~ 3.11 ~

                                    

                                          

                            

                                
                            
                              
                                  
                              
                              
                                
                                  
                                  
                                
                              
                             
                            
                            
                          
                          
                          
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'Tired of beatings and battle,
And being sewn up (sewn up).
But that made us grow up. 
And that made 'em scared.'
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Dread coiled in his stomach as he was roughly hauled from the screening room. He knew what he said would cost him dearly but had decided that whatever pain and torture he would endure was worth it knowing that he had given Katniss a chance of survival – knowing he may have helped save lives. 
                          
Peeta had mentally prepared himself for the repercussions of his rebellion but confusion washed over him as he was dragged back into the room holding the cells of the prisoners of war. 
                          
Watching helplessly from the sidelines, panic and guilt bubbled up in Peeta's throat when the door to Indiana's cell was unlocked and her two Peacekeepers pulled her gently from her cell. Instant paranoia and complete defeat were the only emotions coursing through Indiana as her two guards held her gently between them, pulling her from the cell; remorse oozing from them. Her arms still had deep gouges and were red raw. The wounds had only just started scabbing over but thankfully had stopped bleeding. Luckily, medics entered her cell and cleaned up the wounds daily to prevent infection. 
                          
A large screen had been placed in the prisoner's room days ago and so the tributes had been able to watch Snow and Peeta's broadcast (interrupted by Katniss) from the comfort of their own cells. Indiana had watched the entire thing unfold, including when Peeta broke from the script and warned Katniss about the bombing. Therefore, Indiana had been anticipating her impending doom. Actions had consequences and apparently hurting Peeta wasn't enough for President Snow anymore. 
                          
Wherever Indiana and Peeta were being taken, they both knew there was an almost 100% chance that they would not be returning. This was the end for them. 
                          
"Peeta?" Indiana's voice was soft and weak. "Peet? What's going on?"
                          
Heart aching, he tried to reach for the woman who had lost so much but the Peacekeeper pulled him away from the drooping girl. It was heartbreaking to look at the broken, fragile woman before him and remember the strong, stubborn, resilient person she had once been. Whilst they may not have broken her spirit and her resolve, they broke her mind. Something that Peeta deemed to be far worse.
                          
"It'll be okay, Indie. I promise," his voice cracked, as he knew it was an empty promise. 
                          
Peeta didn't know that everything would be okay. In fact, he was almost certain they were being marched to their deaths but if his words brought Indiana some small sliver of comfort then he would be happy. 
                          
Shoved into a dark room by himself, Peeta jumped when the door was slammed behind him, casting the room in an eerie light. Spinning round to take in his surroundings, Peeta realised he was in a room smaller than his previous cell, except this one had four solid walls instead of bars. There was a small bed pushed in the corner and a chamber pot in the other. The only source of light was a dim, artificial one coming from the ceiling above and a tiny sliver from a vent in the wall. 
                          
"No! Please, let me out! Let me out!!" 
                          
Screams sounded from the room next to him accompanied by incessant banging. Once the screams subsided, sobbing sounds echoed from the vent and into Peeta's room. The blond boy's heart clenched at the pain his friend was going through. However, he couldn't bring himself to offer her words of comfort. After all, the pain and trauma she was going through was all his fault. Both the blonde prisoners were now locked in solitude, away from their friends and probably further away from rescue. Is this where they would spend their last night before execution tomorrow? 
                          
Feeling hopeless and lonelier than ever, Peeta curled up into a ball and cried himself to sleep, unaware that his partner-in-pain was in the exact same position. 
                          
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Wrapping the bandage around his hands, Cato stood shoulder width apart and faced the punching bag. All around him, weapons gleamed up at him in their silver casings, begging him to pick them up and swing them around. He ignored every one of them. Clenching his fists, he tried to ignore the sharp sword shining at him from the far end of the room – the sword that Beetee had designed specifically for him. Shaking his head, he struggled to resist the temptation. 
                          
Ever since he was little, Cato had taken great pleasure in sword fighting. It was something he prided himself on because he was particularly skilled in it without needing his father to force him into it. It was something he had learnt all on his own, no one had forced him to like it, and no one had beaten him until he was good at it. Sword wielding was something Cato had excelled at all on his own. 
                          
Ignoring the feelings of pride and longing, he swung at the punching bag. Upon awakening in District Thirteen and discovering that he had once again been given another chance at life, Cato had vowed that he would never again pick up a sword and use it to take innocent lives. Never again would he spill human blood by slicing them with the metal of his sword. Nor would he watch the light fade from the eyes of another person as he speared them. 
                          
Blinking back tears as the people he had murdered flitted across his eyes, Cato reassured himself that not picking up a sword again was for the best. It would keep the people he loved safe. 
                          
A slight sheen of sweat had settled on his skin when the mechanical noises of the doors opening dragged his attention to a flustered looking Finnick. Grabbing the bag on either side to stop it from swinging into his friend (as he knew Finnick wasn't about to stop), Cato turned to face the excited man with his eyebrows upturned in question. Waiting for his friend to regain control of his breathing, Cato tapped his foot impatiently on the floor as the seconds ticked by. 
                          
"Rescue mission. Volunteers. Capitol. Getting them back." Finnick panted, his hands resting on his knees and his chest heaving rapidly. 
                          
"What?!" 
                          
The world around him seemed to disappear as the news sunk in. His knees buckled slightly at the idea of having his fiancée back in his arms – something he had long since given up hope for. And that was what Finnick had given him. For the first time in many depressing weeks, Cato Hadley had hope. 
                          
And so, before rushing down to Command to beg Coin to let him go, Cato Hadley picked up his sword. 
                          
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'Who's tired of bleeding and battered,
And being torn up (torn up). 
Just pick yourself up.
It's time to go.'
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