Finnick slammed his fist into the wall, making Plutarch, Haymitch and Coin start. "That's. Not. Good enough." He growled, whipping around to face them again.

Plutarch tried for a placating gesture. "We're doing everything we can, I assure you–"

"THAT ISN'T GOOD ENOUGH!!!" Finnick roared, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him halfway across the table. The feat was made more impressive by the fact that Plutarch wasn't exactly slim.

Two guards tried to hold him back. Their mistake.

He turned and slammed his forehead against one's nose, producing a loud crack and a spurt of blood. A kick between the legs later, he was groaning on the floor. The District 4 man took a fistful of the other's hair and slammed his head against the edge of the table, leaving him to slump against the leg of said wooden object. He hadn't removed his hand from Plutarch the entire time.

Haymitch sighed, and Coin raised an eyebrow, keeping her calculating stare going. "Are you done, Mr. Odair?"

Finnick shoved Plutarch back, his eyes cold. "Quite."

"Good. Now that we've resolved that, we need to discuss what you'll do now that you've been given ample time to recover from the Games. Physically, mentally, and emotionally, I hope."

"No." He said flatly, barely waiting for her to finish.

She tensed subtly, eyes narrowing. "What did you say?"

"I said, 'No.'" Finnick answered, and to add insult to the injury of saying no to the 'oh so powerful' President, he said it like he was speaking to a fool.

She probably would've hissed if it had been physically possible. "Mr. Odair, if you really think you can–"

He cut her off with sharp look and an even more scathing tone. "Your negligence is the reason Reyna was taken. I won't help you unless it is necessary in getting her back."

"This Rebellion is vital to getting her back. You want to help? Fine. Help us. We're her only chance, and not helping us is a waste of your talents. You'd be speeding up the process of her rescue."

He might've even stayed if she hadn't been fiddling with the papers in front of her, waiting for him to answer so she could go through him. But he had seen her persuasion at work, and he wasn't about to be some pawn.

It must've been an entire day before the Tracker Jacker venom was out of her system. Throughout that period of time she had been taken back to her cell and left on the floor. Mags wasn't strong enough to lift her to the cot, so that's where she stayed. Every few hours she would come out of her fetal position in a spasm of pain. The white hot pain and resounding cold pounded in her veins, making her sick.

Finnick was a reoccurring nightmare, thanks to the venom. Not him as a threat, but him being hurt because of her shortcomings. She wasn't smart or strong or fast enough to save him. Not once.

You might be wondering why she was being tortured. They wanted information on the Rebellion. Johanna and Peeta got dragged to that dreaded chair more often now that Reyna could barely function.

There was one time that she and Jo had to witness Peeta's 'interrogation.' It broke her, in that one place that hadn't quite given up yet. She had lost, they all had lost. It must have been weeks, yet no help came. Because there wasn't going to be any.

Finnick should've been relieved when Katniss woke up, for several reasons. She was the Mockingjay, and thus had influence over Coin, she was going through the same thing as he was, and now they could take down the Capitol.

But all he felt was dread.

He had failed all of them. He should've been stronger, should've tried harder to get them all out. Reyna would be better for this role than him.

When Katniss Everdeen looked up, all he saw was a hollowed-out soul. He would've taken anything but that–she could be angry, try to kill him, start sobbing, anything but this horrible emptiness.

He turned on his heel and left, furiously working on knotting and unknotting the piece of rope his doctor gave him.

Reyna wearily looked up as the guards came in. She was limp in their hands as they hauled her out of the lab.

She was taken to a sterile room and set on one of those doctor's beds. A few minutes later, two nurses came in, with vividly colored eyes and hair. Swirling tattoos covered every inch of their skin, making it difficult to distinguish their features.

They started working on her skin, erasing every cut, bruise and scar. Then they plucked and waxed her and cut her long hair into a wavy bob.

She was fed a decent portion of decent food, although guilt weighed down her every bite and made the meal into sand. She was stuffing her face while the others suffered below her.

The women put her in a pine green dress with long sleeves and a floor-length skirt. The fabric showed her collarbone and neck, but nothing below it.

Next she was taken to another room, full of makeup supplies. They put dark green contacts in her ocean blue eyes, making her second-guess her reflection. She seemed darker, more Capitol-like.

Her makeup enhanced her cheekbones and lips, and made her artificially-colored eyes to look commanding. Captivating.

A stranger.

Her final destination was an office that could only be President Snow's. Lavish carpets and drapes darkened the room, and the minimal light forced her pupils to dilate drastically.

She looked around, her eyes finally stopping on the heavy wooden desk in front of multiple bookshelves. And sitting behind that desk in the posh upholstered chair? Snow. His white beard stood in sharp contrast to his richly-colored surroundings. The effect it gave was one of superiority.

"Miss Bowman. Please, sit." It wasn't an offer, and she knew it. She sat on the edge of the chair across from him, already scanning for guards and weapons. Nothing but dusty books and–she might be able to use that letter opener.

"I wouldn't, if I were you. There are guards everywhere, and in the room just adjacent to ours is a young mother and her two children. The father was killed in an accident. You wouldn't want to kill orphans, now would you?"

Her eyes widened. He would order his men to kill the mother in front of the children, then kill them. And it would be on her shoulders.

"No."

"Then I suggest you rehearse your script, because you're live in twenty-five minutes. All of Panem is eagerly awaiting the account of how the Capitol rescued you from the Arena."

She dug her fingernails into her palms, giving a stiff nod. "Your wish is my command."

A/N: I've just noticed that I tend to end my chapters with either finalities, cliffhangers, or threats. Anyway! Sorry this took a little while to write, I've become addicted to AmazingPhil and danisnotonfire. It's starting to be a problem....

Don't forget to vote, comment, share, recommend(those last two are the same thing, aren't they?), and just enjoy. Please, please, please, with a lovely cherry of possible-future-fluff-but-since-I'm-evil-probably-not, tell me how you feel! I LOVE it when you guys give feedback. Seriously, it makes my day. Hope you liked this chapter, I'll try to update again soon!