The Black Widow | A Hunger Games Fanfiction

Turncoat

The guard dragged me down into the bowels of the mansion. I could hear screams and smell blood. Was this how I was going to die? In pain with the screams of the dead for company.
But the guard didn't stop there. He pushed me further down the corridor to a room with ten or so barred cells. Every single one of them had people in them in various stages of dying.
"I've got one for the cells," he told the guard, who was watching the cells.
"They're full," he replied, "Too many traitors. Just stick her in one and leave her. Doesn't matter which."
The guard took me to the nearest cell and opened the door, shoving me inside. I stumbled from the push, only just catching myself before I smashed my face on the wall opposite. He walked away without another word, leaving me alone. Or not.
Curled in the corner of the cell, there was a small figure.
"Hello?" I said, "Are you... alive." The figure moved. Well that answered that question. They unraveled, stepping out of the shadow. It was a woman with auburn hair and a familiar face. I knew who this was: Annie Cresta, victor of the 70th Games and Finnick's best friend.
"Who are you?" she asked,
"Rose," I replied, "Rose Gold." She screwed up her nose,
"I thought you were blonde." I didn't dignify that with an answer.

We sat in silence for a few hours before the guards came along the cells to drop of food. The man laughed as he passed our cell, whacking his nightstick against the bars. Annie jammed her hands over her ears, curling up again,
"Please stop," she said weakly. The guard just laughed and banged the bars again. This time Annie began to shake.
"Hey!" I said, getting to my feet and stalking up to the guard, "Stop that. Can't you see it's hurting her?" He grinned, revealing a mouth of inhumanly white teeth. That time, the nightstick hit my face instead of the bars.
I stumbled backwards, clutching the site of injury. Already I could tell it was bleeding.
After a time, Annie stopped shaking and crawled over to me. I turned to face her, wondering if my face looked as bad as it felt. Cautiously, she brushed a hand over my face. It came away red. Her face went ashen and she crawled back to her corner, holding her hand at an arms reach from her body.
I knew people said she was mad, but I hadn't expected her to be so fragile. How had she won the Hunger Games?
"Annie," I said calmingly, "It's okay. It's only a bit of blood." She visibly flinched at the word. Clearly this approach wasn't going to work. Maybe I could distract her. "Can you tell me about what you think it would be like without the games? Finnick said you have lots of ideas. I'd like to hear them."
"Finnick?" she asked, eyes widening with childish innocence, "Is he going to save us?"
"Yes," I said, hoping it wouldn't turn out to be a lie, "But while we wait, please can you tell me about what you think?" She nodded eagerly and began,
"Everyone would be happy. Every Friday, we'd go round to Mags' house and eat her fish bake and Finnick would be able to eat with us instead of going to the Capitol. Then they'd fix Mags' stroke so she'd be able to talk again and we would all go swimming. Then maybe we'd get on a boat and go somewhere far away where nobody hurts other people."
"That sounds lovely Annie," I said, dragging myself into a sitting position. Impossible, but lovely. It sounded perfect- a mad and impossible future. It seemed like something someone who had never experienced the hunger games would think up. Annie may appear mad from grief and trauma, but she had dreams and hopes for the future. She didn't seem to come up with worst case scenarios to every dream like I did. I envied that.

Over the next few weeks, Annie and I became close. I started to understand why Finnick cared so much for her. I felt protective of her even though I knew I couldn't do anything to help her right now.
The one day, the guards came at an odd time. They opened the door and dragged me out. Annie cried out and I tried to fight back but couldn't. Were they taking me to die?
But instead they took me to a prep room. I had been in one before. They brought all the tributes here before the games.
I didn't like this.
Three people that I didn't know entered in silence and began to remove my clothes. I tried to resist, but whenever I tried to push them away, the guard at the door pointed his gun at me, reminding me that I could die at any minute.
And I didn't want to die.
Next came the waxing. I'd forgotten how much that hurt. Without the genetic engineering, my body hair had begun to grow back. I hadn't missed this. They began to pluck out my eyebrows and file and shape my nails, applying acrylics when they realised that I had only stubs. After that came the makeup: foundation, concealer, contour, blush, eyeshadow, mascara, eyeliner, lipstick, body glitter. Every product I had ever seen before and more. It was only when I looked in the mirror that I realised why.
I looked just like I had with all the genetic engineering. One of them tilted my head back into a basin. Another walked over with a bottle of blonde dye.
"Please don't," I whispered. The prep team said nothing. They just began to pour the dye into my hair.
With my natural hair colour once again erased, they put the coloured contacts into my eyes and left.