Read The Hunger Games

Hunger Games Stars Teases Film's "Twists" and "Additions"

2012-03-02T18:57:00.001-08:00

A Hunger Games Movie update from Eonline.com...

Hunger Games Stars Teases Film's "Twists" and "Additions"
by Ted Casablanca and John Boone

Mockingjays, prepare yourself. Because though The Hunger Game be "very true" to the book, some changes were made from the novel to the big screen. And no, we're not simply talking about dear, forgotten Madge (RIP fabulous role for Dianna Agron).

Well not just Madge, anyway. Director Gary Ross has some tricks up his sleeve that will throw even die-hard H.G. fans for a loop…and one of the film's stars was happy to sound off on the surprises in store for moviegoers:

"There's some twists. There's some additions," Leven Rambin—who plays the gorgeous but ruthless tribute Glimmer in the flick—recently told us, promising that fans will definitely be surprised.

She continues, "There's some small, like innuendos that I think people will be like 'Oh, I didn't catch that in the book'…because it wasn't in the book."

So what exactly is changed?

Does Jennifer Lawrence choose Josh Hutcherson and Liam Hemsworth, thus ensuring the movie an NC-17, Shame-like threesome scene?! Does Lenny Kravitz bust into a rendition of "American Woman" during the Games?!

Do Woody Harrelson turn into a vampire and moon over Elizabeth Banks?!

We doubt any of those. But either way, Leven kept her lips zipped!

Ahh, we haven't seen franchise secrecy like this since those Breaking Dawn vamps tried to keep Bella Swan's wedding dress under wraps…which they did, with frustratingly good success. Hey, at least we only have to wait 21 more days until it hits theaters, right?

Though don't fret too much that things will be completely different. At least so says bad boy Cato, played by Alexander Ludwig.

"I think it will surprise most fans because usually when you see a movie about a book it's not really that true to the book," he filled us in. "Or at least it varies a little. But Gary's done an excellent job of making sure it stays very identical to the book."

Which for Alex means a pretty gruesome and out-there death. But for those of you who haven't read the book, we won't spoil it. What fun would that be?

Woody Harrelson Talks Being “Haymitch” in ‘Hunger Games’

2012-03-02T18:41:00.000-08:00

A Hunger Games Movie update from MTV.com...

Woody Harrelson opens up about his role in the upcoming blockbuster, ‘The Hunger Games’!
Posted on March 2, 2012 by By: David Robert

The first film in ‘The Hunger Games‘ series doesn’t hit theatres for another few weeks, but anticipation for the blockbuster is growing at an alarming rate with fans of the books scrambling for any information about their beloved characters. MTV’s Movie Night had the chance to chat with Woody Harrelson (he plays “Haymitch Abernathy“) about being a fan of the books, Tweens and being drunk on-set!

“I didn’t really know about ['The Hunger Games' books] before they sent me the script, you know Gary [Ross, the director] asked me to do it, and I looked at it and said ‘Well, it’s pretty good script,” he says. “I also started reading the book and thought ‘Wow, great!’ and then I finished them all in short order, and then I found out that ‘The Hunger Games’ is like a phenomenon, you know?“

Woody went on to say that although he’s been in the industry for more than 3 decades, he says that this is the first time he’s been on the “Tween” radar – something he’s not quite used to.

“I’ve never really done kids movies, this is like the first time that Tweens are coming up to me!” he says with a laugh. “They’re like ‘You’re playing Haymitch??’, you know, probably like their mom told them or something. They’re really psyched, you know, they love these books.”

One of the things that Woody’s character Haymitch is known for in the books, is his taste for alcohol, appearing drunk in most of his scenes. How did he and director Gary Ross decide how “drunk” Woody should appear in the film?

“During filming, with Gary and I trying to decide the level of drunkenness in any given scene, and I was always pushing for more drunkenness, and he didn’t want me to be drunk in every scene. He was always pulling back, and I was always pushing for more. Knowing Gary, he probably got the right balance.”

Well, we’ll see if he did when ‘The Hunger Games‘ hits theatres on March 23rd.

Mockingjay Epilogue

2012-03-02T18:32:00.001-08:00

Epilogue

They play in the Meadow. The dancing girl with the dark hair and blue eyes. The boy with blond curls and gray eyes, struggling to keep up with her on his chubby toddler legs. It took five, ten, fifteen years
for me to agree. But Peeta wanted them so badly. When I first felt her stirring inside of me, I was consumed with a terror that felt as old as life itself. Only the joy of holding her in my arms could tame it.
Carrying him was a little easier, but not much.
The questions are just beginning. The arenas have been completely destroyed, the memorials built, there are no more Hunger Games. But they teach about them at school, and the girl knows we
played a role in them. The boy will know in a few years. How can I tell them about that world without frightening them to death? My children, who take the words of the song for granted:
Deep in the meadow, under the willow
A bed of grass, a soft green pillow
Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes
And when again they open, the sun will rise.
Here it‘s safe, here it‘s warm
Here the daisies guard you from every harm
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place where I love you.
My children, who don‘t know they play on a graveyard.
Peeta says it will be okay. We have each other. And the book. We can make them understand in a way that will make them braver. But one day I‘ll have to explain about my nightmares. Why they
came. Why they won‘t ever really go away.
I‘ll tell them how I survive it. I‘ll tell them that on bad mornings, it feels impossible to take pleasure in anything because I‘m afraid it could be taken away. That‘s when I make a list in my head of every act
of goodness I‘ve seen someone do. It‘s like a game. Repetitive. Even a little tedious after more than twenty years.
But there are much worse games to play.

