A/N:1 review. Well, thank you for that review-I genuinely appreciate it. And here's another chapter for that one reviewer. Enjoy, and PLEASE REVIEW, ok? And for those of you who favorite my story but don't review, I know who you are. REVIEW. 'kay, thanks.

"Peeta, maybe you should sit down. You know, because we're going to be walking for the next six hours?" I say, annoyed.

"It helps me think." Peeta continues pacing back and forth across the room. It's irritating me, and from the way Beetee watches him walk back and forth through the room, I'm fairly sure he, too, wishes Peeta would stop.

"Please?"

"No."

Most of our exchanges for the past couple hours have been like this. Short, curt, bordering between disinterested and just plain rude. It really wasn't making the time pass any faster. Speaking of time, I glanced over at the clock. 12:24. Still six minutes left? Wasn't that the time when I checked five minutes ago?

"Beetee, can we please just leave five minutes earlier? I really don't think this is going to change things all that much."

"It's six minutes, Katniss," says Peeta.

I ignore this. "Beetee?"

He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose nervously. "I—Haymitch said specifically not to let you leave early," he says apologetically.

I growled, and looked over at the clock. Still 12:24.

"Do you… do you want to review the plan one more time?" asks Beetee meekly.

"No!" both Peeta and I snap at the same time, causing Beetee to flinch. We glance at each other for a second, then quickly break eye contact. We fall into an uncomfortable silence.

The sounds of Peeta's footsteps on the floor start up again.

"It's 12:25," offers Beetee.

I whip around to glare at him. "Oh, it's 12:25. Great, a minute's passed. I can't believe I'm looking forward to walking 6 hours."

Beetee shrinks backwards.

"Katniss, it's not his fault. Don't snap at him like that," says Peeta.

I soften. "Sorry. It's just that I can't bear spending another minute of my time in this place. I mean, the 'craft's already landed. Why can't we just go? That would be safer for you and the rest of the crew, wouldn't it?"

"Well, yes, but Haymitch said—"

"Haymitch is gone! He won't know!"

"You know how he gets when we don't follow—"

"Again, he won't know."

This time Peeta butts in. "We're leaving in a minute anyway," he says. "Can we stop arguing and just spend the rest of our time in peace?"

"We would," I snap. "Except for your pacing. You've been doing it for the last hour and it's been driving us mad!"

Peeta blinks. "I didn't know it was annoying you that much. I'll stop." He sits down.

I sigh. I know I've been overly rude. It seems I've done nothing lately except snap at people lately. Well, nothing but that and kiss Gale…

I felt his lips again, soft in contrast to his calloused, rough, hands. I felt his hands on my waist, under my shirt… so warm… so…

"It's 12:30," announces Peeta curtly.

I shoot up and grab my pack. Finally, we were on our way.

Peeta and I had been trekking through the woods for quite a while. "Woods" really wouldn't have been the word I would have chosen to describe what we were walking through right now, though. Back home, the "woods" had been alive. Gale and I had stuck to the dirt paths, often straying off the paths in favor of the grass that would provide cushioning to quiet our footsteps. We couldn't walk a step without hearing the coo of a mourning dove, the rustle of prey or predator in the brush, the wind whispering through the trees. Here, we were walking on black pavement that seemed so human, so out of place. Evidently, nature agreed. Where we walked, no prey tread. No birds sang. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. It occurred to me that these woods were more of a desert than any desert could be, and the thought gave me shivers.

"You cold?" asked Peeta, breathing hard and glancing over at me.

"I'm okay. You tired?" I replied, not looking away from the path ahead of us.

"No—I'm… I'm okay," he says, wheezing slightly.

I stop walking and frown. "We've been walking a couple hours. We should take a break."

"No!" says Peeta vehemently, and I look over at him, startled. "Sorry," he says. "I just don't want me to slow us down."

I try to protest, but Peeta ignores me and continues walking. I notice that that the pace we're travelling at is much slower, but I don't mention it. We move at this pace for a couple more minutes. Peeta's getting worse—his breath is ragged, and his skin has turned a shade of pink that I had previously thought was only able to be achieved through sunburn. It occurs to me that I have to be the one to demand a break, or he'll likely collapse of exhaustion. "Peeta," I say.

