The Hunger Games- What If's: Book Two

Chapter Eight

   All of the sudden, there's a ripping above me. The metal of the machine is being torn through by some extremely sharp object just inches away from my chest. My first impulse is to scream, but I force it down my throat, knowing well that it's not a good idea. It's all I can do to try and avoid the blade.

   I try and push myself deeper into the metal, hoping that it will somehow give in to the pressure of my body pushing against it. It doesn't give. Then, I try to shimmy my way down towards the bottom of the machine. The whole thing is so tight of a mold, I'm not very successful at that, either. I finally just fake relaxation and watch as the blade, or whatever it is, slowly inches its way closer and closer towards my head. 

   Who could possible be wielding that thing? If it's someone from the Capitol. . . . 

   No, that doesn't make sense. If the Capitol wanted me out of the machine, they'd probably have more ethical ways of going about that. And besides, what about all the fighting I heard? There's no way that the Capitol would hold a fight outside of my dumb cell just to play with my head. 

   Then again, maybe they didn't. Maybe this is all a dream now. They probably have me in a hovercraft, and put my on hallucinogens. That would make sense. But, then why hallucinogens? I'm probably just dreaming this all up in my head. 

   I know that isn't true, though. There's a strong emotional, not to mention physical, difference between reality and dreams. I am fully aware of myself and my conscience. I can feel the metal beneath me with my fingers, I'm not just reminding myself that I know what it must seem to feel like.  I am awake, and this is happening. I just don't know why. 

   Never before have I felt so utterly helpless. Well, maybe there was the period of time following my father's death. The dandelions....

   Peeta.

   Bread. 

   Hope.

   There was a time that I had felt like this, but Peeta was there to give me hope, and courage, and the strength to go on. Now I'm utterly helpless, my fate resting in the person holding the blade above me. I can literally only sit here and watch. I  have no control. That alone is enough to drive me insane. 

   My breaths are shallow as I watch the blade loop around, beginning the formation of a jagged hole in the machine. 

   I sit in darkness, waiting. I despise waiting. 

   Then finally, the blade withdraws. I can barely see and light coming from outside of the machine, even when the top of the machine comes off. I can see enough to notice the ungloved hand that comes through, reaching toward me. At least it's not a Peacekeeper. They always wear gloves.

   I think it's going to grab my wrist, but it stops in front of my chest. It's outstretched, like it's expecting me to take it, which I do. 

   The hand is warm and comforting, but at the same time very strong and firm. There are only two people I've ever known who have those hands, and one of them was my father. I'm helped to me feet and stand up through the hole with the help of the hand, which belongs to none other than Gale Hawthorne himself. 

   The lighting is very dim, but I would be able to make out his frame anywhere. For a moment, we're standing there staring at each other. I can't believe that it's happening. Then Gale gets this smirk on his face and says:

   "Welcome home, Katnip."

   I smirk right back at him and drop his hand. It's hard to make out anything in this darkness, but I can easily tell that there are more people in here than just Gale. Several men stand against a wall, next to a gaping hole leading into a darkness. Across the ground are other bodies, all in white. Peacekeepers.