The End

Mockingjay Chapter 27

2012-03-02T18:30:00.001-08:00

Mockingjay Part 3: The Assassin

Chapter 27

In the stunned reaction that follows, I‘m aware of one sound. Snow‘s laughter. An awful gurgling cackle accompanied by an eruption of foamy blood when the coughing begins. I see him bend forward,
spewing out his life, until the guards block him from my sight.
As the gray uniforms begin to converge on me, I think of what my brief future as the assassin of Panem‘s new president holds. The interrogation, probable torture, certain public execution. Having, yet
again, to say my final goodbyes to the handful of people who still maintain a hold on my heart. The prospect of facing my mother, who will now be entirely alone in the world, decides it.
“Good night,” I whisper to the bow in my hand and feel it go still. I raise my left arm and twist my neck down to rip off the pill on my sleeve. Instead my teeth sink into flesh. I yank my head back in
confusion to find myself looking into Peeta‘s eyes, only now they hold my gaze. Blood runs from the teeth marks on the hand he clamped over my nightlock. “Let me go!” I snarl at him, trying to wrest my
arm from his grasp.
“I can‘t,” he says. As they pull me away from him, I feel the pocket ripped from my sleeve, see the deep violet pill fall to the ground, watch Cinna‘s last gift get crunched under a guard‘s boot. I transform
into a wild animal, kicking, clawing, biting, doing whatever I can to free myself from this web of hands as the crowd pushes in. The guards lift me up above the fray, where I continue to thrash as I‘m
conveyed over the crush of people. I start screaming for Gale. I can‘t find him in the throng, but he will know what I want. A good clean shot to end it all. Only there‘s no arrow, no bullet. Is it possible he can‘t
see me? No. Above us, on the giant screens placed around the City Circle, everyone can watch the whole thing being played out. He sees, he knows, but he doesn‘t follow through. Just as I didn‘t when he
was captured. Sorry excuses for hunters and friends. Both of us.
I‘m on my own.
In the mansion, they handcuff and blindfold me. I‘m half dragged, half carried down long passages, up and down elevators, and deposited on a carpeted floor. The cuffs are removed and a door slams
closed behind me. When I push the blindfold up, I find I‘m in my old room at the Training Center. The one where I lived during those last precious days before my first Hunger Games and the Quarter Quell.
The bed‘s stripped to the mattress, the closet gapes open, showing the emptiness inside, but I‘d know this room anywhere.
It‘s a struggle to get to my feet and peel off my Mockingjay suit. I‘m badly bruised and might have a broken finger or two, but it‘s my skin that‘s paid most dearly for my struggle with the guards. The new
pink stuff has shredded like tissue paper and blood seeps through the laboratory-grown cells. No medics show up, though, and as I‘m too far gone to care, I crawl up onto the mattress, expecting to bleed
to death.
No such luck. By evening, the blood clots, leaving me stiff and sore and sticky but alive. I limp into the shower and program in the gentlest cycle I can remember, free of any soaps and hair products,
and squat under the warm spray, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.
My name is Katniss Everdeen. Why am I not dead? I should be dead. It would be best for everyone if I were dead…
When I step out on the mat, the hot air bakes my damaged skin dry. There‘s nothing clean to put on. Not even a towel to wrap around me. Back in the room, I find the Mockingjay suit has disappeared.
In its place is a paper robe. A meal has been sent up from the mysterious kitchen with a container of my medications for dessert. I go ahead and eat the food, take the pills, rub the salve on my skin. I need
to focus now on the manner of my suicide.
I curl back up on the bloodstained mattress, not cold but feeling so naked with just the paper to cover my tender flesh. Jumping to my death‘s not an option—the window glass must be a foot thick. I can
make an excellent noose, but there‘s nothing to hang myself from. It‘s possible I could hoard my pills and then knock myself off with a lethal dose, except that I‘m sure I‘m being watched round the clock. For
all I know, I‘m on live television at this very moment while commentators try to analyze what could possibly have motivated me to kill Coin. The surveillance makes almost any suicide attempt impossible.
Taking my life is the Capitol‘s privilege. Again.
What I can do is give up. I resolve to lie on the bed without eating, drinking, or taking my medications. I could do it, too. Just die. If it weren‘t for the morphling withdrawal. Not bit by bit like in the hospital
in 13, but cold turkey. I must have been on a fairly large dose because when the craving for it hits, accompanied by tremors, and shooting pains, and unbearable cold, my resolve‘s crushed like an
eggshell. I‘m on my knees, raking the carpet with my fingernails to find those precious pills I flung away in a stronger moment. I revise my suicide plan to slow death by morphling. I will become a yellowskinned
bag of bones, with enormous eyes. I‘m a couple of days into the plan, making good progress, when something unexpected happens.
I begin to sing. At the window, in the shower, in my sleep. Hour after hour of ballads, love songs, mountain airs. All the songs my father taught me before he died, for certainly there has been very little
music in my life since. What‘s amazing is how clearly I remember them. The tunes, the lyrics. My voice, at first rough and breaking on the high notes, warms up into something splendid. A voice that would
make the mockingjays fall silent and then tumble over themselves to join in. Days pass, weeks. I watch the snows fall on the ledge outside my window. And in all that time, mine is the only voice I hear.
What are they doing, anyway? What‘s the holdup out there? How difficult can it be to arrange the execution of one murderous girl? I continue with my own annihilation. My body‘s thinner than it‘s ever
been and my battle against hunger is so fierce that sometimes the animal part of me gives in to the temptation of buttered bread or roasted meat. But still, I‘m winning. For a few days I feel quite unwell and
think I may finally be traveling out of this life, when I realize my morphling tablets are shrinking. They are trying to slowly wean me off the stuff. But why? Surely a drugged Mockingjay will be easier to
dispose of in front of a crowd. And then a terrible thought hits me: What if they‘re not going to kill me? What if they have more plans for me? A new way to remake, train, and use me?
In the stunned reaction that follows, I‘m aware of one sound. Snow‘s laughter. An awful gurgling cackle accompanied by an eruption of foamy blood when the coughing begins. I see him bend forward,
spewing out his life, until the guards block him from my sight.
As the gray uniforms begin to converge on me, I think of what my brief future as the assassin of Panem‘s new president holds. The interrogation, probable torture, certain public execution. Having, yet
again, to say my final goodbyes to the handful of people who still maintain a hold on my heart. The prospect of facing my mother, who will now be entirely alone in the world, decides it.
“Good night,” I whisper to the bow in my hand and feel it go still. I raise my left arm and twist my neck down to rip off the pill on my sleeve. Instead my teeth sink into flesh. I yank my head back in
confusion to find myself looking into Peeta‘s eyes, only now they hold my gaze. Blood runs from the teeth marks on the hand he clamped over my nightlock. “Let me go!” I snarl at him, trying to wrest my
arm from his grasp.
“I can‘t,” he says. As they pull me away from him, I feel the pocket ripped from my sleeve, see the deep violet pill fall to the ground, watch Cinna‘s last gift get crunched under a guard‘s boot. I transform
into a wild animal, kicking, clawing, biting, doing whatever I can to free myself from this web of hands as the crowd pushes in. The guards lift me up above the fray, where I continue to thrash as I‘m
conveyed over the crush of people. I start screaming for Gale. I can‘t find him in the throng, but he will know what I want. A good clean shot to end it all. Only there‘s no arrow, no bullet. Is it possible he can‘t
see me? No. Above us, on the giant screens placed around the City Circle, everyone can watch the whole thing being played out. He sees, he knows, but he doesn‘t follow through. Just as I didn‘t when he
was captured. Sorry excuses for hunters and friends. Both of us.
I‘m on my own.
In the mansion, they handcuff and blindfold me. I‘m half dragged, half carried down long passages, up and down elevators, and deposited on a carpeted floor. The cuffs are removed and a door slams
closed behind me. When I push the blindfold up, I find I‘m in my old room at the Training Center. The one where I lived during those last precious days before my first Hunger Games and the Quarter Quell.
The bed‘s stripped to the mattress, the closet gapes open, showing the emptiness inside, but I‘d know this room anywhere.
It‘s a struggle to get to my feet and peel off my Mockingjay suit. I‘m badly bruised and might have a broken finger or two, but it‘s my skin that‘s paid most dearly for my struggle with the guards. The new
pink stuff has shredded like tissue paper and blood seeps through the laboratory-grown cells. No medics show up, though, and as I‘m too far gone to care, I crawl up onto the mattress, expecting to bleed
to death.
No such luck. By evening, the blood clots, leaving me stiff and sore and sticky but alive. I limp into the shower and program in the gentlest cycle I can remember, free of any soaps and hair products,
and squat under the warm spray, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.
My name is Katniss Everdeen. Why am I not dead? I should be dead. It would be best for everyone if I were dead…
When I step out on the mat, the hot air bakes my damaged skin dry. There‘s nothing clean to put on. Not even a towel to wrap around me. Back in the room, I find the Mockingjay suit has disappeared.
