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Plume had never felt so helpless in her life. Not when she was reaped for the first time, not when she was being carried up in the tube to the arena, not even when she learned of the Third Quarter Quell. Being trapped in a net like a wild animal was a new form of violation, a new level of psychological torture.
Upon entering the Capitol hovercraft, Plume saw bright white lights and doctors shuffling around in white coats. She was reminded of the time she won her Games. Men in white suits had surrounded her and began to mend her wounds, pushing her onto a bed and injecting a syringe into her arm. She was treated like a child, swaddled in white cloths and delicately mended. Now, she was treated like a barbarian. With her body crumpled against her fellow tributes, fear turning her blood to slush, the fight inside of her ran dry.
How do you break somebody? Simple. You push them past their limits. Plume knew enough to not fight back. She couldn't tear down the world. She was one woman. That didn't stop Johanna and Enobaria from writhing beside her, struggling against the metal cords wrapped around them. The doctors hustled around them. As Plume's eyes adjusted to the darkness, she realized that they were preparing syringes. This must've been a very abrupt night for them. They clearly hadn't anticipated four people entering the hovercraft for treatment, and they struggled to come up with a plan. Plume heard Peeta groan from beside her elbow. Lucky him. He'd wake up only to get a needle jabbed in his neck.
Plume wondered what was inside those needles as she watched placidly from the ground. Venom? Morphine? Bleach? Plume watched as the doctors finally selected their syringes and approached the net filled with convulsing victors. Johanna had a surprisingly mean kick to her, and managed to fend off a small wave of them. Enobaria similarly tried to defend herself, but a doctor managed to jab a needle into her punching arm. Within seconds, Enobaria had slumped. Knocked out, not dead.
Johanna was growling like a bear, fists rearing and feet flailing. "Plume, help me out."
"We're caged, Johanna," Plume mused. She was surprised by the lack of emotion in her voice. "It's no use."
Plume felt a stinging in her arm, and she turned just in time to watch a syringe pull out of it. The woman wielding it wore a sterile mask over her face. Plume's mind began to fog as the mystery serum pumped into her heart, slowing her brain functions and making her thoughts sluggish. She worked up a wad of saliva in her mouth, and with her last conscious thought, she spat onto the doctor's mask. Her spit splashed against the guard, and the woman flinched. As Plume's vision went dark, her body slumping to the cold ground, she felt a slight small curl the edges of her lips.
Plume slowly opened her eyes. Her head was swimming with a pain surrounding the base of her neck, a dull burning at the back of her throat. She was thirsty. She wet her lips with a dry tongue and moved to sit up. She realized that she was tied down to a metal slab, her chest, legs, and hands restrained by thick chains. She tested out their strength, finding that all of her stamina had been reduced by whatever they injected her with. The room around her was sterile, fluorescent white lights glowing above her. She blinked against them, letting out a groan.
