7. To Be Something Else

Twenty-four children stood on their metal plates and took in the arena as they prepared to run, either towards the bounty of supplies before them, or towards the wilderness. Either way they chose, it was still almost certain death.

As the cameras locked momentarily on Katniss' face, the two stylists watched as she shifted her position so her gaze fell on something near the golden Cornucopia, glinting in the sun. A silver bow and a sheath of arrows. The cameras relocated, zooming in on Peeta this time, to catch his reaction. He looked straight at Katniss, clearly sensing what she was about to do, and shook his head very slightly. But she didn't listen. Don't do it. Don't go for the weapon, Katniss...

Barely a few seconds later, the gong went off, the camera angles shifted yet again to show all of the action, and as the tributes all raced forwards, Katniss hesitated, missing her chance to go into the midst of the battle with a chance of escape. Instead, she sprinted straight ahead towards the supplies right in front of her, but then collided with the boy from District Nine. They wrestled over the supplies shortly, but then the boy collapsed on the ground with a knife in his back―dead. Clove, the one who had thrown that knife, didn't pursue Katniss for long as she raced into the woods.

To both of the stylists' shock, Peeta, of all people, had thrown himself right into the midst of the action. You idiot! Portia wanted to yell at him. Did you not hear a single word I said to you? Getting his hands on a few weapons quickly, he took down the boy from Four―a Career―and the girl from Ten.

Most of the remaining coverage was of the bloodbath, where eleven tributes died. Eleven innocent children who were doomed from the start. They never did anything to deserve this. The cameras also occasionally showed the other tributes like Katniss, who was alive, uninjured, armed with supplies, and on the move in the woods.

Peeta was one of the last people left at the Cornucopia, along with the Careers. "Impressive, Lover Boy," Glimmer snarled at him. "I see that you're still alive."

Yet none of the other tributes made a move to kill him, except for Clove, who already had her knife raised when Cato held her back. "No; don't kill him. What would you say about teaming up with us?"

"What are you doing?" Clove spat at him.

Not answering her or any of the looks he was getting from everyone else, Cato turned back to Peeta. "Well?"

He's really going to get it, now.

It was clear that he thought about it first, but, not eager to get killed, answered, "You mean... join your alliance?"

"What else would it mean?"

"Sure, then, I accept," Peeta answered smoothly.

"He's gone insane," Portia said aloud as Claudius Templesmith started commenting on Peeta's answer. "Completely insane."

"You didn't know what he was planning?" Cinna asked her.

"No; of course not! I must've spent twenty minutes lecturing him right before the Games and did he listen? No, he―" She cut herself off at the slightly amused look on Cinna's face before retrieving a pillow from the edge of the couch and throwing it at him. "Not funny."

"I know," he said softly, an apology. He squeezed her hand.

"Maybe the arena'll knock some sense into them," she muttered, leaving the room.

. . . . . . . . . .

Later that day, the message came.

She was shaking just looking at the paper, the words in neat handwriting. There was no air in the room; she was being trapped, suffocated. Time seemed to stop, nothing else important as the edges of her vision faded, only able to process the words in front of her.

She felt Cinna easing the paper out of her grip, scanning the words quickly. "This isn't good," he muttered finally.

Part of her wanted to come up with some sort of response. "Obviously" or something similar, but she couldn't quite remember how to form the words. "What do we do?" she got out finally. The Capitol hadn't forgotten about them―not yet.

"We go. We see what they want." His voice was calm, soothing.

"But we already know that!" she shot back at him. The paper had been clear—they were wanted back in the Capitol Building the next day. "We know what they want," she elaborated quietly, voice trembling.

He hesitated, then said, "Not necessarily. It might not..." He saw the fear written clearly in her eyes and sighed. "It might not be like last time."

She wanted to believe him, but couldn't do it. "You know better than that. So, what? We give up?"

Silence for a few moments, and then, "Listen to me." He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. "We can talk to... someone, Plutarch maybe, if you really think it'd do any good. But I don't think it will."