In its place is a paper robe. A meal has been sent up from the mysterious kitchen with a container of my medications for dessert. I go ahead and eat the food, take the pills, rub the salve on my skin. I need
to focus now on the manner of my suicide.
I curl back up on the bloodstained mattress, not cold but feeling so naked with just the paper to cover my tender flesh. Jumping to my death‘s not an option—the window glass must be a foot thick. I can
make an excellent noose, but there‘s nothing to hang myself from. It‘s possible I could hoard my pills and then knock myself off with a lethal dose, except that I‘m sure I‘m being watched round the clock. For
all I know, I‘m on live television at this very moment while commentators try to analyze what could possibly have motivated me to kill Coin. The surveillance makes almost any suicide attempt impossible.
Taking my life is the Capitol‘s privilege. Again.
What I can do is give up. I resolve to lie on the bed without eating, drinking, or taking my medications. I could do it, too. Just die. If it weren‘t for the morphling withdrawal. Not bit by bit like in the hospital
in 13, but cold turkey. I must have been on a fairly large dose because when the craving for it hits, accompanied by tremors, and shooting pains, and unbearable cold, my resolve‘s crushed like an
eggshell. I‘m on my knees, raking the carpet with my fingernails to find those precious pills I flung away in a stronger moment. I revise my suicide plan to slow death by morphling. I will become a yellowskinned
bag of bones, with enormous eyes. I‘m a couple of days into the plan, making good progress, when something unexpected happens.
I begin to sing. At the window, in the shower, in my sleep. Hour after hour of ballads, love songs, mountain airs. All the songs my father taught me before he died, for certainly there has been very little
music in my life since. What‘s amazing is how clearly I remember them. The tunes, the lyrics. My voice, at first rough and breaking on the high notes, warms up into something splendid. A voice that would
make the mockingjays fall silent and then tumble over themselves to join in. Days pass, weeks. I watch the snows fall on the ledge outside my window. And in all that time, mine is the only voice I hear.
What are they doing, anyway? What‘s the holdup out there? How difficult can it be to arrange the execution of one murderous girl? I continue with my own annihilation. My body‘s thinner than it‘s ever
been and my battle against hunger is so fierce that sometimes the animal part of me gives in to the temptation of buttered bread or roasted meat. But still, I‘m winning. For a few days I feel quite unwell and
think I may finally be traveling out of this life, when I realize my morphling tablets are shrinking. They are trying to slowly wean me off the stuff. But why? Surely a drugged Mockingjay will be easier to
dispose of in front of a crowd. And then a terrible thought hits me: What if they‘re not going to kill me? What if they have more plans for me? A new way to remake, train, and use me?
I won‘t do it. If I can‘t kill myself in this room, I will take the first opportunity outside of it to finish the job. They can fatten me up. They can give me a full body polish, dress me up, and make me beautiful
again. They can design dream weapons that come to life in my hands, but they will never again brainwash me into the necessity of using them. I no longer feel any allegiance to these monsters called
human beings, despise being one myself. I think that Peeta was onto something about us destroying one another and letting some decent species take over. Because something is significantly wrong with
a creature that sacrifices its children‘s lives to settle its differences. You can spin it any way you like. Snow thought the Hunger Games were an efficient means of control. Coin thought the parachutes
would expedite the war. But in the end, who does it benefit? No one. The truth is, it benefits no one to live in a world where these things happen.
After two days of my lying on my mattress with no attempt to eat, drink, or even take a morphling tablet, the door to my room opens. Someone crosses around the bed into my field of vision. Haymitch.
“Your trial‘s over,” he says. “Come on. We‘re going home.”
Home? What‘s he talking about? My home‘s gone. And even if it were possible to go to this imaginary place, I am too weak to move. Strangers appear. Rehydrate and feed me. Bathe and clothe me.
One lifts me like a rag doll and carries me up to the roof, onto a hovercraft, and fastens me into a seat. Haymitch and Plutarch sit across from me. In a few moments, we‘re airborne.
I‘ve never seen Plutarch in such a good mood. He‘s positively glowing. “You must have a million questions!” When I don‘t respond, he answers them anyway.
After I shot Coin, there was pandemonium. When the ruckus died down, they discovered Snow‘s body, still tethered to the post. Opinions differ on whether he choked to death while laughing or was
crushed by the crowd. No one really cares. An emergency election was thrown together and Paylor was voted in as president. Plutarch was appointed secretary of communications, which means he sets
the programming for the airwaves. The first big televised event was my trial, in which he was also a star witness. In my defense, of course. Although most of the credit for my exoneration must be given to
Dr. Aurelius, who apparently earned his naps by presenting me as a hopeless, shell-shocked lunatic. One condition for my release is that I‘ll continue under his care, although it will have to be by phone
because he‘d never live in a forsaken place like 12, and I‘m confined there until further notice. The truth is, no one quite knows what to do with me now that the war‘s over, although if another one should
spring up, Plutarch‘s sure they could find a role for me. Then Plutarch has a good laugh. It never seems to bother him when no one else appreciates his jokes.
“Are you preparing for another war, Plutarch?” I ask.
“Oh, not now. Now we‘re in that sweet period where everyone agrees that our recent horrors should never be repeated,” he says. “But collective thinking is usually short-lived. We‘re fickle, stupid
beings with poor memories and a great gift for self-destruction. Although who knows? Maybe this will be it, Katniss.”
“What?” I ask.
“The time it sticks. Maybe we are witnessing the evolution of the human race. Think about that.” And then he asks me if I‘d like to perform on a new singing program he‘s launching in a few weeks.
Something upbeat would be good. He‘ll send the crew to my house.
We land briefly in District 3 to drop off Plutarch. He‘s meeting with Beetee to update the technology on the broadcast system. His parting words to me are “Don‘t be a stranger.”
When we‘re back among the clouds, I look at Haymitch. “So why are you going back to Twelve?”
“They can‘t seem to find a place for me in the Capitol either,” he says.
At first, I don‘t question this. But doubts begin to creep in. Haymitch hasn‘t assassinated anyone. He could go anywhere. If he‘s coming back to 12, it‘s because he‘s been ordered to. “You have to look
after me, don‘t you? As my mentor?” He shrugs. Then I realize what it means. “My mother‘s not coming back.”
“No,” he says. He pulls an envelope from his jacket pocket and hands it to me. I examine the delicate, perfectly formed writing. “She‘s helping to start up a hospital in District Four. She wants you to call
as soon as we get in.” My finger traces the graceful swoop of the letters. “You know why she can‘t come back.” Yes, I know why. Because between my father and Prim and the ashes, the place is too
painful to bear. But apparently not for me. “Do you want to know who else won‘t be there?”
“No,” I say. “I want to be surprised.”
Like a good mentor, Haymitch makes me eat a sandwich and then pretends he believes I‘m asleep for the rest of the trip. He busies himself going through every compartment on the hovercraft, finding
the liquor, and stowing it in his bag. It‘s night when we land on the green of the Victor‘s Village. Half of the houses have lights in the windows, including Haymitch‘s and mine. Not Peeta‘s. Someone has
built a fire in my kitchen. I sit in the rocker before it, clutching my mother‘s letter.
“Well, see you tomorrow,” says Haymitch.
As the clinking of his bag of liquor bottles fades away, I whisper, “I doubt it.”
I am unable to move from the chair. The rest of the house looms cold and empty and dark. I pull an old shawl over my body and watch the flames. I guess I sleep, because the next thing I know, it‘s
morning and Greasy Sae‘s banging around at the stove. She makes me eggs and toast and sits there until I‘ve eaten it all. We don‘t talk much. Her little granddaughter, the one who lives in her own world,
takes a bright blue ball of yarn from my mother‘s knitting basket. Greasy Sae tells her to put it back, but I say she can have it. No one in this house can knit anymore. After breakfast, Greasy Sae does the
dishes and leaves, but she comes back up at dinnertime to make me eat again. I don‘t know if she‘s just being neighborly or if she‘s on the government‘s payroll, but she shows up twice every day. She
cooks, I consume. I try to figure out my next move. There‘s no obstacle now to taking my life. But I seem to be waiting for something.
Sometimes the phone rings and rings and rings, but I don‘t pick it up. Haymitch never visits. Maybe he changed his mind and left, although I suspect he‘s just drunk. No one comes but Greasy Sae and
her granddaughter. After months of solitary confinement, they seem like a crowd.
“Spring‘s in the air today. You ought to get out,” she says. “Go hunting.”
I haven‘t left the house. I haven‘t even left the kitchen except to go to the small bathroom a few steps off of it. I‘m in the same clothes I left the Capitol in. What I do is sit by the fire. Stare at the unopened letters piling up on the mantel. “I don‘t have a bow.”
“Check down the hall,” she says.
After she leaves, I consider a trip down the hall. Rule it out. But after several hours, I go anyway, walking in silent sock feet, so as not to awaken the ghosts. In the study, where I had my tea with
President Snow, I find a box with my father‘s hunting jacket, our plant book, my parents‘ wedding photo, the spile Haymitch sent in, and the locket Peeta gave me in the clock arena. The two bows and a