He turns his head slightly to look at me, but he continues to hobble forward. Hobble. His leg seems to be vibrating, contorting. Is he having a seizure? "Peeta, stop!" I shriek. He must've heard the note of hysteria in my voice, because he finally stops.

"What…?" he begins. Then he falls to the ground.

I push him backwards, grab his leg, and push up the pant leg. His synthetic leg—of course. But what could be happening? It's vibrating in my hand, and a tiny red light planted in his metal knee. He sits up and puts his hands around his throbbing ankle. "It's—No!" he says. "No, no, no!"

"Peeta!" I scream. I can tell something's horribly wrong. "What's wrong. What is it?"

"We need to get out of here, fast," he says, his voice steady, but his eyes looking around frantically.

"What? Why?"

He pulls himself up and grabs my hand. "Let's go!" he says, but he only makes it a couple steps before he falls back on his knees.

"Damn it!" he says. His leg is vibrating faster now, and the red light is blinking furiously.

I grab him by the shoulders and shake him. "What's wrong?" I demand.

The gust of wind pushes me backwards, away from him, too strong to be natural. The wind accompanies the sound of blades chopping the air. No…. it couldn't be. It was a hovercraft, but not the slow, sleek, quiet one Plutarch had put us on. No, this was a Capitol-issued vehicle used to pick up dead tributes from the arena, a man-made hunter, claw attached and all.

It lowers a bit, and with the wind whipping at my hair, I suddenly snap out of my reverie just in time to realize that the wind is dragging Peeta and me apart. I scream, clawing at the black asphalt, desperation pounding in my veins. If I lose him now, again…

He manages to crawl over to me, and rolls over onto me so that the wind doesn't whip at me as much. "What is it?" I sob. "What's going on? Your leg—"

He wraps his arms around me, and I take solace in this small show of affection even as I feel the 'craft near. "It's how they got me so quickly in the arena," he says quietly into my ear. "They put a tracker into my leg. They're here for us. And they got us." Suddenly, his body goes through a ripple of spasms.

"Peeta?" I whisper, still pinned underneath his body.

His body is rigid on mine, and with his arms still around me, I no longer take comfort in him. He is trapping me, pinning me down. I push him aside. There're at least three stun darts stuck in his skin.

With the wind getting stronger every second, I know I'm running out of time. I try to stand up, and get knocked down again—I have to crawl. And so I do, on my knees and hands, trying to crawl away from everything I've been running away from the past year, but I'm blind—I can't see, I can't feel, I can't… can't do this… but I have to! But the wind is so strong, so harsh, so cold, that I don't even feel the dart sink into my skin. The poison in my veins. Gale, Finnick, Haymitch, Hanroff… they must've made it by now… they must've…. I'm losing my thoughts, losing myself, and it's the worst feeling in the world.

I'm not conscious long enough to feel myself hit the ground.

When I blink my eyes open again, I'm surprised I can move. They didn't even tie me up. I debate whether or not I should feel grateful or offended, but I choose to be grateful. At least on the inside. I'd go insane all shackled up. I shake my head a couple times. Where am I?

I get up and walk around the room they put me in. I don't have even the basic necessities—no bed, no toilet, no sink. Only two chairs and a big desk. What am I supposed to do with that? They did provide me with a window, though. Big and black, it stretches across the entire room, but it's tinted so I can't see outside. No bars, as far as I can tell, though. Thinking quickly, I take the chair and slam it against the table. To my surprise, the chair splinters in my hands, and the black screen doesn't even shake. I shake off the scraps of the chair in disgust. I don't even attempt to use the second chair.

I scan the room again. As far as I can tell, that's all I'm provided with. I climb up the table and poke the ceiling in hope of finding a loose tile or something. No such luck. The ceiling is just one big expanse of gray.

The sound of footsteps surprises me so much I almost fall off the table. A man with a ridiculous mustache comes in, sees me, and flounders in surprise. It would have been comical, except behind him, standing in the doorway that I hadn't even seen, are two guards holding big guns that glint evilly. The one whose hat is tilted cockily sees me looking and cocks it, grinning. I quickly look away.

