does that sound odd.

“We're not going to remove the restraints. Until we know you can be trusted to remain calm. So, Brenda will feed you,” he says.

Brenda does not look entirely happy with this arrangement but picks up the bowl and spoon and brings it to me after the other has pressed things and the bed has changed so that I'm in a sitting position. I can see the room now. It's small. There is a glass panel in front of me which has a curtain on the outside, fully drawn and other panels on this side that are partly open. Cabinets below this panel. A cupboard on this side. The door behind me to the right that's where they always come from but I can't turn enough to see all of it now or when lying down.

The porridge is a familiar consistency but it's taste is different. It seems flat. I eat though. But I can't eat much of it before I feel sick. He makes notes on his thing. Brenda is told to give me water and then they leave.

Well, I'm sitting up now.

 

The mood is more upbeat climbing back on the train after dinner in nine. I think it helps, somewhat, that we had nothing at all to do with the deaths of their tributes. They were killed in the Cornucopia on the first day, something we avoided thanks to Haymitch's advice. Things to remember for the future trainees. Just grab a bag and go, don't be lured in to the shiny because it is full of sharp, pointy death. Maybe you'll last more than twenty minutes, like Cambria. That was her name. The girl from District 8. Her partner, Tanner, he died in the bloodbath though; but she survived, until she got too cold and started a fire and then they found her.

Effie had summoned pie from the dining car when we got on board and met back up with the rest of our team. Cinna even stayed on the train this time along with Portia and the rest of the stylists. We were sitting around chatting and playing cards, eating pie, drinking milk, and Effie started going on about outfits for tomorrow, “It's textiles, after all, we have to make sure to look good,” and that's when I remember Cambria, gagging and choking on her own blood, red flecks on her auburn hair and her jacket in the firelight behind her, eyes wild with fear as they laughed and hooted.

“Cinna and Portia always come up with wonderful things,” Katniss comments.

“I'm sure whatever is decided will be great,” I tell everyone, “but I'm tired all of a sudden. I think I'm just going to go to my room,” and I'm excused after Effie grabs my hand tightly. Haymitch gives me a half-nod I'm not sure he's fully paying attention. The look from Katniss is slightly annoyed but she has Cinna there to keep her company against any onslaught of ostentatiousness that might occur.

Thankfully there are bathrooms up and down the train because I'm only part way to my room when the recent pie, and the meal we ate with District 9's mayor and his family finally escapes despite my constant wishes against it. I sit there for a while breathing slowly and trying to keep the memory of it out, but that's the worst thing you can do really, because it just cycles around.

She'd lit a fire.

I remember Haymitch telling us early on how that was basically a big call for attention. How you had to find other ways to keep warm, layer yourself under things to keep the heat between the layers, find a hollow to hunker down in and bury yourself under leaves, something, anything other than light a fire, unless you knew you could do it in a way you were absolutely not going to be seen, like a cave because you light a fire and it's just a big HEY KILL ME NOW, and that's what it was and they swooped down on her, but it was a kindness. They were torturing her and then they just wanted to walk away and leave her there choking on blood.

When I leave the bathroom I find Portia waiting on the other side of the corridor. She's leaning against the wall, a splash of crushed magenta satin against the dark wood, holding a folder to her chest. She doesn't wear as ostentatious of wigs as Effie does, but neither is she as unobtrusive as Cinna. Her hair is in a tight blonde bob today, it has streaks of magenta through it matching the dress, “Need me to call someone?” she asks.

I shake my head, “I think that was a one time thing.”

“Ah,” she says, with a rueful smile, “Clothing decision has been made.”

“I'm sure it's fine.”

“Are you?” She asks, and I know she doesn't mean if I'm sure about the clothes.

“Yes.” I nod, “Things are a lot better now.”