sheath of arrows Gale rescued on the night of the firebombing lie on the desk. I put on the hunting jacket and leave the rest of the stuff untouched. I fall asleep on the sofa in the formal living room. A terrible
nightmare follows, where I‘m lying at the bottom of a deep grave, and every dead person I know by name comes by and throws a shovel full of ashes on me. It‘s quite a long dream, considering the list of
people, and the deeper I‘m buried, the harder it is to breathe. I try to call out, begging them to stop, but the ashes fill my mouth and nose and I can‘t make any sound. Still the shovel scrapes on and on and
on…
I wake with a start. Pale morning light comes around the edges of the shutters. The scraping of the shovel continues. Still half in the nightmare, I run down the hall, out the front door, and around the side
of the house, because now I‘m pretty sure I can scream at the dead. When I see him, I pull up short. His face is flushed from digging up the ground under the windows. In a wheelbarrow are five scraggly
bushes.
“You‘re back,” I say.
“Dr. Aurelius wouldn‘t let me leave the Capitol until yesterday,” Peeta says. “By the way, he said to tell you he can‘t keep pretending he‘s treating you forever. You have to pick up the phone.”
He looks well. Thin and covered with burn scars like me, but his eyes have lost that clouded, tortured look. He‘s frowning slightly, though, as he takes me in. I make a halfhearted effort to push my hair
out of my eyes and realize it‘s matted into clumps. I feel defensive. “What are you doing?”
“I went to the woods this morning and dug these up. For her,” he says. “I thought we could plant them along the side of the house.”
I look at the bushes, the clods of dirt hanging from their roots, and catch my breath as the word rose registers. I‘m about to yell vicious things at Peeta when the full name comes to me. Not plain rose
but evening primrose. The flower my sister was named for. I give Peeta a nod of assent and hurry back into the house, locking the door behind me. But the evil thing is inside, not out. Trembling with
weakness and anxiety, I run up the stairs. My foot catches on the last step and I crash onto the floor. I force myself to rise and enter my room. The smell‘s very faint but still laces the air. It‘s there. The white
rose among the dried flowers in the vase. Shriveled and fragile, but holding on to that unnatural perfection cultivated in Snow‘s greenhouse. I grab the vase, stumble down to the kitchen, and throw its
contents into the embers. As the flowers flare up, a burst of blue flame envelops the rose and devours it. Fire beats roses again. I smash the vase on the floor for good measure.
Back upstairs, I throw open the bedroom windows to clear out the rest of Snow‘s stench. But it still lingers, on my clothes and in my pores. I strip, and flakes of skin the size of playing cards cling to the
garments. Avoiding the mirror, I step into the shower and scrub the roses from my hair, my body, my mouth. Bright pink and tingling, I find something clean to wear. It takes half an hour to comb out my hair.
Greasy Sae unlocks the front door. While she makes breakfast, I feed the clothes I had shed to the fire. At her suggestion, I pare off my nails with a knife.
Over the eggs, I ask her, “Where did Gale go?”
“District Two. Got some fancy job there. I see him now and again on the television,” she says.
I dig around inside myself, trying to register anger, hatred, longing. I find only relief.
“I‘m going hunting today,” I say.
“Well, I wouldn‘t mind some fresh game at that,” she answers.
I arm myself with a bow and arrows and head out, intending to exit 12 through the Meadow. Near the square are teams of masked and gloved people with horse-drawn carts. Sifting through what lay
under the snow this winter. Gathering remains. A cart‘s parked in front of the mayor‘s house. I recognize Thom, Gale‘s old crewmate, pausing a moment to wipe the sweat from his face with a rag. I
remember seeing him in 13, but he must have come back. His greeting gives me the courage to ask, “Did they find anyone in there?”
“Whole family. And the two people who worked for them,” Thom tells me.
Madge. Quiet and kind and brave. The girl who gave me the pin that gave me a name. I swallow hard. Wonder if she‘ll be joining the cast of my nightmares tonight. Shoveling the ashes into my mouth.
“I thought maybe, since he was the mayor…”
“I don‘t think being the mayor of Twelve put the odds in his favor,” says Thom.
I nod and keep moving, careful not to look in the back of the cart. All through the town and the Seam, it‘s the same. The reaping of the dead. As I near the ruins of my old house, the road becomes thick
with carts. The Meadow‘s gone, or at least dramatically altered. A deep pit has been dug, and they‘re lining it with bones, a mass grave for my people. I skirt around the hole and enter the woods at my
usual place. It doesn‘t matter, though. The fence isn‘t charged anymore and has been propped up with long branches to keep out the predators. But old habits die hard. I think about going to the lake, but
I‘m so weak that I barely make it to my meeting place with Gale. I sit on the rock where Cressida filmed us, but it‘s too wide without his body beside me. Several times I close my eyes and count to ten,
thinking that when I open them, he will have materialized without a sound as he so often did. I have to remind myself that Gale‘s in 2 with a fancy job, probably kissing another pair of lips.
It is the old Katniss‘s favorite kind of day. Early spring. The woods awakening after the long winter. But the spurt of energy that began with the primroses fades away. By the time I make it back to the
fence, I‘m so sick and dizzy, Thom has to give me a ride home in the dead people‘s cart. Help me to the sofa in the living room, where I watch the dust motes spin in the thin shafts of afternoon light.
My head snaps around at the hiss, but it takes awhile to believe he‘s real. How could he have gotten here? I take in the claw marks from some wild animal, the back paw he holds slightly above the
ground, the prominent bones in his face. He‘s come on foot, then, all the way from 13. Maybe they kicked him out or maybe he just couldn‘t stand it there without her, so he came looking.
meow hopefully. “Get out!” He dodges the pillow I throw at him. “Go away! There‘s nothing left for you here!” I start to shake, furious with him. “She‘s not coming back! She‘s never ever coming back here
again!” I grab another pillow and get to my feet to improve my aim. Out of nowhere, the tears begin to pour down my cheeks. “She‘s dead.” I clutch my middle to dull the pain. Sink down on my heels,
rocking the pillow, crying. “She‘s dead, you stupid cat. She‘s dead.” A new sound, part crying, part singing, comes out of my body, giving voice to my despair. Buttercup begins to wail as well. No matter
what I do, he won‘t go. He circles me, just out of reach, as wave after wave of sobs racks my body, until eventually I fall unconscious. But he must understand. He must know that the unthinkable has
happened and to survive will require previously unthinkable acts. Because hours later, when I come to in my bed, he‘s there in the moonlight. Crouched beside me, yellow eyes alert, guarding me from the
night.
In the morning, he sits stoically as I clean the cuts, but digging the thorn from his paw brings on a round of those kitten mews. We both end up crying again, only this time we comfort each other. On the
strength of this, I open the letter Haymitch gave me from my mother, dial the phone number, and weep with her as well. Peeta, bearing a warm loaf of bread, shows up with Greasy Sae. She makes us
breakfast and I feed all my bacon to Buttercup.
Slowly, with many lost days, I come back to life. I try to follow Dr. Aurelius‘s advice, just going through the motions, amazed when one finally has meaning again. I tell him my idea about the book, and a
large box of parchment sheets arrives on the next train from the Capitol.
I got the idea from our family‘s plant book. The place where we recorded those things you cannot trust to memory. The page begins with the person‘s picture. A photo if we can find it. If not, a sketch or
painting by Peeta. Then, in my most careful handwriting, come all the details it would be a crime to forget. Lady licking Prim‘s cheek. My father‘s laugh. Peeta‘s father with the cookies. The color of
Finnick‘s eyes. What Cinna could do with a length of silk. Boggs reprogramming the Holo. Rue poised on her toes, arms slightly extended, like a bird about to take flight. On and on. We seal the pages
with salt water and promises to live well to make their deaths count. Haymitch finally joins us, contributing twenty-three years of tributes he was forced to mentor. Additions become smaller. An old memory
that surfaces. A late primrose preserved between the pages. Strange bits of happiness, like the photo of Finnick and Annie‘s newborn son.
We learn to keep busy again. Peeta bakes. I hunt. Haymitch drinks until the liquor runs out, and then raises geese until the next train arrives. Fortunately, the geese can take pretty good care of
themselves. We‘re not alone. A few hundred others return because, whatever has happened, this is our home. With the mines closed, they plow the ashes into the earth and plant food. Machines from the
Capitol break ground for a new factory where we will make medicines. Although no one seeds it, the Meadow turns green again.
Peeta and I grow back together. There are still moments when he clutches the back of a chair and hangs on until the flashbacks are over. I wake screaming from nightmares of mutts and lost children.
But his arms are there to comfort me. And eventually his lips. On the night I feel that thing again, the hunger that overtook me on the beach, I know this would have happened anyway. That what I need to
survive is not Gale‘s fire, kindled with rage and hatred. I have plenty of fire myself. What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that
life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again. And only Peeta can give me that.
So after, when he whispers, “You love me. Real or not real?”
I tell him, “Real.”

