A/n: Just to forewarn everyone, although I am not a new author, I have not written a story for FanFiction for quite some time, and have never done one for this series. With that in mind I hope you enjoy the story!
I awoke in a bright, white room with a roaring head ach. As I reached up to rub my temples, I noticed that I couldn't get my hand to move. I looked down, trying to find my hand, and found it in a metal restraint that went from the tips of my fingers to the middle of my arm. Suddenly it all came rushing back to me; The Hunger Games, the wedding dress, Katniss, and the beating.
I looked around, trying not to panic. I was obviously in one of the Capital's most secure buildings, but I couldn't tell which one. There was no color in the room, just bare white walls and bright light that seemed to come from every direction. I tried to look for a window or door that someone would be watching me through, but I couldn't seem to find one. Looking down at myself, I noticed I was still in my Opening Day outfit: it was now covered in blood and dirt. I seemed to be sitting in some type of metal chair that looked as if it was bolted to the floor. My feet were in the same type of restraint that my hands were.
"Hello there, Cinna," a voice came from the opposite side of the room. Because of the light, I couldn't tell who it was, but I knew I recognized the voice from somewhere. I didn't say anything in return, instead I just squinted into the light, hoping they might come closer and reveal themselves.
"It's not nice to ignore me," the voice said again as sharp razorblades began to press into my skin.
A low moan escaped my mouth before I could stop it. The pain was agonizing for several moments, before it suddenly stopped. "Who are you?" I asked, not attempting to hide my curiosity. I knew it had to be someone from Snow's inner circle; he wouldn't send anyone that might kill me before he got the information he wanted.
Ignoring my question, he began to talk. "Did you know that you're the first person to sit in that chair? We like to call it Mr. Slow." He came out of the bright light as he was saying this. He had on the white outfits of Peacemakers, but not the helmet. His hair seemed to the darkest thing in the room, which made his green eyes look completely foreign. I did not recognize him, but it was obvious that he wasn't from District 2. "Do you want to know why we call it Mr. Slow?"
Of course I did, I thought to myself, but I wasn't going to tell him that. I would not respond to his questions until he began to answer mine. If I gave in now, how would I ever keep anything a secret?
The razorblades plunged back into my hand, harder and deeper than before. I bit down on my lip to stop myself from screaming out. I would not show weakness. I could hear the guy begin to chuckle at my pain, but I could not look at him.
"You see Cinna, we call this little chair Mr. Slow for several different reasons. The main reason should be quite obvious: it doesn't kill or injure the person being tortured so much that they won't be able to tell us any information, instead, it slowly tortures them. I can control everything about this chair. I can control where it injures you at, how hard it injures you, and how long it lasts. Now, if I were you, I would stop trying to be Katniss's hero and instead focus on saving my own life."
About half way through his speech the pain stopped as the razorblades were taken away again. He also came significantly closer, so that he could stare into my eyes as he told me this, and try to install fear into me. After several minutes of silence, I decided to ask another question. "What do you want?"
He began to laugh again, as if he found everything about my present situation hilarious. "Isn't it obvious? I want to let you go; to set you free and let you go away from this place. However, I just need some information before I let that happen." He stared at me, trying to figure out if I would respond at all. He apparently figured out that I had nothing to say, so he continued on. "You know, this can be a whole lot easier. I don't have to use Mr. Slow, you just need to listen to me and answer everything I ask you. If you do that we won't have any problems."
I continued to stare at this guy. Nothing that he just said is true. I knew the Capital, I have lived there my whole life, and what I had done to Katniss's dress was unforgivable. I was going to die whether I told any information or not, and if I was going to die why would I tell him anything. I continued to stare, waiting for him to continue.
"First and most important question," he finally said, "who is your leader?"
"Not who you think it is," I responded and instantly regretted it as something was jammed into the small of my back. He had apparently figured out that I was a designer, and therefore was used to things being stabbed into my hand. This, I was not so equipped for. The jam caused me to lose my breath as I choked out a cough in an attempt to hide my pain.
"No smart-ass answers," he warned, not entirely convinced that I was telling the truth. "Next question: why is Katniss so important to the rebellion?"
This time I was the one to laugh. The only reason Katniss is important is because she was on the Hunger Games last year, and again this year. If it wasn't for them there would be no rebellion and Katniss wouldn't be important for anything. Choosing my words carefully, I decided to respond. "The rebellion is bigger than Katniss. Compared to everyone else involved, she is nothing. If you think she is your biggest threat, then you are going to be so unprepared when the uprising really begin."
I could see the annoyance in his eyes turn to complete and utter anger. As he pursed his lips I could feel an electric shot roll through my body. The last thing I saw was him smirking, turning, and walking back into the light before everything went black again.