She puts a hand on my shoulder, and then on my cheek. I wonder how much older than me she is. It's hard to tell how old any of the Capitol people on the train are. They don't age the way our families in the districts do given they have their skin peels, surgeries, and restructurings; but given she and Cinna are new on the fashion design scene I imagine they can't be that old. Cinna seems so different to them all though: muted, deliberate and somewhat calculating. All of our outfits so far have been muted compared to other years' tribute tours, where they've been fairly bright and gaudy. These are elegant but still as though we're in mourning, and nothing to attract too much attention. We're sorrowful along with you not we're celebrating the death of your children. If only there was some sort of outfit that could help us act more emotionally and romantically in sync with each other. I don't think anyone's believing anything. Of course it's hard to convey things in three minute speeches compared to days in a cave together.

“You don't look like things are fine,” she says.

“I'm not feeling sick any more.”

We start walking towards the area where everyone's sleeping quarter's are, “That's something,” she says, “I wish I could give you more advice—but I have no idea. I've never been through anything like this. I had no idea what I was getting into.”

“Well, 12 hadn't won in 24 years,” I point out, “No one knew what they were getting into.”

She hugs me at the door to her room, “I was supposed to be making you feel better.”

“You did.”

“Liar. I'll see you in the morning,” she waves the portfolio at me, “You want to see what you'll be wearing?”

“I'll take the surprise. I'm sure it'll be great as always.”

 

Once I'm back in my room things start to circle back to me and I try to find ways to distract myself given sleep proves to not be an option. We have access to books now, more books than ever before, but a lot of them are vapid and dull. Effie has a lot of history of fashion designers and things of that nature that she keeps dotted about, but there are others I've found that are much more interesting. I'm not sure if they're hers. Honestly they more likely belong to Haymitch, Portia but probably Cinna, but there's the one I've been reading, or trying to called “Losing the Power: Democracy's History and Failure,” there's no signed author to it because it's more a compilation of bits from various other books but it's hard to follow as tired as I am. It looks like it's saying at one time there might have been more than even thirteen districts, each of them had their own separate rights and ruler ship apart from the Capitol and there was a college people went to so they could vote in elections or something. I've read the same paragraph about four times and it's still not making any sense, but drawing was mostly just me drawing swirls on paper which is just a waste so I erased that, gave up and started reading.

Then there's screaming. I bolt up and wind up in a tumble on the floor thanks to trying to set off one-footed. So a cracking thud sees myself in a pile of covers, pillows and shoes. I disentangle myself, sit up, lock it on from it's position next to the bed, kick up, and out the door. We're still on the train and I don't think anyone would have attacked. I shouldn't say couldn't, because hover craft and they might be pissed at us, but surely “the Capitol's sweethearts” or whatever they're calling us now dying during the Victory Tour would do nothing for this precious peace he was on at Katniss about, would it? Hopefully. The screaming is from her room.

“Katniss?” I open the door to her room.

She's got her head on her knees and is sitting up on the bed hugging herself, blankets all around.

“Stupid. Just a stupid nightmare. I'm sorry I woke you. Go back to bed,” it's muffled, because her head is in her knees. She waves a hand in my general direction.

“I wasn't asleep.”

She looks up then and I can see the sheen of tears in the half light, “Then...would you sit with me? I'm an asshole for asking, I know...” She shifts on the bed slightly, trying to maneuver blankets from beneath her.

“No, that's fine. I will,” I clarify, realizing 'no, that's fine' might not come across as a yes. I come towards her as she pulls her way out of the blankets and nearly hits me in the face with the edge. I shield my face.

She falls back on the bed laughing, “I'm sorry.”

“No, that's fine. Just blind me, that's alright.”

“I am sorry,” she reaches for my hand and guides me to the bed as though I was actually blind.

“Imagine how much sympathy we'd get though. The poor blind amputee...”

“Oh, don't,” she says, “It's not funny,” but she is giggling.

She slides back on the bed and to the side so that I can get on to the bed myself.

“Do you want to tell me what the nightmare was about?” I ask offering her my shoulder. She accepts it and curls up against me. I feel my heart skipping slightly with the pressure of her head against my chest and the feeling of her breathing.

“It's stupid.”