Mockingjay Chapter 26

2012-03-02T18:29:00.000-08:00

Mockingjay Part 3: The Assassin

Chapter 26

Out in the hall, I find Paylor standing in exactly the same spot. “Did you find what you were looking for?” she asks.
I hold up the white bud in answer and then stumble past her. I must have made it back to my room, because the next thing I know, I‘m filling a glass with water from the bathroom faucet and sticking the
rose in it. I sink to my knees on the cold tile and squint at the flower, as the whiteness seems hard to focus on in the stark fluorescent light. My finger catches the inside of my bracelet, twisting it like a
tourniquet, hurting my wrist. I‘m hoping the pain will help me hang on to reality the way it did for Peeta. I must hang on. I must know the truth about what has happened.
There are two possibilities, although the details associated with them may vary. First, as I‘ve believed, that the Capitol sent in that hovercraft, dropped the parachutes, and sacrificed its children‘s lives,
knowing the recently arrived rebels would go to their aid. There‘s evidence to support this. The Capitol‘s seal on the hovercraft, the lack of any attempt to blow the enemy out of the sky, and their long
history of using children as pawns in their battle against the districts. Then there‘s Snow‘s account. That a Capitol hovercraft manned by rebels bombed the children to bring a speedy end to the war. But if
this was the case, why didn‘t the Capitol fire on the enemy? Did the element of surprise throw them? Had they no defenses left? Children are precious to 13, or so it has always seemed. Well, not me,
maybe. Once I had outlived my usefulness, I was expendable. Although I think it‘s been a long time since I‘ve been considered a child in this war. And why would they do it knowing their own medics would
likely respond and be taken out by the second blast? They wouldn‘t. They couldn‘t. Snow‘s lying. Manipulating me as he always has. Hoping to turn me against the rebels and possibly destroy them. Yes.
Of course.
Then what‘s nagging at me? Those double-exploding bombs, for one. It‘s not that the Capitol couldn‘t have the same weapon, it‘s just that I‘m sure the rebels did. Gale and Beetee‘s brainchild. Then
there‘s the fact that Snow made no escape attempt, when I know him to be the consummate survivor. It seems hard to believe he didn‘t have a retreat somewhere, some bunker stocked with provisions
where he could live out the rest of his snaky little life. And finally, there‘s his assessment of Coin. What‘s irrefutable is that she‘s done exactly what he said. Let the Capitol and the districts run one another
into the ground and then sauntered in to take power. Even if that was her plan, it doesn‘t mean she dropped those parachutes. Victory was already in her grasp. Everything was in her grasp.
Except me.
I recall Boggs‘s response when I admitted I hadn‘t put much thought into Snow‘s successor. “If your immediate answer isn‘t Coin, then you‘re a threat. You‘re the face of the rebellion. You may have
more influence than any other single person. Outwardly, the most you‘ve ever done is tolerated her.”
Suddenly, I‘m thinking of Prim, who was not yet fourteen, not yet old enough to be granted the title of soldier, but somehow working on the front lines. How did such a thing happen? That my sister
would have wanted to be there, I have no doubt. That she would be more capable than many older than she is a given. But for all that, someone very high up would have had to approve putting a thirteenyear-
old in combat. Did Coin do it, hoping that losing Prim would push me completely over the edge? Or, at least, firmly on her side? I wouldn‘t even have had to witness it in person. Numerous cameras
would be covering the City Circle. Capturing the moment forever.
No, now I am going crazy, slipping into some state of paranoia. Too many people would know of the mission. Word would get out. Or would it? Who would have to know besides Coin, Plutarch, and a
small, loyal or easily disposable crew?
I badly need help working this out, only everyone I trust is dead. Cinna. Boggs. Finnick. Prim. There‘s Peeta, but he couldn‘t do any more than speculate, and who knows what state his mind‘s in,
anyway. And that leaves only Gale. He‘s far away, but even if he were beside me, could I confide in him? What could I say, how could I phrase it, without implying that it was his bomb that killed Prim? The
impossibility of that idea, more than any, is why Snow must be lying.
Ultimately, there‘s only one person to turn to who might know what happened and might still be on my side. To broach the subject at all will be a risk. But while I think Haymitch might gamble with my life
in the arena, I don‘t think he‘d rat me out to Coin. Whatever problems we may have with each other, we prefer resolving our differences one-on-one.
I scramble off the tiles, out the door, and across the hall to his room. When there‘s no response to my knock, I push inside. Ugh. It‘s amazing how quickly he can defile a space. Half-eaten plates of
food, shattered liquor bottles, and pieces of broken furniture from a drunken rampage scatter his quarters. He lies, unkempt and unwashed, in a tangle of sheets on the bed, passed out.
“Haymitch,” I say, shaking his leg. Of course, that‘s insufficient. But I give it a few more tries before I dump the pitcher of water in his face. He comes to with a gasp, slashing blindly with his knife.
Apparently, the end of Snow‘s reign didn‘t equal the end of his terror.
“Oh. You,” he says. I can tell by his voice that he‘s still loaded.
“Haymitch,” I begin.
“Listen to that. The Mockingjay found her voice.” He laughs. “Well, Plutarch‘s going to be happy.” He takes a swig from a bottle. “Why am I soaking wet?” I lamely drop the pitcher behind me into a pile
of dirty clothes.
“I need your help,” I say.
Haymitch belches, filling the air with white liquor fumes. “What is it, sweetheart? More boy trouble?” I don‘t know why, but this hurts me in a way Haymitch rarely can. It must show on my face, because
even in his drunken state, he tries to take it back. “Okay, not funny.” I‘m already at the door. “Not funny! Come back!” By the thud of his body hitting the floor, I assume he tried to follow me, but there‘s no even in his drunken state, he tries to take it back. “Okay, not funny.” I‘m already at the door. “Not funny! Come back!” By the thud of his body hitting the floor, I assume he tried to follow me, but there‘s no
point.
I zigzag through the mansion and disappear into a wardrobe full of silken things. I yank them from hangers until I have a pile and then burrow into it. In the lining of my pocket, I find a stray morphling
tablet and swallow it dry, heading off my rising hysteria. It‘s not enough to right things, though. I hear Haymitch calling me in the distance, but he won‘t find me in his condition. Especially not in this new spot.
Swathed in silk, I feel like a caterpillar in a cocoon awaiting metamorphosis. I always supposed that to be a peaceful condition. At first it is. But as I journey into night, I feel more and more trapped,
suffocated by the slippery bindings, unable to emerge until I have transformed into something of beauty. I squirm, trying to shed my ruined body and unlock the secret to growing flawless wings. Despite
enormous effort, I remain a hideous creature, fired into my current form by the blast from the bombs.
The encounter with Snow opens the door to my old repertoire of nightmares. It‘s like being stung by tracker jackers again. A wave of horrifying images with a brief respite I confuse with waking—only to
find another wave knocking me back. When the guards finally locate me, I‘m sitting on the floor of the wardrobe, tangled in silk, screaming my head off. I fight them at first, until they convince me they‘re
trying to help, peel away the choking garments, and escort me back to my room. On the way, we pass a window and I see a gray, snowy dawn spreading across the Capitol.
A very hungover Haymitch waits with a handful of pills and a tray of food that neither of us has the stomach for. He makes a feeble attempt to get me to talk again but, seeing it‘s pointless, sends me to
a bath someone has drawn. The tub‘s deep, with three steps to the bottom. I ease down into the warm water and sit, up to my neck in suds, hoping the medicines kick in soon. My eyes focus on the rose
that has spread its petals overnight, filling the steamy air with its strong perfume. I rise and reach for a towel to smother it, when there‘s a tentative knock and the bathroom door opens, revealing three
familiar faces. They try to smile at me, but even Venia can‘t conceal her shock at my ravaged mutt body. “Surprise!” Octavia squeaks, and then bursts into tears. I‘m puzzling over their reappearance when
I realize that this must be it, the day of the execution. They‘ve come to prep me for the cameras. Remake me to Beauty Base Zero. No wonder Octavia‘s crying. It‘s an impossible task.
They can barely touch my patchwork of skin for fear of hurting me, so I rinse and dry off myself. I tell them I hardly notice the pain anymore, but Flavius still winces as he drapes a robe around me. In the
bedroom, I find another surprise. Sitting upright in a chair. Polished from her metallic gold wig to her patent leather high heels, gripping a clipboard. Remarkably unchanged except for the vacant look in
her eyes.
“Effie,” I say.
“Hello, Katniss.” She stands and kisses me on the cheek as if nothing has occurred since our last meeting, the night before the Quarter Quell. “Well, it looks like we‘ve got another big, big, big day
ahead of us. So why don‘t you start your prep and I‘ll just pop over and check on the arrangements.”
“Okay,” I say to her back.
“They say Plutarch and Haymitch had a hard time keeping her alive,” comments Venia under her breath. “She was imprisoned after your escape, so that helps.”
It‘s quite a stretch. Effie Trinket, rebel. But I don‘t want Coin killing her, so I make a mental note to present her that way if asked. “I guess it‘s good Plutarch kidnapped you three after all.”