"Get down from there, you!" says the mustached man. Not 'Katniss,' not 'Miss,' not even 'Everdeen.' He addresses me 'you.' I'm tempted to throw him a retort when I remember the guns. I quickly get down and stand, waiting further direction.

He gestures to the chair I haven't broken and licks his lips nervously. "Please, sit," he says.

I sit.

He looks around. "What…?" he starts. Then he sees the splinters of the second chair strewn all over the floor. "Ahh…" he says, almost understandingly. He turns toward the wall and presses a button. "Can I have a chair?" he says into the speaker.

A crackle sounds from the speaker, then a throaty "Yes sir!"

A chair falls from the ceiling and lands on the floor right where the previous one was. I look up wonderingly at the ceiling just in time to see the claw retract back into it. I look back at the chair. It can't be more than two steps from the door, where I can see a row a chairs from where I sit. Would it really have been so hard just to drag the chair in from the other room?

He turns back to the speaker and says "Ready: start cameras. Close door."

"Yes sir!"

The door slides down, and cameras spin out from the corners. Where did all these things come from? I hadn't noticed any of it even from my careful scrutinizing.

He sits in the chair and leans back. Not in a confident matter, more like he's shrinking back from me. This encourages me to lean forward and put my elbows on the table. I'm feeling more confident without the armed soldiers in the doorway.

I examine Mr. Mustache's face. His face is shiny, but not from sweat. Plastic surgery, I decide. His lips are overly full, and I suspect that they, too, have been cosmetically altered. I conclude that this wasn't some tough general—this was a pampered, ignorant, easily manipulated citizen of the Capitol. This makes me feel better.

"Where's Peeta?" I demand.

He angrily slams his fist on the table, but it's a pathetic, trying-way-too-hard-to-look-tough gesture. I don't flinch. "I am the one asking the questions!" he says, a tremor in his voice.

I cock my head. What was he afraid of? I was a seventeen year-old-girl with only a splintered chair as a weapon, and he was a Capitol official with armed guards at his disposal. "What is this, an interrogation?" I ask.

"Precisely that," he says. He takes out a handkerchief and dabs at his lip.

Suddenly, the whole room with the black window makes sense, and I feel stupid.

"Okay, Officer," I say. "What would you like to ask me?"

He folds his hands in his lap and looks like he's trying to think of something to say.

Thankfully for him, the speaker crackles to life. "Sir, Plutarch Heavensbee requests permission to speak to you."

My head jerks up with recognition. Heavensbee was here? Heavensbee was one of the few who had stayed on the 'craft. Did that mean the Capitol had gotten to the hovercraft?

Mr. Mustache looks grateful for the interruption. He goes to the speaker, presses the button, and says, "Request granted. Bring him in."

"Yes sir!"

Heavensbee doesn't come in with an army of guards like I expect. Instead, he walks in, holding a leash. The leash is tied around Beetee's wrists and neck.

What was going on? I open my mouth to speak, but Beetee shakes his head slightly at me. Part of me wants to sigh with relief, but the other part of me wants to strangle someone. This was obviously another part of Haymitch's plot.

"What is it, Mr. Heavensbee?" inquires Mustache grandly, stroking his mustache with his index finger.

"This little rascal," says Heavensbee, jerking Beetee's leash slightly, causing him to cry out, "Was one of the people who took me prisoner on their hovercraft."

Mustache nods with as much sympathy as his plastic face can muster. "I heard about that," he says. "Take him to where the rest of them are."

The rest of them? So did they have Gale? Peeta? Everyone else? I hoped not…

Heavensbee hesitated. "Can I…?" he says. "I mean, the general said I could take him to the torture room."

Mustache chuckled. "A little revenge, eh?" he says. "Go ahead. But make sure he's at E by the end of the day."

Plutarch nods. "End of the day?" he says. "What time would that be?" he holds up his left wrist and taps his watch for emphasis. He looks directly at me when he says this.

To the cameras, it would like Heavensbee was just asking an innocent question. To me, however, his words held a double meaning. I flashed back to that night before the Quarter Quell, when he showed me his watch with the mockingjay on it. He was telling me that he was still on my side. I look directly at him and blink three times in succession.

