He would never say it to Katniss. He couldn't. And even when he finally gets his voice to work he whispers like speaking it will bring it to pass.
"Are we positive this is Peeta?"
Coin turns to look at him, eyes unamaused.
Beetee frowns, "It's clear that there is some psychological damage but-"
"No, no I mean-" he wishes more than anything to down a full bottle of whiskey. Twin braids flash before his eyes but with a body too small and frail for his first sweetheart. "Are we sure he's not a mutt. An actual one. Peeta's face stretched over a random body."
He doesn't talk about his own game. He never talks about it. He tries not to even think about it but this... This is all too familiar.
Coin's words are clipped. Disapproving. "The Capitol is barbaric, but even they can't -"
"No," Beetee interjects. "No I remember. The second Quarter Quell they had us-" An anguish look crosses his face before he shakes it away, glancing at Haymitch. "It's possible. They've done it before."
And with twenty-five years to perfect their technique who's to say how convincing they may be.
Maybe their Peeta is still in the Captiol. Maybe their Peeta is dead already.
"Very well." Coin's voice drips with distaste. This is something she clearly doesn't feel she has time for. "Test Peeta's blood. Make sure it's him."
"And if it's not?" Haymitch makes direct eye contact, something Coin doesn't shy away from.
"Then we'll dispose of him like all of the other Capitol Mutts."
Haymitch leaves the meaning up to interpretation when he says only. "Murderers."
That night without the aid of his sweet nepenthe he dreams of a little girl who cried when given bread, of sweet bee balm and deadly pollen, of a too small body cradled in his arms.
And like he does most every night now, he dreams of the murderers.
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