"No," she agreed, sighing. "It won't."

. . . . . . . . . .

The next day came all too quickly. The tension in the air was so thick that they could practically feel it weighing down on them, trapping and suffocating. For a long time before they had to leave, there was quiet, moments spent wrapped in the touch of the other.

Finally, the time came. He gave her one last kiss, and, together, they headed for the Capitol Building.

The day outside was plain―sunny and mild in temperature―but the streets were far less occupied than usual, except for the areas where the Games played on large public screens. But there was very little going on, and the crowd's interest was obviously fading.

She hated to admit it, but at that moment, the Games seemed to be the least of their concerns.

The front doors of the Capitol Building loomed before them, and the glass slid open silently, welcoming them inside.

. . . . . . . . . .

In the same bleak room as the last experience, two of the Peacekeepers were holding her back, the other standing between her and Cinna. "Where were you before you came to the Capitol?"

She couldn't think of an answer to give, so she didn't say anything, staring blankly at him as if she didn't understand the words.

In answer, the guard turned, brandishing the metal device that she recognized from her last time in the Capitol Building.

Feeling unable to avert her eyes, her only thought was that she didn't want to watch this, didn't want to be here; she wanted to be anywhere else…

At the angle, she couldn't see what the guard was doing, couldn't see the press of the metal, but she didn't have to. The agony was written clearly across Cinna's face, in the way he tried so desperately to move back to lighten the pressure. He cried out, but the sound quickly reduced to his screaming as the pain increased. And all the while, the guard kept glancing at her, his message clear. This is your fault. And all you have to do is answer the question.

"Cinna," she whispered, the word escaping unthinkingly. Tears gathered quickly in her eyes and flowed down her face, dripping onto the floor. She knew exactly what that amount of pain felt like, how unbearable it was, and didn't even want to think of him experiencing it.

She could see the slightest amount of tension in him ease as he tried to inhale when the Peacekeeper turned back to her. "Where were you before you came to the Capitol?" At that moment, nothing sounded better than answering, ending this. Her eyes fell on Cinna's face and the words froze before she could say them; she tried to answer but no sound came out. The tears flowed faster now, and she couldn't remember how to breathe.

The guard turned again, and before she could protest Cinna's screams were filling the air.

"Where were you before you came to the Capitol?" It was hard to tell which one of them the question was directed at, but neither spoke.

The whish and crack of a whip resounded through the air, and then the restraints on him were released and he fell to the ground, searing, blinding pain taking over. Another lash, and another, and several more. She struggled harder against the Peacekeepers, trying to reach him. Too disoriented and not conscious enough to try and block the attacks, he was laying limp on the floor, defenseless as the whip cracked down again and again and again.

She couldn't take it one second longer. "Cinna!" For just a second the Peacekeepers were off guard and she managed to wrench herself free, falling over him as the whip came down again. She cried out at the sudden pain but then she was being roughly pulled back, away from him.

Helpless tears ran down her face. "You'll kill him!" she screamed at the Peacekeepers, struggling harder only to have their grip on her tighten.

The other guard, now wielding the same metal device from earlier, dragged Cinna up by the shirt collar, pressing it against his shoulder before letting him drop to the floor again. The rest of the world faded away; she could focus only on the low, agonized sound that fell from his lips and his face, tight with pain and eyes closed.

"Cinna!" She shrieked his name, partly hoping that it would draw him back out of the daze of pain, that he'd hear her and just be able to hold on for that much longer…

The sobs wracked her body as the guard approached her, asking only one question: "Where were you two before you came to the Capitol?"

"D-District Thirteen," she choked out, trying to gasp in air.

"And who was it that got you into the city?"

For a few moments she couldn't answer between the lack of air and the tears, the words were just right there but she couldn't quite communicate them. There was a sharp stab of pain and she yelped, trying to flinch back but unable to. "P-Plu-tarch H-Heavens-Heavensbee," she stammered, trying to calm the shaking.

"And when is the next planned raid on the Capitol's security system?"