“It's not stupid if it had you screaming.”

She sighs, “It was the muttations—the dog things at the end of the...” she trails off, waving her hand.

“I remember.”

“But they'd pulled us both down and...well, you can imagine,” she shudders against me.

“Yeah,” I partly regret that I asked but it's out of her head now, hopefully it's not trapped in mine but right now, at least, she's here, resting against my chest and I feel as though everything will be fine because of that, “we're safe. We're safe.”

“It was Rue. It was the one that was Rue.”

I rub my hand down her arm. There's a temptation to kiss the top of her forehead, but I pull it back. That is the cave talking, and we're not there. We lay there in silence for a while. She drums her fingers against my chest and I try to keep my thoughts more pure to avoid certain things but then she asks something that definitely kills any risk of that, “Were you okay earlier? You kinda left the game abruptly and you normally have Effie eating out of your hand about all the mundane things about the speeches and everything.”

I sigh.

“Honesty,” she says, patting my chest.

“I...was sick—sickened.”

“Ah,” she says, “Not the food?”

“No. I—I was remembering the poor girl from eight, Cambria, and what the careers did to her.”

She tightens her grip on me. She saw the recap at the closing ceremony, of course, “You did her a mercy.”

“I know.”

“She was suffering.”

“I know. They were monsters.”

“I know,” she whispers, “I...can I ask something?” she looks up at me.

“Of course.”

“Will you stay?” Is it my imagination that she's blushing at that?

“Of course.”  

Everything is tense after we've been drug back on the train by the Peacekeepers who were angry that we got away from them and hid to have our secret conversation. Katniss is still shaky and upset. Effie is seething—not only at our mistreatment but at the fact that our itinerary has been thrown to the wind. Haymitch, of course, goes straight to the liquor. He starts to pour a glass but then just drinks from the bottle. Katniss tuts at him.
“Don't start with me, sweetheart,” he retorts.
“I'm sorry,” she says, turning to me, “I really am.”
“This is exactly what I was talking about, or trying to talk about,” I point out, “If we could ever have talked.”
“I've told you talking isn't something I'm good at,” she retorts.
“Clearly!”
“Come on, come on,” Effie waves her hands between us, “Let's just all calm down.”
She is the unfortunate recipient of three different types of angry look.
She smooths herself down, “Obviously we're not going to get to eat the meal that was scheduled, maybe we should go to the dining car and sort out what we're going to do in ten tomorrow to prevent this happening again. Might I suggest just reading the cards?” She offers, “I mean it's not to say that wasn't a lovely thing that you said, Peeta, I just--”
“No, Effie, I know. Certain things have been made much clearer to me. I apologize for going off script.”
“It's alright,” she walks over, I've no idea how she manages to do this so well in the heels she wears, and takes my hands, “It was very eloquent, and you meant well.”
“Let's just drop it,” Haymitch says, “What's done is done.”
“I didn't mean for it to happen,” Katniss repeats. Her voice is damp.
“We've been over this already, sweetheart,” Haymitch says, but he has softer edges now, “Let's not hash it out again. Everyone knows what's at stake now. Effie's right, and you know how often I agree with her so make the most of it. We should get to the food.”
“I'm not hungry,” she mutters, and disappears towards her room.
Effie starts to say something but Haymitch waves his hand at her and she makes a “hum” noise and then messes with the back of her wig instead.
“It's okay, Effie,” I say, “Let's just give her a half hour or so then I'll take her something.”