“We‘re the only prep team still alive. And all the stylists from the Quarter Quell are dead,” says Venia. She doesn‘t say who specifically killed them. I‘m beginning to wonder if it matters. She gingerly
takes one of my scarred hands and holds it out for inspection. “Now, what do you think for the nails? Red or maybe a jet black?”
Flavius performs some beauty miracle on my hair, managing to even out the front while getting some of the longer locks to hide the bald spots in the back. My face, since it was spared from the
flames, presents no more than the usual challenges. Once I‘m in Cinna‘s Mockingjay suit, the only scars visible are on my neck, forearms, and hands. Octavia secures my Mockingjay pin over my heart and
we step back to look in the mirror. I can‘t believe how normal they‘ve made me look on the outside when inwardly I‘m such a wasteland.
There‘s a tap at the door and Gale steps in. “Can I have a minute?” he asks. In the mirror, I watch my prep team. Unsure of where to go, they bump into one another a few times and then closet
themselves in the bathroom. Gale comes up behind me and we examine each other‘s reflection. I‘m searching for something to hang on to, some sign of the girl and boy who met by chance in the woods
five years ago and became inseparable. I‘m wondering what would have happened to them if the Hunger Games had not reaped the girl. If she would have fallen in love with the boy, married him even. And
sometime in the future, when the brothers and sisters had been raised up, escaped with him into the woods and left 12 behind forever. Would they have been happy, out in the wild, or would the dark,
twisted sadness between them have grown up even without the Capitol‘s help?
“I brought you this.” Gale holds up a sheath. When I take it, I notice it holds a single, ordinary arrow. “It‘s supposed to be symbolic. You firing the last shot of the war.”
“What if I miss?” I say. “Does Coin retrieve it and bring it back to me? Or just shoot Snow through the head herself?”
“You won‘t miss.” Gale adjusts the sheath on my shoulder.
We stand there, face-to-face, not meeting each other‘s eyes. “You didn‘t come see me in the hospital.” He doesn‘t answer, so finally I just say it. “Was it your bomb?”
“I don‘t know. Neither does Beetee,” he says. “Does it matter? You‘ll always be thinking about it.”
He waits for me to deny it; I want to deny it, but it‘s true. Even now I can see the flash that ignites her, feel the heat of the flames. And I will never be able to separate that moment from Gale. My silence
is my answer.
“That was the one thing I had going for me. Taking care of your family,” he says. “Shoot straight, okay?” He touches my cheek and leaves. I want to call him back and tell him that I was wrong. That I‘ll
figure out a way to make peace with this. To remember the circumstances under which he created the bomb. Take into account my own inexcusable crimes. Dig up the truth about who dropped the
parachutes. Prove it wasn‘t the rebels. Forgive him. But since I can‘t, I‘ll just have to deal with the pain.
Effie comes in to usher me to some kind of meeting. I collect my bow and at the last minute remember the rose, glistening in its glass of water. When I open the door to the bathroom, I find my prep
team sitting in a row on the edge of the tub, hunched and defeated. I remember I‘m not the only one whose world has been stripped away. “Come on,” I tell them. “We‘ve got an audience waiting.”
I‘m expecting a production meeting in which Plutarch instructs me where to stand and gives me my cue for shooting Snow. Instead, I find myself sent into a room where six people sit around a table.
Peeta, Johanna, Beetee, Haymitch, Annie, and Enobaria. They all wear the gray rebel uniforms from 13. No one looks particularly well. “What‘s this?” I say.
“We‘re not sure,” Haymitch answers. “It appears to be a gathering of the remaining victors.”
“We‘re all that‘s left?” I ask.
“The price of celebrity,” says Beetee. “We were targeted from both sides. The Capitol killed the victors they suspected of being rebels. The rebels killed those thought to be allied with the Capitol.”
Johanna scowls at Enobaria. “So what‘s she doing here?”
“She is protected under what we call the Mockingjay Deal,” says Coin as she enters behind me. “Wherein Katniss Everdeen agreed to support the rebels in exchange for captured victors‘ immunity.
Katniss has upheld her side of the bargain, and so shall we.”
Enobaria smiles at Johanna. “Don‘t look so smug,” says Johanna. “We‘ll kill you anyway.”
“Sit down, please, Katniss,” says Coin, closing the door. I take a seat between Annie and Beetee, carefully placing Snow‘s rose on the table. As usual, Coin gets right to the point. “I‘ve asked you here
to settle a debate. Today we will execute Snow. In the previous weeks, hundreds of his accomplices in the oppression of Panem have been tried and now await their own deaths. However, the suffering in
the districts has been so extreme that these measures appear insufficient to the victims. In fact, many are calling for a complete annihilation of those who held Capitol citizenship. However, in the interest of
maintaining a sustainable population, we cannot afford this.”
Through the water in the glass, I see a distorted image of one of Peeta‘s hands. The burn marks. We are both fire mutts now. My eyes travel up to where the flames licked across his forehead,
singeing away his brows but just missing his eyes. Those same blue eyes that used to meet mine and then flit away at school. Just as they do now.
“So, an alternative has been placed on the table. Since my colleagues and I can come to no consensus, it has been agreed that we will let the victors decide. A majority of four will approve the plan. No
one may abstain from the vote,” says Coin. “What has been proposed is that in lieu of eliminating the entire Capitol population, we have a final, symbolic Hunger Games, using the children directly related
to those who held the most power.”
All seven of us turn to her. “What?” says Johanna.
“We hold another Hunger Games using Capitol children,” says Coin.
“Are you joking?” asks Peeta.
“No. I should also tell you that if we do hold the Games, it will be known it was done with your approval, although the individual breakdown of your votes will be kept secret for your own security,” Coin
tells us.
“Was this Plutarch‘s idea?” asks Haymitch.
“It was mine,” says Coin. “It seemed to balance the need for vengeance with the least loss of life. You may cast your votes.”
“No!” bursts out Peeta. “I vote no, of course! We can‘t have another Hunger Games!”
“Why not?” Johanna retorts. “It seems very fair to me. Snow even has a granddaughter. I vote yes.”
“So do I,” says Enobaria, almost indifferently. “Let them have a taste of their own medicine.”
“This is why we rebelled! Remember?” Peeta looks at the rest of us. “Annie?”
“I vote no with Peeta,” she says. “So would Finnick if he were here.”
“But he isn‘t, because Snow‘s mutts killed him,” Johanna reminds her.
“No,” says Beetee. “It would set a bad precedent. We have to stop viewing one another as enemies. At this point, unity is essential for our survival. No.”
“We‘re down to Katniss and Haymitch,” says Coin.
Was it like this then? Seventy-five years or so ago? Did a group of people sit around and cast their votes on initiating the Hunger Games? Was there dissent? Did someone make a case for mercy
that was beaten down by the calls for the deaths of the districts‘ children? The scent of Snow‘s rose curls up into my nose, down into my throat, squeezing it tight with despair. All those people I loved,
dead, and we are discussing the next Hunger Games in an attempt to avoid wasting life. Nothing has changed. Nothing will ever change now.
I weigh my options carefully, think everything through. Keeping my eyes on the rose, I say, “I vote yes… for Prim.”
“Haymitch, it‘s up to you,” says Coin.
A furious Peeta hammers Haymitch with the atrocity he could become party to, but I can feel Haymitch watching me. This is the moment, then. When we find out exactly just how alike we are, and how
much he truly understands me.
“I‘m with the Mockingjay,” he says.
“Excellent. That carries the vote,” says Coin. “Now we really must take our places for the execution.”
As she passes me, I hold up the glass with the rose. “Can you see that Snow‘s wearing this? Just over his heart?”
Coin smiles. “Of course. And I‘ll make sure he knows about the Games.”
“Thank you,” I say.
People sweep into the room, surround me. The last touch of powder, the instructions from Plutarch as I‘m guided to the front doors of the mansion. The City Circle runs over, spills people down the
side streets. The others take their places outside. Guards. Officials. Rebel leaders. Victors. I hear the cheers that indicate Coin has appeared on the balcony. Then Effie taps my shoulder, and I step out
into the cold winter sunlight. Walk to my position, accompanied by the deafening roar of the crowd. As directed, I turn so they see me in profile, and wait. When they march Snow out the door, the audience
goes insane. They secure his hands behind a post, which is unnecessary. He‘s not going anywhere. There‘s nowhere to go. This is not the roomy stage before the Training Center but the narrow terrace in
front of the president‘s mansion. No wonder no one bothered to have me practice. He‘s ten yards away.
I feel the bow purring in my hand. Reach back and grasp the arrow. Position it, aim at the rose, but watch his face. He coughs and a bloody dribble runs down his chin. His tongue flicks over his puffy
lips. I search his eyes for the slightest sign of anything, fear, remorse, anger. But there‘s only the same look of amusement that ended our last conversation. It‘s as if he‘s speaking the words again. “Oh,
my dear Miss Everdeen. I thought we had agreed not to lie to each other.”
He‘s right. We did.
The point of my arrow shifts upward. I release the string. And President Coin collapses over the side of the balcony and plunges to the ground. Dead.