A split second passed when Cinna's eyes caught hers―she didn't know how much he could hear of what she was saying, but he'd find out eventually, find out that she was betraying everything they'd ever believed in…

"I-It's in… in S-September. The s-seventh." Fresh tears flooded her eyes, making the room swim in front of her and slip in and out of focus.

The guard started to walk back towards Cinna, and before she could think she heard herself pleading. "P-please, don't…"

A smirk crossed his face before he gestured to the other Peacekeepers, who released her and followed the other out the door.

She scrambled to the other side of the room, kneeling by Cinna's side. Her hand rested on the side of his face before trailing down to his neck, frantically searching for a pulse. And, yes, it was there―scarcely noticeable, but there.

The sheer relief brought the sobs back, and she buried her face in his neck for just a moment, trying to cling to a shred of control on the fragile situation. He groaned, shifting slightly. "… Portia…" His voice was weak, but just hearing it made her heart leap.

"C-Cinna?" she whimpered, drawing away from him. She gently brushed a few stray tears off his face, trying to smile.

There was a light pressure on her shoulder as he tugged her down to lie next to him. "Stay with me," he murmured, the words clearly strained, and she wondered how he was still conscious at all.

She gently rubbed his back with one hand, avoiding the areas where the whip had fallen, her other arm draped loosely over his waist. His eyes were tightly closed, breathing still unsteady.

Glancing over him quickly, she muttered to herself, "We need to get you home."

. . . . . . . . . .

She pulled the curtains tightly closed against the harsh mid-morning sunlight, leaving the room in relative darkness. Sitting on the side of the bed again, she sighed, watching Cinna sleep restlessly. The damp cloth on his forehead had slid slightly out of place, and she reached to push it back, then removed it when she noted that it was no longer cold.

Most of the medical treatment she'd given him last night wasn't going to show much effect; when he'd woken early that morning she had just barely managed to coax a bit more medicine and food into him before he drifted off again. Now he was still asleep, and she couldn't think of much more to do for him except let him rest.

She rose and went to the main room to check on the Games―Katniss was looking for water―safe, if dehydrated―and Peeta was at the Careers' camp. Without a lot of action to be seen, the commentators were still trying to direct people's attention to―"The star-crossed lovers of District Twelve," Portia said to herself, matching Cladius Templesmith's words as the cameras focused again on a split-screen showing both of the tributes.

Hearing Cinna stir, she lowered the volume on the television and went back into the bedroom, again sitting just by his side. "Hey," she said softly, noting that he was definitely awake. "How are you feeling?"

"Better than I did yesterday," he mumbled, shifting to look up at her.

"Good." She pulled the blanket securely over him and kissed his forehead, letting her hand rest lightly on his shoulder. "Anything I can get you?"

He shook his head, reaching up to cover her hand with his. His eyes fell closed again and he seemed to relax a bit more for just a moment. Then he started to try and sit up, saying, "I feel like I should be doing something a bit more productive―"

She gave him a gentle push back down onto the bed, cutting him off. "No; just relax for a while. It's what's best for you now." Her voice was soft, but it was clear that the words weren't a suggestion.

He sighed. "Yes, Soldier Adaline."

She smiled a bit at the sarcastic answer, touching his face. "You just hate it when I'm right."

He laughed weakly. "I do when you're telling me to not do anything. Gets boring, you know."

"I'm sure it does," she said, trying to keep the light-hearted tone of the conversation. For just a while, even if it was for only these few minutes, they could forgot, or at least try to, and pretend that the Games and the war and the cruelty of the Capitol were all just part of a bad dream; something they could wake up from that would disappear in the light of a new day.

. . . . . . . . . .

Early the next morning, they caught sight of what was going on in the Games—an enormous, raging wildfire, specifically engineered to track down tributes and bring them all together to fight. Everything had been quiet lately―too quiet for the Gamemakers' liking.