I knock on her door with my head, given I'm holding a tray and trying to balance on one foot or the other proved tricky. It had taken long enough to argue against one of the attendants coming with me I don't need to show they were right and spill everything everywhere.
“What?” Katniss asks, it's confusion more than anything else—the noise must sound really odd.
“It's me,” I tell her, “I bring food.”
“I'm not hungry. I said that earlier.”
“It'll keep. Please?”
She opens the door and then steps to the side to let me in. She hasn't changed out of the outfit that she was wearing in eleven. Her hair is still loose about her shoulders but she looks more rumpled. She's thrown a few things about the room but it's more half-hearted than I would have expected from her. I set the tray down on the desk that's right by the door.
“It's mostly fruit,” I tell her, “Though there is a sandwich and some soup,” I point to the two items that are in covered bowls, “in case you are actually hungry and just being stubborn.”
She sits down on the edge of her bed, “I...just don't know if I can actually eat,” she says, looking at the wall on the opposite side of the room. Then she looks at the floor, “I keep seeing that man and there were those other shots, what if Rue's family..?”
“It's not our fault,” I tell her, trying to convince myself as I say the words, leaning against the desk, “The Peacekeepers are the ones who shot him and it doesn't do any good to wonder...”
“I'm so sorry I didn't tell you about Snow,” she says, leaning forward.
“And I'm sorry I've been so angry with you,” I tell her.
“You have every right,” she shakes her head, leaning back, “I'm despicable.”
I cross the room and sit down next to her, “No, you're not.”
“I am,” she looks away, “I can't...” she shakes her head again, “You were right about it all. That's what made it worse. You're right to be mad. You were right. I should talk. We do need to talk about things. I just...I don't know how. You're so nice and I've been so awful to you. I hate myself, but I just...I don't know how to do it. This is more than 'what's your favorite color?', Peeta. I know that. I just...” she sighs, “I'm repeating myself.”
“It's okay,” I tell her, “and I'm sorry if I've been pushing you in any way.”
“I need pushing,” she says, “I'm stubborn like you say. I know it. I...” she puts her hands to her head and runs them backwards and forwards across her scalp, “want to be...I don't know how this works.”
“It's okay,” I say again, “You can do this. You survived the Hunger Games you can survive making friends.”
She laughs, “So you say, but you have no proof. I mean it's started with questions about colors, what next foods?”
“That would be a start.”
She shakes her head, “I did like that lamb stew we got.”
“I knew that already.”
“I know...” she sighs. She gets up and goes to the desk pulls out the chair, sits down and starts examining the food that I brought. She dips the sandwich into the soup and takes a bite, “I told you I'm no good at this.”
“Well, then, ask me things,” I tell her, “I'll show you how painless it is.”
“Oh, really?” Her eyes glint then, “You shouldn't say things like that.”
“I said it earlier, Katniss. We need to know each other. We need to be able to be friends. At least if we're friends we'll have some sort of positive rapport on camera. It'll help, especially with what's at stake. I don't want to put your family at risk.”
“What about your family?” she asks.
“Of course, I don't want to put them at risk, either.” That's complicated though, some times...
“I thought you said this was painless,” she teases.
I pull myself back a little way onto the bed, “Then ask your questions, milady.”
She pops a grape into her mouth and muses for a moment, “When you talked about what your mother said--”
“You really are going for it, aren't you?”
“You brought this on yourself, Baker's Boy.”
“Fair point,” I bow to her slightly, “Do continue.”
She eats another grape, “What did you like most in school?”
“I thought you were aski--”
“I can change my mind. I'm the questioner,” she goes back to the sandwich and soup, “So, what did you like most in school?”
“Being outside,” I answer, “We could run around.”
She laughs, “Somehow I thought you would have liked school more.”
“I didn't say that I didn't like school as far as the work part. I just liked being outside more. There was so much more color than in the drab classrooms, and we were in the fresh air. We could run around.”
“But not the woods?”
“I don't know the woods the way you do. They've always been full of danger for me, and I think we've established it's not the place for me as far as being able to hunt, which is the main reason to go out there.”
“I was so terrible to you...”
“You're fleet of foot. I am not and it wasn't helping.”
“You were hurt!” she shakes her head, “You couldn't help it.”
“I don't think it would have mattered. I've never had reason to learn. You don't have to learn to be quiet hauling hundred pound sacks around a bakery, and now...now I don't know that I'll ever have the ability.”
“Well, you don't have to worry there,” she says, softly, “We don't have to sneak through any woods on the Victory Tour. Everything's out in the open,” then she comes back over and sits next to me on the bed. She puts her hand cautiously onto my left knee, “and...” she says, as though something might bite her, “this is the other reason I...I had such a hard time. I...I feel so guilty. I cost you, your leg. It's my fault.”
“Katniss...”
She looks away again.
“No, come on.” I can't help but laugh a little and that does make her turn back though she has an angry look on her face again.
“I'm being serious!”
“I know you are,” I point out, “I just...that's part of why I got so frustrated about the whole bread thing and things blew up on that day, because here you were constantly going on about the bread and me dropping food off and things like you owed me for the food and here I was bringing those things because they were some tiny, tiny way that I could possibly hope to repay you for the fact that I'm alive. I'm alive, Katniss. Like I said in that interview the leg is a small price to be alive. It has it's moments of frustration, but there is no way I could ever be angry about that, so please don't feel guilty, okay?”
She gets up abruptly, turning away and looking towards the window covered in shades, “Please go.”
“I...”
“Just go, okay? I'm tired. I want to sleep.”
I find it hard not to sigh at that. I thought things were going well and now she's effectively pushing me out of the room, I want to protest, to angrily point out that this is exactly the opposite of what we're supposed to be doing but as I close the door she turns towards the bed and I see that she's crying and I realize that's why she wants me to leave. So, I just say, “I'll see you at breakfast,” and close the door.
“Thanks,” she answers, “Good night.”