Mockingjay Chapter 25

2012-03-02T18:28:00.001-08:00

Mockingjay Part 3: The Assassin

Chapter 25

Real or not real? I am on fire. The balls of flame that erupted from the parachutes shot over the barricades, through the snowy air, and landed in the crowd. I was just turning away when one caught me, ran
its tongue up the back of my body, and transformed me into something new. A creature as unquenchable as the sun.
A fire mutt knows only a single sensation: agony. No sight, no sound, no feeling except the unrelenting burning of flesh. Perhaps there are periods of unconsciousness, but what can it matter if I can‘t
find refuge in them? I am Cinna‘s bird, ignited, flying frantically to escape something inescapable. The feathers of flame that grow from my body. Beating my wings only fans the blaze. I consume myself,
but to no end.
Finally, my wings begin to falter, I lose height, and gravity pulls me into a foamy sea the color of Finnick‘s eyes. I float on my back, which continues to burn beneath the water, but the agony quiets to
pain. When I am adrift and unable to navigate, that‘s when they come. The dead.
The ones I loved fly as birds in the open sky above me. Soaring, weaving, calling to me to join them. I want so badly to follow them, but the seawater saturates my wings, making it impossible to lift
them. The ones I hated have taken to the water, horrible scaled things that tear my salty flesh with needle teeth. Biting again and again. Dragging me beneath the surface.
The small white bird tinged in pink dives down, buries her claws in my chest, and tries to keep me afloat. “No, Katniss! No! You can‘t go!”
But the ones I hated are winning, and if she clings to me, she‘ll be lost as well. “Prim, let go!” And finally she does.
Deep in the water, I‘m deserted by all. There‘s only the sound of my breathing, the enormous effort it takes to draw the water in, push it out of my lungs. I want to stop, I try to hold my breath, but the sea
forces its way in and out against my will. “Let me die. Let me follow the others,” I beg whatever holds me here. There‘s no response.
Trapped for days, years, centuries maybe. Dead, but not allowed to die. Alive, but as good as dead. So alone that anyone, anything no matter how loathsome would be welcome. But when I finally
have a visitor, it‘s sweet. Morphling. Coursing through my veins, easing the pain, lightening my body so that it rises back toward the air and rests again on the foam.
Foam. I really am floating on foam. I can feel it beneath the tips of my fingers, cradling parts of my naked body. There‘s much pain but there‘s also something like reality. The sandpaper of my throat.
The smell of burn medicine from the first arena. The sound of my mother‘s voice. These things frighten me, and I try to return to the deep to make sense of them. But there‘s no going back. Gradually, I‘m
forced to accept who I am. A badly burned girl with no wings. With no fire. And no sister.
In the dazzling white Capitol hospital, the doctors work their magic on me. Draping my rawness in new sheets of skin. Coaxing the cells into thinking they are my own. Manipulating my body parts,
bending and stretching the limbs to assure a good fit. I hear over and over again how lucky I am. My eyes were spared. Most of my face was spared. My lungs are responding to treatment. I will be as good
as new.
When my tender skin has toughened enough to withstand the pressure of sheets, more visitors arrive. The morphling opens the door to the dead and alive alike. Haymitch, yellow and unsmiling. Cinna,
stitching a new wedding dress. Delly, prattling on about the niceness of people. My father sings all four stanzas of “The Hanging Tree” and reminds me that my mother—who sleeps in a chair between
shifts—isn‘t to know about it.
One day I awake to expectations and know I will not be allowed to live in my dreamland. I must take food by mouth. Move my own muscles. Make my way to the bathroom. A brief appearance by
President Coin clinches it.
“Don‘t worry,” she says. “I‘ve saved him for you.”
The doctors‘ puzzlement grows over why I‘m unable to speak. Many tests are done, and while there‘s damage to my vocal cords, it doesn‘t account for it. Finally, Dr. Aurelius, a head doctor, comes up
with the theory that I‘ve become a mental, rather than physical, Avox. That my silence has been brought on by emotional trauma. Although he‘s presented with a hundred proposed remedies, he tells them
to leave me alone. So I don‘t ask about anyone or anything, but people bring me a steady stream of information. On the war: The Capitol fell the day the parachutes went off, President Coin leads Panem
now, and troops have been sent out to put down the small remaining pockets of Capitol resistance. On President Snow: He‘s being held prisoner, awaiting trial and most certain execution. On my
assassination team: Cressida and Pollux have been sent out into the districts to cover the wreckage of the war. Gale, who took two bullets in an escape attempt, is mopping up Peacekeepers in 2.
Peeta‘s still in the burn unit. He made it to the City Circle after all. On my family: My mother buries her grief in her work.
Having no work, grief buries me. All that keeps me going is Coin‘s promise. That I can kill Snow. And when that‘s done, nothing will be left.
Eventually, I‘m released from the hospital and given a room in the president‘s mansion to share with my mother. She‘s almost never there, taking her meals and sleeping at work. It falls to Haymitch to
check on me, make sure I‘m eating and using my medicines. It‘s not an easy job. I take to my old habits from District 13. Wandering unauthorized through the mansion. Into bedrooms and offices,
ballrooms and baths. Seeking strange little hiding spaces. A closet of furs. A cabinet in the library. A long-forgotten bathtub in a room of discarded furniture. My places are dim and quiet and impossible to
find. I curl up, make myself smaller, try to disappear entirely. Wrapped in silence, I slide my bracelet that reads mentally disoriented around and around my wrist.
My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. My home is District 12. There is no District 12. I am the Mockingjay. I brought down the Capitol. President Snow hates me. He killed my sister. Now I will kill him. And then the Hunger Games will be over…
Periodically, I find myself back in my room, unsure whether I was driven by a need for morphling or if Haymitch ferreted me out. I eat the food, take the medicine, and am required to bathe. It‘s not the
water I mind, but the mirror that reflects my naked fire-mutt body. The skin grafts still retain a newborn-baby pinkness. The skin deemed damaged but salvageable looks red, hot, and melted in places.
Patches of my former self gleam white and pale. I‘m like a bizarre patchwork quilt of skin. Parts of my hair were singed off completely; the rest has been chopped off at odd lengths. Katniss Everdeen, the
girl who was on fire. I wouldn‘t much care except the sight of my body brings back the memory of the pain. And why I was in pain. And what happened just before the pain started. And how I watched my
little sister become a human torch.
Closing my eyes doesn‘t help. Fire burns brighter in the darkness.
Dr. Aurelius shows up sometimes. I like him because he doesn‘t say stupid things like how I‘m totally safe, or that he knows I can‘t see it but I‘ll be happy again one day, or even that things will be better
in Panem now. He just asks if I feel like talking, and when I don‘t answer, he falls asleep in his chair. In fact, I think his visits are largely motivated by his need for a nap. The arrangement works for both of
us.
The time draws near, although I could not give you exact hours and minutes. President Snow has been tried and found guilty, sentenced to execution. Haymitch tells me, I hear talk of it as I drift past the
guards in the hallways. My Mockingjay suit arrives in my room. Also my bow, looking no worse for wear, but no sheath of arrows. Either because they were damaged or more likely because I shouldn‘t
have weapons. I vaguely wonder if I should be preparing for the event in some way, but nothing comes to mind.
Late one afternoon, after a long period in a cushioned window seat behind a painted screen, I emerge and turn left instead of right. I find myself in a strange part of the mansion, and immediately lose
my bearings. Unlike the area where I‘m quartered, there seems to be no one around to ask. I like it, though. Wish I‘d found it sooner. It‘s so quiet, with the thick carpets and heavy tapestries soaking up the
sound. Softly lit. Muted colors. Peaceful. Until I smell the roses. I dive behind some curtains, shaking too hard to run, while I await the mutts. Finally, I realize there are no mutts coming. So, what do I smell?
Real roses? Could it be that I am near the garden where the evil things grow?
As I creep down the hall, the odor becomes overpowering. Perhaps not as strong as the actual mutts, but purer, because it‘s not competing with sewage and explosives. I turn a corner and find myself
staring at two surprised guards. Not Peacekeepers, of course. There are no more Peacekeepers. But not the trim, gray-uniformed soldiers from 13 either. These two, a man and a woman, wear the
tattered, thrown-together clothes of actual rebels. Still bandaged and gaunt, they are now keeping watch over the doorway to the roses. When I move to enter, their guns form an X in front of me.
“You can‘t go in, miss,” says the man.
“Soldier,” the woman corrects him. “You can‘t go in, Soldier Everdeen. President‘s orders.”
I just stand there patiently waiting for them to lower their guns, for them to understand, without my telling them, that behind those doors is something I need. Just a rose. A single bloom. To place in
Snow‘s lapel before I shoot him. My presence seems to worry the guards. They‘re discussing calling Haymitch, when a woman speaks up behind me. “Let her go in.”
I know the voice but can‘t immediately place it. Not Seam, not 13, definitely not Capitol. I turn my head and find myself face-to-face with Paylor, the commander from 8. She looks even more beat up
than she did at the hospital, but who doesn‘t?
“On my authority,” says Paylor. “She has a right to anything behind that door.” These are her soldiers, not Coin‘s. They drop their weapons without question and let me pass.
At the end of a short hallway, I push apart the glass doors and step inside. By now the smell‘s so strong that it begins to flatten out, as if there‘s no more my nose can absorb. The damp, mild air feels
good on my hot skin. And the roses are glorious. Row after row of sumptuous blooms, in lush pink, sunset orange, and even pale blue. I wander through the aisles of carefully pruned plants, looking but not
touching, because I have learned the hard way how deadly these beauties can be. I know when I find it, crowning the top of a slender bush. A magnificent white bud just beginning to open. I pull my left
sleeve over my hand so that my skin won‘t actually have to touch it, take up a pair of pruning shears, and have just positioned them on the stem when he speaks.
“That‘s a nice one.”
My hand jerks, the shears snap shut, severing the stem.
“The colors are lovely, of course, but nothing says perfection like white.”
I still can‘t see him, but his voice seems to rise up from an adjacent bed of red roses. Delicately pinching the stem of the bud through the fabric of my sleeve, I move slowly around the corner and find
him sitting on a stool against the wall. He‘s as well groomed and finely dressed as ever, but weighted down with manacles, ankle shackles, tracking devices. In the bright light, his skin‘s a pale, sickly
green. He holds a white handkerchief spotted with fresh blood. Even in his deteriorated state, his snake eyes shine bright and cold. “I was hoping you‘d find your way to my quarters.”
His quarters. I have trespassed into his home, the way he slithered into mine last year, hissing threats with his bloody, rosy breath. This greenhouse is one of his rooms, perhaps his favorite; perhaps
in better times he tended the plants himself. But now it‘s part of his prison. That‘s why the guards halted me. And that‘s why Paylor let me in.
I‘d supposed he would be secured in the deepest dungeon that the Capitol had to offer, not cradled in the lap of luxury. Yet Coin left him here. To set a precedent, I guess. So that if in the future she
ever fell from grace, it would be understood that presidents—even the most despicable—get special treatment. Who knows, after all, when her own power might fade?
“There are so many things we should discuss, but I have a feeling your visit will be brief. So, first things first.” He begins to cough, and when he removes the handkerchief from his mouth, it‘s redder. “I
wanted to tell you how very sorry I am about your sister.”
Even in my deadened, drugged condition, this sends a stab of pain through me. Reminding me that there are no limits to his cruelty. And how he will go to his grave trying to destroy me.
“So wasteful, so unnecessary. Anyone could see the game was over by that point. In fact, I was just about to issue an official surrender when they released those parachutes.” His eyes are glued on me, unblinking, so as not to miss a second of my reaction. But what he‘s said makes no sense. When they released the parachutes? “Well, you really didn‘t think I gave the order, did you? Forget the
obvious fact that if I‘d had a working hovercraft at my disposal, I‘d have been using it to make an escape. But that aside, what purpose could it have served? We both know I‘m not above killing children,
but I‘m not wasteful. I take life for very specific reasons. And there was no reason for me to destroy a pen full of Capitol children. None at all.”
I wonder if the next fit of coughing is staged so that I can have time to absorb his words. He‘s lying. Of course, he‘s lying. But there‘s something struggling to free itself from the lie as well.
“However, I must concede it was a masterful move on Coin‘s part. The idea that I was bombing our own helpless children instantly snapped whatever frail allegiance my people still felt to me. There
was no real resistance after that. Did you know it aired live? You can see Plutarch‘s hand there. And in the parachutes. Well, it‘s that sort of thinking that you look for in a Head Gamemaker, isn‘t it?” Snow
dabs the corners of his mouth. “I‘m sure he wasn‘t gunning for your sister, but these things happen.”
I‘m not with Snow now. I‘m in Special Weaponry back in 13 with Gale and Beetee. Looking at the designs based on Gale‘s traps. That played on human sympathies. The first bomb killed the victims.
The second, the rescuers. Remembering Gale‘s words.
“Beetee and I have been following the same rule book President Snow used when he hijacked Peeta.”
“My failure,” says Snow, “was being so slow to grasp Coin‘s plan. To let the Capitol and districts destroy one another, and then step in to take power with Thirteen barely scratched. Make no mistake,
she was intending to take my place right from the beginning. I shouldn‘t be surprised. After all, it was Thirteen that started the rebellion that led to the Dark Days, and then abandoned the rest of the districts
when the tide turned against it. But I wasn‘t watching Coin. I was watching you, Mockingjay. And you were watching me. I‘m afraid we have both been played for fools.”
I refuse for this to be true. Some things even I can‘t survive. I utter my first words since my sister‘s death. “I don‘t believe you.”
Snow shakes his head in mock disappointment. “Oh, my dear Miss Everdeen. I thought we had agreed not to lie to each other.”

