The Hunger Games- What If's: Book Two

Chapter Two

   I look at Linsky's machine, wondering what to do. Is it glowing that red color because all of her blood is staining the inside of the machine? Is it red hot, and burning her skin? Or is that the color of a human soul?

   Red, the color of passion.

   The color of obvious loss, usually of a life. The deep crimson that pierces all other colors. Or, that which mostly strikingly protrudes from the absence of color.

   I assume that the most logical explanation for the machine being so red is because it is heating up, due to the fact that Linsky is probably using it, making its machinery work. It is such a color red I've only ever seen when watching the metal workers near the Hob. I don't often get to see that, though, because there's usually never enough metal to heat up. Mainly, it's for repairs in the train tracks or for repairs in the mines. In either case, there is never any left over for the people of District 12 to use freely.

   I take a tedious step toward the machine, praying that I won't trip and fall into it. I'm usually not a very off-balance kind of person, but when I get nervous I tend to lose focus on something so trivial, yet vitally important, as balance.

   From where I stand, I feel no heat emitting from the machine.

   That's odd... I think. If it's so red, shouldn't it at least be hot? I don't even think that it's warm. Is it?

   Without giving myself enough time to think rationally, I reach out and touch the machine. I'm right; it's not warm in the least. In fact, it's rather cold, and sad. The instant that I touch the cold metal, I yank my hand away. The machine starts moving. Well, the machine itself stays put, but a few of the metal plates begin to shift and work their way around one another. I watch with a mix of wonder and horror when I see Linsky's face poking up from beneath a shiny, thick sheet of glass.

   I watch Linsky's breath as it fogs up on the glass every few seconds, but then I flash back into reality. I can break the glass. I could win. I could go home. After the thought of Prim blinking across my mind, I don't hesitate to tap on the glass.

   But of course, the "glass" isn't glass at all. It's Plexiglas, or some other type of glass treated with shatter-proof something or other. It's definitely not plastic, though, because however hard I hit the "glass," it doesn't break, bend, or crack. Nor does Linsky even bat an eyelash.

   Giving up on breaking the "glass," I let myself slump against the freezing wall. Little holes are embedded all across the walls. I try to think of how many cameras I must be covering with my back against the wall, where they're bound to be stuck in the little holes.

   I let out a sigh and clamber over the machine. Just like my machine, there's a control panel. Just like my machine, it needs a password. And just like my machine, I have no clue what it is.

   I mentally hit myself for being so stupid as to think that this was going to be easy. I've got to relax, that's all. Maybe the machine is doing all the work, killing Linsky for me. Of course, that can't be the case, since that would be too easy. And if she were dying, she would be moving around more, calling out. Certainly she wouldn't look like she were sleeping like she does now.

   Her face looks so young, so fresh. She doesn't have eternal bags under her eyes, and her hair looks well kept. Of course, our stylists did our hair the night before we came here, but it look like it can tangle easily, like hair that doesn't usually see the outdoors or sunlight. This shows again in how dull it looks without luster-inducing products the stylists use for the Opening Ceremony.

   I think back to her district. District 9. What do they do again? Transportation, that's right. Well, Linsky was either one of the higher-ranked members of her district, or she worked in one of the factories that doesn't require muscle strength or lifting. The latter is more likely, considering the reaping is always rigged.

   I chuckle at myself. Why do I keep saying things like "Linsky was," or "she worked?" She's still alive, she's not dead yet. And I haven't killed her yet. I wonder if she know about the rest of the world. I wonder if she's ever thought about it, like I have. How much has she seen of the world besides District 9 and the Capitol? How many people actually get to see past the boundaries of Panem?

   How many of these people are brainwashed into thinking that they only reason they're here is to offer up their children for slaughter and serve the Capitol? How many people have forgotten their emotions, forgotten that they're humans? I don't understand how people can act like they're not . . . well, people. How could someone forget the cherish something so precious as life? We are all people here in Panem at least, and most deserve to be treated as such! Why do all the people in the Capitol think that they're so good because they have their own slaves?

   I remember learning about slavery in school once. Some kid, Jonas I think his name was, started talking about how similar that is to those who are forced to work in the coal mines. After that, the teacher moved away from the subject and I hadn't seen Jonas in class since. Some say that the Peacekeepers killed him, but I beg to differ. If anyone had been killed, they would be beaten in front of the whole district, to serve as "a lesson." I think they sent him down in the mines, only proving his point to ring more true than it had already.

   Can I actually kill Linsky? No, that's not the right question. I know I can. But can I actually kill her? There's no reason for me to. Not really. After all, we're both pawns in this stupid game of President Snow's. So why must we obey? I am a human. I am not an animal. No matter what Gale may say, killing human beings with thoughts and language and dreams and killing animals are two very different things. Not only will I be taking away this poor girl's life, I'll be taking away the biggest part of her mother's, her father's, her sibling's lives. I would be hurting them. I would be pathetic, a wimp.

   But that's the name of the game. Fraud. Lies. Murder. Cheating.

   My blood, which is the color of passion, freezes when I hear a tone come from the machine. I look down at the control panel and see that there are several black-filled dots in the password box, like I had entered it in. Only, I know I didn't, so it must have been Linsky from inside the machine.

   I urge myself to stay calm, and not to panic. She doesn't seem to be awake. Yet. What do I do? There's nowhere to hide in here. There is no place to run to. There never is, really. Somebody can always find you.

   Still, there is no sign of movement from Linsky's face. Her lips are slightly parted, which may indicate breathing, but other than that it seems as if I still have a few minutes. Maybe I only have seconds. Either way, I must finish off Linsky soon, or she may actually fight back. And if that happens, I could be killed, and my mother and Prim would die, and eventually Gale and everyone else in the world will die, too. President Snow and Linsky and Cinna and Haymitch . . . all of them. How do I know they're not already dead? My mother and Prim could be easily done away with. But why would that happen? Why do I feel an overwhelming sense of dread surging through me? I'm uneasy. My pulse is racing. Why? Why why why?

   I feel like I'm going to throw up, so I lean against the cool metal of the wall and try to calm myself down. Sweat is dripping down my face, I can feel it. I can hear it when it hits the metal ground as well.

   Okay. Alright, Katniss, this is how it is: you're going to kill Linsky. Right now. Just do it.

   But how?

   Another sound comes from what I assume to be the machine. It's not the distinct pop of a lock, so that's good. It's more of a tone, like the password being entered. Only, when I look at the control panel, there's a much more deadly message than the simple notification of a code entering.