[I think this follows on pretty well after the part after the Caesar interview, really]

I was born in District 12.
I worked in a baker's shop.
I survived two Hunger Games.
My name is Peeta Mellark.
I was born in District 12.

-+-+-+-

Two guards have come in and are unhooking me. I'm so done with this.
"No, let me go! I said-I said I'd be here!"
"Feisty today." They sound surprised.
I can't last long with it. I'm winded quickly and pissed with myself especially because they find it amusing as I try to push off he hits me across the face and I feel that frequent, familiar taste of blood in my mouth.
"Shit," one says.
"No, there's no broadcast. It's just medical."
There's palpable relief on the other's part as he hefts me over his shoulder the way I used to haul bags of flour and we go down the corridor, the swaying motion lulls me out and I'm not aware of much until I'm dropped roughly onto a cot. A bar goes across my middle and there are clamps around my upper thighs and around my right leg, and then my arms are once more chained above me. The cot is rotated so that I'm elevated, almost vertical. If I wasn't strapped every which way, and still without my replacement leg I could step off and walk.
Mr. Purple and Blue is there in the back of the room I can make him out despite the shadows because of the sharp contrast with the clothes of President Snow. This can only mean wonderful things for me, I swallow out of nerves, but it sparks a coughing fit. Snow looks over, and then points at me. A medical technician comes over and checks me over, can't have me choking to death before they're done with me, I suppose.
Snow takes a few steps closer to me, "You've given such passionate speeches for us," he says, "It's a shame they don't seem to be helping. Is it possible you're not truly giving it your all?"
If you can't say anything nice. Therefore I feel it's best to remain silent.
"Hm," Snow says, "You're normally such a wordsmith." He puts a hand on my chin and carefully pries my mouth open, "No. The tongue is still there. Good. I would hate to have to order someone else's execution today. I fear running out of useful people." He tuts.
"Things are ready," Mr. Purple and Blue says. Though today he's wearing mostly green--that's going to be confusing.
"Very well, Mr. Lethate," Snow says, "I'll leave you too it. I expect a full report."
"Of course." He nods to one of the technicians, who approaches with a syringe. They hook one of my arms up to a bag of fluids, which makes my hand cold and that spreads up my arm. The other arm is jabbed roughly by Purple and Blue--wearing green--Lethate, and there's that horrific burning again. I want to scrape and pull but the other arm is just as badly positioned.
"Let's see what you see this time," the light around his head spreds out as he speaks.
"How long do the raise duels last?" Snow's voice melts out of the door frame, "Eye prom ice dome point am door their four din hard you thin canape pan?"
I'm falling backwards.
Black smoke chokes me.