"… should be early enough" finishes Mustache.

Heavensbee nods, still looking at me, and I know he gets my message. He and Beetee walk out of the room.

"Close the door," says Mustache.

"Yes sir!"

He turns back to me. "Where were we?"

"You were asking me questions."

"Ahh, yes. Tell me, Katniss, did you know you were to be abducted from the arena?" he asks. I'm not sure if I like him being friendly toward me or him calling me 'You' better.

"No," I say.

"You didn't," he says.

"I just said that."

"Ahh. Yes." He coughs. "Excuse me," he says.

I wait patiently.

"Who else attempted your little escapade to the Capitol?" he asks.

Would telling him jeopardize our mission? I decide it would, so I stay silent.

"We already got you, Peeta, Finnick, and Hanroff," he says.

I keep my head bowed. What did this mean? Had they not gotten Gale and Haymitch, then? Haymitch… did he have some sinister plot? Again?

"Listen," says Mustache with an attempt at kindness. "We're on the same side here. We really are."

A flush of anger rushes through my veins. "Yeah?" I say. "Then—"

Drip.

Both of us look up at the ceiling. It's funny that our heated debate would end with just a single drip of water. But Mustache is already freaking out, shaking his head, muttering "They said this was a sealed room. "

Drip. Drip drip.

"Why is there water falling from the ceiling?" demands Mustache, not even moving toward the speaker, relying on the camera's to pick up on his voice.

"The pi—afskgappf" the voice that comes from the speaker is garbled and incomprehensible.

Drip drip drip… The water's now a steady trickle.

Mustache hits the button furiously. "I beg your pardon?" he shouts.

"Osagpahfskj-" says the voice over the speaker. "BOOM!" goes something in the outside the door. It crackles through the speaker before the electricity in the room goes out. I sit there in darkness. Suddenly, the emergency light kicks on, painting the room a sickly yellow-green color.

Mustache bangs on the door. "Open!" he shouts.

The door obediently slides open. "Come on," he says. "We'll continue this—"

BOOM. We both look up to see the entire ceiling give way to a wall of water. Mustache gasps. The water pushes him to the floor, holds him there, until he rolls under the table, gasping. I don't wait. I run straight to the door, taking a chair with me, the water battering me at the same time.

"Officer Brady!" yells the guard with the hat, running through the door, his gun hanging uselessly to the side.

BAM. My chair makes quick work of him, and I note with satisfaction that his hat is now getting soaked by water some six feet away from the guard. I grab the gun and start to the door, then stop. The chair's come in handy—I take it with me.

The entire room is in chaos. The command booth, or something of the sort, is crackling, the water obviously not mixing well with the electric wires underneath. The water is up to my ankles, and quickly rising. Guards and officers are running around, tripping over things hidden under the water, hiding under desks, arguing among themselves. I try to slip out unseen, but one of them sees me. "Hey—" he says. I pull the trigger, aiming wildly, trying not to hit anyone. I get the desired effect—everyone dives for cover. These officers are not used to chaos. I'm lucky the guard with the hat cocked the gun, since it just makes everything that much easier.

One brave officer runs toward me, and attempts to hold me. I jam him in the gut with the butt of my gun, and he crumples. I run through the door, and something in the back of my head registers that I must look ridiculous with my chair. Panting, I make it outside the control room into the corridor. The water scenario is slightly better here—only trickles leak through cracks in the ceiling and floods in from underneath doors. I close the door, walk a couple steps, then go back and jam the chair in between the floor and the doorknob. It jiggles in desperation, but I only feel somewhat guilty as I start down the hallway.

Where had Mustache said they were keeping Gale and Peeta? I rack my brain. E! That's right. I walk down the corridor, ignoring the people running up and down frantically. Thankfully, no one recognizes me. E… how was I supposed to get there? Did it go by levels, with A being the first and E being the fifth, or did they number it by rooms? I couldn't exactly ask anyone, either. I look at the room I just came out of. C06. Was I on level C? Ok, I start down the hallway, taking in my surroundings. The walls were papered with silk, I noticed. The water would probably ruin it.