Katniss was instantly out of her tree and running, away from the flames and towards what only the Gamemakers knew about. Somehow, it was just then, just a second after the cameras had flashed to the Career pack that the inspiration for this fire dawned on the two of them. The Careers, usually seeming so brave in the face of danger, were not about to take any chances with this new threat, and were racing straight for the lake, all seeming positively terrified...

"Should I be scared?"

"Terrified."

For some reason, it was that one memory, that one conversation and the underlying fear in Peeta's eyes that made it clear, at least, for Portia. The fire wasn't just a randomly selected attack of the Gamemakers. There was inspiration for it. Inspiration that laid in the District Twelve costumes for the opening ceremonies―the ones that they had made.

Neither of them acknowledged the realization aloud; but, rather, it hung tensely in the air between them, unspoken. Why do they do these things? Take things like innocent costumes and turn them into catastrophes that can ruin people's lives?

Even as the Careers made it back to their camp, the feeling lingered. Katniss continued trying to dodge fireballs―left, right; duck, jump―slowly but surely making her way through the woods, across the line of wildfire that was taking over the arena, flushing all the tributes out of their hiding places. Duck, left, duck, right, jump.

She glanced at Cinna next to her and could see the pain written clearly in his eyes, expression blank and unregistering.

Finally it seemed as if he couldn't stand it for one more second, and he stood, not saying a word, and started to stalk off. "Cinna…" She reached out for him, only to hear the slam of the bedroom door closing.

She went after him, the doorknob to their room slipping from her grip and hitting the wall opposite. He was pacing furiously, looking about ready to kill someone. She could see all the signs of his shut-downs; his hands were clenched into fists by his sides and his eyes were set on the floor, glaring.

"Cinna," she said, her voice strained and quiet.

"WHAT?" he spat out, whirling to face her. "What could you possibly have to say?" His voice was so far above its normal, quiet volume and so cold that she wouldn't have recognized it if he wasn't looking right at her.

She took a small step towards him, taking one of his hands in hers. "Listen to me," she said softly, able to feel how hard he was shaking.

It took a moment but she felt him shift his hand to grip hers tightly―a bit too tightly, she thought. Still, she spoke, quietly. "I know what you're thinking. But this isn't your fault. It isn't either of ours."

He jerked his hand away from hers and took a step back, shaking his head. "Of course it is," he snarled. "What else would have given them the idea?" He turned away from her, rubbing his hand over his face. "Great Panem," he muttered. "What've we done?"

"Nothing," she whispered, only to reassure him.

"How did we let this happen?" he snapped, voice rising again as he turned again.

"Hush." She touched his cheek, stroking his temples. His eyes fell closed, but he still seemed to be tense―he was completely rigid and still under her touch, breathing shaky.

A choked sob fell from his lips, and then his warm, strong arms were wrapped around her, his face buried in her hair. She pulled him closer, holding him and running one hand over his back. He gave up and let the tears come, the sobs wracking his body with enough force to give him an even worse headache.

This wasn't normal; he didn't break down like this. He was the calm one, the one who could see that things were going to turn out all right, not the one who shut down when they didn't. Maybe it was just the stress of the last two weeks finally hitting him.

She felt a slight pang, seeing how upset he was. "Shh; everything's fine. Everything's going to be fine."

"No," he choked out. "We… we made them… go… go into… th-the Games, and… we… gave the… G-Gamemakers the… idea… for h-how to… to… to kill them, and…"

"Shh," she soothed, gently rubbing his shoulders. "Shh…"

Finally he seemed to calm enough to speak properly and drew back from her, eyes set on hers. "We sent them to the Games, Portia."

"No," she argued softly. "We didn't. We voted against it, remember?"

"We didn't really protest, either." Somehow his voice was still gentle.

"There wasn't much we could do. And besides, we didn't create the Hunger Games. We didn't tell the Gamemakers to start that fire. We didn't―" She stopped when she felt his hand brushing against her lips, hushing her.

"Maybe not. But you can't tell me that this isn't at least partially our fault."

She was ready to give up then, to say, Fine. Be noble and self-blaming and miserable, then, and see if I care!