[edit: Lethate from (Lethe, the river of forgetfulness)+(Atë, goddess of ruin)]
-+-+-+-

"What was the plan for District 7?" the shining lamp stand asks. It bends and curves and I have a hard time following it's movement. I want to point at it but my hand doesn't move at first, and then it does like dough mid prep when you're making snakes to braid together.

Braids are pretty.

Katniss braids her hair.

"District 7?" there's a face in my noodle arm. That's not right.

Johanna is from District 7. Unzipping. There was unzipping. Haymitch laughing. Katniss upset in the elevator. We were high up. Too high.

I'm falling forward, stumbling. The riverbank coming up towards me, or am I coming down to it? Either way it's a jumbling mess, tearing at the already open wound on my leg. I stop for a moment taking that in. My leg. My leg is there. My real leg. Flesh. Blood. Blood everywhere. I'm probably leaving a...no, I fell down leaves and mud, that's probably way more of a trail. If he was going to follow and finish me off he would have already, but no...this has already...hasn't it?
"Let's get you cleaned off," Katniss is in the river, washing the blood from Wiress' body.
Johanna is cursing up a storm behind me on the bank, "I found her for you!"
I need to clean my wound too. It'll get infected. I'll lose the leg. I'll lose it.
"Then you fix her!" Katniss shoves Wiress towards Johanna, "I need to tend to Peeta," she waves to me from the water as Wiress spins in circles, "Tick tock, tick tock!"
"Screw you and your tick tock," Johanna mutters, "Drown for all I care. I got her here, whatever."
Other people should be here. Shouldn't there be...sand??
"What...happened...with...District...7...?" Wiress asks, with Beetee's voice as Katniss wades to the edge of the river, complaining that I've not come far enough towards her, "Why...would...they...burn...everything?" the sun on the river is far too bright.
"What are you talking about?" I ask Wiress, "Nothing's on fire here any more. Just the tidal--" No, this is the forest. There was fire in the forest, Katniss told me. The Girl on Fire caught fire.
Sharp pain in my leg, makes me turn, complaining loudly, "What are you?"
Katniss has jabbed her fingers into the wound, "It's deep."
"Of course it's deep. It was a sword. Cato...but Brutus was in the arena with Wiress and Johanna."
"What do you mean?" she asks, "You're not making any sense."
"Did you give rites to Seeder or Rue?"
Katniss shakes her head, "Give rites? Don't be ridiculous. Why would I give rites? Who has time for that? People are killing each other in here. Now come on. We need to get a move on before monkeys or dogs or something come for us."
"Or blood rain?"
"Blood rain? What blood rain?"
"The blood rain that Wiress and Johanna just came through..." I turn. There's no one else with us. We're in a cave. It's just the two of us.
She crawls towards me, "Peeta, you're not making sense. You've lost too much blood. You need to rest...and I can go to the Cornucopia."
"Please don't go to the Cornucopia." I pause, "but you're going to. You're going to drug me and go anyway."
"I don't..." she sits back on her legs, "We can both win, do you really want to die from blood poisoning?"
She's right. That doesn't make sense.
"Everyone else is going to the Cornucopia though. Clove. Cato. Thresh...they're the only ones alive at this point...no Foxface hasn't eaten nightlock yet. She's still here."
"What are you?" she puts her hand to my face, "You're burning up, but if you're burning up and turning psychic who am I to argue. I'm glad you know about nightlock though. That stuff is very, very dangerous. You don't need to eat that and die. Though it is fairly quick."
"That's something."
"Peeta," she says, "You do need to tell me about District 7 though."
"I don't...what am I supposed to know about District 7? We're in the middle of the arena."
"Well, if you're psychic now. You can tell what their plans are. Why they're going to blow up a bunch of Peacekeepers...what they're going to try and do after that. Who they're working with."
"Now, you're not making sense, honey.";
"Maybe we'll just not bother about the medicine." She sticks her fingers into the hole in my leg, pain explodes behind my eyes, "Maybe you can just tell me now. Maybe you can tell me who you were working with. Who we're working with. Pretend I have amnesia. Clarify things for me."
"What are you?"
She gnashes her teeth at me. Long sharp fangs, "Didn't you ever wonder why I was gone so long? You were hiding out with your friends from 1 & 2 and I made some new friends as well." I feel something crack inside my leg. I thought it was painful before but that's nothing compared to know, and it rips and she pulls hard, more tearing and I realize once she pulls broken bone out in her now clawed hand that tearing was muscle and flesh, "Snow says hello!" she cackles as she stabs the sharp end of the bone into my stomach.