I shook my head, clearing my thoughts. Was the sedative affecting my thoughts? Okay, C06. C04. C02. C00. B20. I stop walking. Damn it. I close my eyes, mentally looking at where I was from a bird's-eye view. My eyes flew open as it hit me. This place was organized by wings.

Fueled by this new discovery, I took off in the opposite direction. I passed C06, satisfied that the chair was still in place, albeit at the brink of splintering. C08… C20… D14… D20… E02. Did Mustache mention a room? I didn't think so. I jiggle the knob. It doesn't budge. This isn't the time—the water is to my knees. Suddenly, the alarm turns on, red, flashing, casting shadows on the walls and making the water turn red. For a second I have this crazy idea that I'm swimming in a sea of blood, but the urgency soon knocks me back into my senses.

What do I do? A piece of plaster falls onto the water to my left, and a barrage of water falls through. My eye falls on my gun. I have no choice… I cock it and shoot my way through. I hope the bullets don't hit anyone on the other side. The door plops onto the water, and I have to step on it to get through.

This place is way too familiar, even through the water. This is where we were held captive after witnessing the murder of Hazelle, Gale's mother. That must mean they were here! I turn around, and see them lined up in clear little cells, pounding on the glass. I'd forgotten they were soundproof. Not waterproof, though. In the cell closest to me, Peeta is balancing on top of his desk and his chair, and the water's already up to his ankles.

I run up to him, and almost break my nose again. I pound on the glass, even fire a couple shots at it. "What's the passcode?" I scream, praying that he can read my lips. He does. "Quarter Quell," he mouths. I almost laugh at the irony, but laughing is not an option at this point. I nod. "I'll come back for you," I mouth.

"What the hell, Katniss?" he mouths, but by the way his lips move I can tell he's yelling. I would be, too. The water is waist high for him, his little glass cube almost completely filled. I ignore him, and run down the corridor.

I see Hanroff, crouched on his chair stacked on his desk stacked on his bed, the water shoulder high. He had the misfortune of having a smaller cell. I don't even acknowledge him. I know I'm almost out of time—where is he? There he is! Finnick, floating calmly, the top of his head already bumping the top of the ceiling. I tap in the number 3075—the year of the quarter quell—and he comes out with a sweep of water.

"Quarter Quell!" I yell. He understands, and swims toward Hanroff's cell, punching in the numbers.

I make a bee-line for Peeta's cell, the water now nose high. He has to breathe through his nose to breathe, even with his neck craned. Plutarch is already banging on the glass, but he can't read Peeta's frantic lips. I punch in the code one last time, and Peeta comes out with all his furniture, face down on the floor.

"Peeta!" I scream. "Peeta! Not now! Please?"

He coughs, splutters, and gets up, wheezing. "I can't swim," he gasps.

Finnick slips his arms under his armpits, and we all follow Plutarch out, no questions asked.

"Hanroff!" yells Plutarch. "You know the way. I have to get Beetee!"

Hanroff makes his way to the front, I follow, and Finnick and Gale awkwardly tail me. Hanroff's making a bee-line toward the end of the hallway. "There's nothing there!" I gasp. He ignores me. He swims awkwardly, his left shoulder dipping more than his right. I realize he's holding the gun I drop.

He reaches the end of the hallway, where a window looks into a pleasant view of a perfectly cultivated garden. He fires a round of shots into the window, then throws the gun in and jumps through. I gasp, and swim towards the window.

"Just jump!" he says.

Heights have never been my favorite thing. Maybe Finnick is tired of carrying Peeta or something, but the next thing I know, I'm in the bushes. I unravel myself just in time to avoid being hit by Finnick. Peeta comes last, making it through smoothly.

We're all through, we're all alive. Or, are we? "Gale…?" I ask, almost afraid to know the answer.

Hanroff looks me in the eyes, his hair, clothes, everything dripping. He's shaking, and I don't know from what. "I'm sorry," he says. "The Capitol has them."

A/N: Long chapter, no? Did you like it? Show your appreciation by REVIEWING. Thank you, and good night.

-L