Just then, one particular line came from the television: "Katniss Everdeen, the girl who was on fire, burns on."

Curious, she walked back into the main room and watched the flickering, fading image on the otherwise black screen―Katniss and Peeta, alight with the synthetic fire in the opening ceremonies.

It quickly cut back to the Games.

"See? They're practically admitting it." Cinna's voice from behind her slowly brought reality back to her. She blinked and shook her head, snapping out of her thoughts, of the focus on the flames, too similar to the ones in the arena…

She didn't have anything to say to that.

. . . . . . . . . .

That evening, a siren was played from the television―the one that meant that something important was happening in the Games. For some, that meant automatic excitement and eagerness to see what was going on, but not for the District Twelve stylists. They were already thinking about what it was that had gone wrong. Neither of them had to wait long for an answer, although it was still long enough to build up a certain amount of dread and anxiety. The Careers had found Katniss by the stream she was resting at. But not quite, because by a miracle of chance, even with all of the burns she had from the fire, she was high up in a tree by the time the six of them reached where she was. "How's everything with you?" Katniss called down cheerfully, uncharacteristically, as they all arrived.

"Well enough. Yourself?" Cato asked, clearly surprised by her response but not questioning it just yet.

"It's been a bit warm for my taste," she replied, with a hint of irony. "The air's better up here. Why don't you come on up?"

What is she doing? Is she insane?

"Think I will," Cato answered, and he started to climb the tree a few moments later. Katniss climbed higher and higher, but it wasn't necessary, as Cato fell to the ground when the branch that he was stepping on cracked. Shortly afterwards, Glimmer, the girl from District One, tried climbing, but also failed and went back down.

What now? They can't kill her while she's up there, but she can't stay put forever...

"Oh, let her stay up there. It's not like she's going anywhere. We'll deal with her in the morning," Peeta said. He was clearly stalling for time for Katniss, and this was obvious to the audience, though not to the Careers, which was the important part. Katniss seemed somewhat oblivious to the meaning behind his answer.

The cameras cut to show a tree nearby. At first, it was hard to see anything, but then the cameras zoomed in on tiny little Rue, poking her hand out from the leaves to point to something in Katniss' tree, which was then displayed on the screen―a tracker jacker nest. The screen quickly moved away to show the anthem playing, but there were no deaths and only half of the screen showed the familiar Capitol seal. The other half was showing Katniss up in her tree, because she was trying to saw the nest off. When you looked straight down, you could see that the Careers were almost right at the point where the nest would hit if it went flying towards the ground. She'll kill all of them! Even Peeta...

As the anthem stopped, Katniss was forced to cease her sawing, much to the relief of the stylists. She climbed back down to her sleeping bag, where a pot of burn medicine was waiting for her, and applied some of it before she fell asleep. Afterwards, the only thing that Portia said was: "It's about time that Haymitch sent something, anyways."

. . . . . . . . . .

With the dawn came another wail of the siren―this time, Katniss had just finished sawing off the nest.

Oh, no... now she's really done it… Just run, Peeta; there's no point now…

The Careers were mostly smart enough to sprint for the lake, and most made it with few injuries, but almost all of them had at least one tracker jacker sting. Rue had gotten off fairly easily―according to what the commentators were saying, Katniss had warned her about what she was going to do and she'd had a good head start on just about everyone else.

But three of the insects had managed to get Katniss before she'd gotten rid of the nest, and it was clear that she was beginning to lose consciousness and hallucinate, as she stumbled around in the woods below where she'd previously been. Cato was starting to head back towards where Katniss was, but Peeta was about to beat him to it.

Hearts racing, the two stylists could only watch as Katniss got out of the clearing in time, but Peeta was left, alone, to take on Cato. The battle went on for what seemed like forever but was really probably only a few minutes, and Peeta was left in a mud bank with a severe gash on his leg―injured, but alive―while Cato made it back to the Careers' camp.

Oh, Peeta...

. . . . . . . . . .

For days, nothing seemed to happen.

Nothing ever did; not until it was too late.