She's dragging me by my right leg. I'm not sure where I can't see properly other than flickering of light. My eyes are swelling shut. My body aches, bruises. Though the ground is strangely smooth and cool. My chest aches and I want to cough and clear what feels like phlegm but I'm afraid to. I feel I might explode in blood.
I think I make out her looking back here as though I might have escaped somehow when her claws are digging into my leg where she's holding me and my left leg is dangling at an odd angle given there's bone missing from the middle part and there's just flesh and a few strands of muscle holding my ankle and foot on to the upper part.
I think I have a concussion.
We stop quickly and I'm spun around. My head hits against something hard, and there's a slow shoooshing sound. We move again, brightness becomes darkness, sweaty, fetid darkness, full of other human smells, urine, feces, blood.
She pulls me towards the wall, through a damp patch on the floor and I'm fastened there, arms spread apart above my head.
"Wait here, sweetie. Someone will be here again soon." She puts a hand to my face. It's cool, "Hm. You're kind of warm."
There's an odd noise above me and then a jet of cold water hits me from above. It pulses on and off several times before I'm left alone, shivering in the dark.

Knocking on Haymitch's door. I remember my hand shaking. I didn't expect him to come to the door. He was likely drinking. The news wasn't good. We had a 50/50 shot of being picked but I was determined to fix that. He was no good to us in the arena.
"S'open..."
I walked in.
He laughed, sarcastic, "Figured it was you. She wouldn't have knocked."
I stopped then, looking at him and him looking at me across the room. Doom closing in around us. It might be 50/50 between either of us getting selected but she was going. There was no one else, "How can I keep her alive?" I asked him.
"This again?" he said.
I walked towards his table and put my hands on it to keep steady, "Of course, this again. I only got out last time because of her..."
Last time, though...last time I was terrified. Last time. Last time I didn't think I could do anything except maybe help people like her enough to get sponsors and perhaps last a few days in the arena a week at most. There was no way I thought I would be here now.
Haymitch snorted.
"...well, that and whatever else you were doing, but no matter that you were not in there with us."
He took a long swig of whatever he was drinking, "Fair enough."
"You are more use to us out here than in there. You have contacts. You have all sorts of people. I have none of that. So, if I get called let it go. If you get called I'll volunteer for you."
"Peeta..."
"What?" I said, "You know that's how it has to go. You know that's what you were going to tell me, isn't it? Katniss has to live. She has to, and you can make that happen from out here. I can't."
"That's true." He said, "and you might be able to help stop the games from up there, and I sure as hell can't. I am not a pretty talker. I do not have a way with words."
"What do you mean?"
"Sit down, boy." He dropped onto the couch, "You're making me nervous."
I sat down in the chair at the table nearest the couch, facing him, right arm resting on the table.
"You know how pissed you feel right now? Imagine how pissed the other victors feel. They've been living off the Capitol for years now, some of them have even had it pretty good. They sure as hell don't want to go back into the arena and have to fight to the death." He paused, "Though I can think of a couple who might volunteer for much less noble reasons than you."
"Everything's upset already..." I tell him, "...it's a powder keg out there. The tour. Snow..."
"True." He says, "But I guarantee you. No-one else going up for tribute wants these games."
"But--"
"They might want to kill other people...but they don't want to die and there are some who'll get drawn who have just as much of a grudge against Snow as we do."