A short one-shot that came to me about Peeta's hijacking in the Capitol.

Small Mercies

They take my clothes.

I guess I won't be needing them. The metal slab beneath me is so painfully cold that my skin tightens into gooseflesh, and I can see each blonde hair stand to attention on my arm, crushed at the wrist by my restraints.

I will not cry, I will not scream. Whatever they do.

I repeat this like a mantra. I will not cry. I will not scream.

I will not.

Oh hell, why fight it? I'll cry and I'll scream because they'll torture me. I'll beg for death and for mercy. If only I could be stronger, if only I were a true martyr at heart. Maybe I'm a coward. No, surely not.

There's a hiss somewhere out of view, and I hear footsteps as someone enters the room. I crane my neck to see. It's almost comical, how I teased Katniss about her issues with nudity, and now here I am, powerless to cover myself, naked and presented to the Capitol's deepest establishment of punishment. I am theirs.

I see a flash of red, and realise that my visitor is not here to inflict harm. Darius is quiet as a mouse as he gathers up the pile of clothes they left in the corner. Suddenly, his eyes are on mine. I don't know what to do, don't know what to say, and so I plead with my eyes. I plead for help, or recognition, or some miracle that will inspire the newly-cut Avox to loosen the ties that bind me and help me escape. In a second, I realise it will be no use. Darius cannot help me.

But then he walks up to me, and his hand is deep within the pocket of his uniform, searching for something. A key?

No.

It's just a scrap of paper. He presses it into my palm with a pointed look, and I clutch it tightly, knowing that I shouldn't open it until I am back in my cell. I cannot risk them finding it, whatever it is. Darius passes off the gesture as a moment of comfort, and pats my arm. It will cost him dearly, I know. His actions will not have gone unnoticed. But perhaps the tiny scrap of paper that I hold tightly in my fist will slip through the cracks. I lock my fist.

Darius leaves, and in his stead come two women in white uniforms. I think of them as Snow's roses.

One hooks something to my wrist, and I clench my jaw against the sudden sharp pain.

For hours, I see stars. I see colour, and light, and dark, and screams. And I feel, oh so much pain. My memories of Katniss keep being pulled to the surface, and when finally the feelings subside and the pain loosens in my head, I feel something strange. When I think of her, my mind recoils a little. Nothing worthy of note, just like the tiny backlash on a spring. But how far can it stretch?

I am sent back to my cell, dragged on shaky legs. The world spins, and when I finally catch up with it, I realise that my fist is still locked around Darius' gift.

As my fingers loosen, it unfurls a little. And there she is, ripped from a magazine, dressed in that yellow dress Cinna had her wear at the Victor's ceremony. A lifetime ago. Smiling, a little hesitantly. Katniss.

I steel myself against the nights to come, and wrap myself in the scratchy blanket they've been so courteous to provide.

They don't find the photograph. They don't need to.

Two weeks later I rip it up myself.

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