Mockingjay Chapter 24

2012-03-02T18:22:00.001-08:00

Mockingjay Part 3: The Assassin

Chapter 24

A chill runs through me. Am I really that cold and calculating? Gale didn‘t say, “Katniss will pick whoever it will break her heart to give up,” or even “whoever she can‘t live without.” Those would have implied
I was motivated by a kind of passion. But my best friend predicts I will choose the person who I think I “can‘t survive without.” There‘s not the least indication that love, or desire, or even compatibility will
sway me. I‘ll just conduct an unfeeling assessment of what my potential mates can offer me. As if in the end, it will be the question of whether a baker or a hunter will extend my longevity the most. It‘s a
horrible thing for Gale to say, for Peeta not to refute. Especially when every emotion I have has been taken and exploited by the Capitol or the rebels. At the moment, the choice would be simple. I can
survive just fine without either of them.
In the morning, I have no time or energy to nurse wounded feelings. During a predawn breakfast of liver pate and fig cookies, we gather around Tigris‘s television for one of Beetee‘s break-ins. There‘s
been a new development in the war. Apparently inspired by the black wave, some enterprising rebel commander came up with the idea of confiscating people‘s abandoned automobiles and sending
them unmanned down the streets. The cars don‘t trigger every pod, but they certainly get the majority. At around four in the morning, the rebels began carving three separate paths—simply referred to as
the A, B, and C lines—to the Capitol‘s heart. As a result, they‘ve secured block after block with very few casualties.
“This can‘t last,” says Gale. “In fact I‘m surprised they‘ve kept it going so long. The Capitol will adjust by deactivating specific pods and then manually triggering them when their targets come in range.”
Almost within minutes of his prediction, we see this very thing happen on-screen. A squad sends a car down a block, setting off four pods. All seems well. Three scouts follow and make it safely to the end
of the street. But when a group of twenty rebel soldiers follow them, they‘re blown to bits by a row of potted rosebushes in front of a flower shop.
“I bet it‘s killing Plutarch not to be in the control room on this one,” says Peeta.
Beetee gives the broadcast back to the Capitol, where a grim-faced reporter announces the blocks that civilians are to evacuate. Between her update and the previous story, I am able to mark my
paper map to show the relative positions of the opposing armies.
I hear scuffling out on the street, move to the windows, and peek out a crack in the shutters. In the early morning light, I see a bizarre spectacle. Refugees from the now occupied blocks are streaming
toward the Capitol‘s center. The most panicked are wearing nothing but nightgowns and slippers, while the more prepared are heavily bundled in layers of clothes. They carry everything from lapdogs to
jewelry boxes to potted plants. One man in a fluffy robe holds only an overripe banana. Confused, sleepy children stumble along after their parents, most either too stunned or too baffled to cry. Bits of them
flash by my line of vision. A pair of wide brown eyes. An arm clutching a favorite doll. A pair of bare feet, bluish in the cold, catching on the uneven paving stones of the alley. Seeing them reminds me of the
children of 12 who died fleeing the firebombs. I leave the window.
Tigris offers to be our spy for the day since she‘s the only one of us without a bounty on her head. After securing us downstairs, she goes out into the Capitol to pick up any helpful information.
Down in the cellar I pace back and forth, driving the others crazy. Something tells me that not taking advantage of the flood of refugees is a mistake. What better cover could we have? On the other
hand, every displaced person milling about on the streets means another pair of eyes looking for the five rebels on the loose. Then again, what do we gain by staying here? All we‘re really doing is
depleting our small cache of food and waiting for… what? The rebels to take the Capitol? It could be weeks before that happens, and I‘m not so sure what I‘d do if they did. Not run out and greet them.
Coin would have me whisked back to 13 before I could say “nightlock, nightlock, nightlock.” I did not come all this way, and lose all those people, to turn myself over to that woman. I kill Snow. Besides,
there would be an awful lot of things I couldn‘t easily explain about the last few days. Several of which, if they came to light, would probably blow my deal for the victors‘ immunity right out of the water. And
forget about me, I‘ve got a feeling some of the others are going to need it. Like Peeta. Who, no matter how you spin it, can be seen on tape tossing Mitchell into that net pod. I can imagine what Coin‘s war
tribunal will do with that.
By late afternoon, we‘re beginning to get uneasy about Tigris‘s long absence. Talk turns to the possibilities that she has been apprehended and arrested, turned us in voluntarily, or simply been injured
in the wave of refugees. But around six o‘clock we hear her return. There‘s some shuffling around upstairs, then she opens the panel. The wonderful smell of frying meat fills the air. Tigris has prepared us a
hash of chopped ham and potatoes. It‘s the first hot food we‘ve had in days, and as I wait for her to fill my plate, I‘m in danger of actually drooling.
As I chew, I try to pay attention to Tigris telling us how she acquired it, but the main thing I absorb is that fur underwear is a valuable trading item at the moment. Especially for people who left their
homes underdressed. Many are still out on the street, trying to find shelter for the night. Those who live in the choice apartments of the inner city have not flung open their doors to house the displaced. On
the contrary, most of them bolted their locks, drew their shutters, and pretended to be out. Now the City Circle‘s packed with refugees, and the Peacekeepers are going door to door, breaking into places
if they have to, to assign houseguests.
On the television, we watch a terse Head Peacekeeper lay out specific rules regarding how many people per square foot each resident will be expected to take in. He reminds the citizens of the
Capitol that temperatures will drop well below freezing tonight and warns them that their president expects them to be not only willing but enthusiastic hosts in this time of crisis. Then they show some very
staged-looking shots of concerned citizens welcoming grateful refugees into their homes. The Head Peacekeeper says the president himself has ordered part of his mansion readied to receive citizens
tomorrow. He adds that shopkeepers should also be prepared to lend their floor space if requested.
“Tigris, that could be you,” says Peeta. I realize he‘s right. That even this narrow hallway of a shop could be appropriated as the numbers swell. Then we‘ll be truly trapped in the cellar, in constant
danger of discovery. How many days do we have? One? Maybe two?
The Head Peacekeeper comes back with more instructions for the population. It seems that this evening there was an unfortunate incident where a crowd beat to death a young man who resembled
Peeta. Henceforth, all rebel sightings are to be reported immediately to authorities, who will deal with the identification and arrest of the suspect. They show a photo of the victim. Apart from some
obviously bleached curls, he looks about as much like Peeta as I do.
“People have gone wild,” Cressida murmurs.
We watch a brief rebel update in which we learn that several more blocks have been taken today. I make note of the intersections on my map and study it. “Line C is only four blocks from here,” I
announce. Somehow that fills me with more anxiety than the idea of Peacekeepers looking for housing. I become very helpful. “Let me wash the dishes.”
“I‘ll give you a hand.” Gale collects the plates.
I feel Peeta‘s eyes follow us out of the room. In the cramped kitchen at the back of Tigris‘s shop, I fill the sink with hot water and suds. “Do you think it‘s true?” I ask. “That Snow will let refugees into the
mansion?”
“I think he has to now, at least for the cameras,” says Gale.
“I‘m leaving in the morning,” I say.
“I‘m going with you,” Gale says. “What should we do with the others?”
“Pollux and Cressida could be useful. They‘re good guides,” I say. Pollux and Cressida aren‘t actually the problem. “But Peeta‘s too…”
“Unpredictable,” finishes Gale. “Do you think he‘d still let us leave him behind?”
“We can make the argument that he‘ll endanger us,” I say. “He might stay here, if we‘re convincing.”
Peeta‘s fairly rational about our suggestion. He readily agrees that his company could put the other four of us at risk. I‘m thinking this may all work out, that he can just sit out the war in Tigris‘s cellar,
when he announces he‘s going out on his own.
“To do what?” asks Cressida.
“I‘m not sure exactly. The one thing that I might still be useful at is causing a diversion. You saw what happened to that man who looked like me,” he says.
“What if you… lose control?” I say.
“You mean… go mutt? Well, if I feel that coming on, I‘ll try to get back here,” he assures me.
“And if Snow gets you again?” asks Gale. “You don‘t even have a gun.”
“I‘ll just have to take my chances,” says Peeta. “Like the rest of you.” The two exchange a long look, and then Gale reaches into his breast pocket. He places his nightlock tablet in Peeta‘s hand. Peeta
lets it lie on his open palm, neither rejecting nor accepting it. “What about you?”
“Don‘t worry. Beetee showed me how to detonate my explosive arrows by hand. If that fails, I‘ve got my knife. And I‘ll have Katniss,” says Gale with a smile. “She won‘t give them the satisfaction of
taking me alive.”
The thought of Peacekeepers dragging Gale away starts the tune playing in my head again…
Are you, are you
Coming to the tree
“Take it, Peeta,” I say in a strained voice. I reach out and close his fingers over the pill. “No one will be there to help you.”
We spend a fitful night, woken by one another‘s nightmares, minds buzzing with the next day‘s plans. I‘m relieved when five o‘clock rolls around and we can begin whatever this day holds for us. We eat
a mishmash of our remaining food—canned peaches, crackers, and snails—leaving one can of salmon for Tigris as meager thanks for all she‘s done. The gesture seems to touch her in some way. Her
face contorts in an odd expression and she flies into action. She spends the next hour remaking the five of us. She redresses us so regular clothes hide our uniforms before we even don our coats and
cloaks. Covers our military boots with some sort of furry slippers. Secures our wigs with pins. Cleans off the garish remains of the paint we so hastily applied to our faces and makes us up again. Drapes
our outerwear to conceal our weapons. Then gives us handbags and bundles of knickknacks to carry. In the end, we look exactly like the refugees fleeing the rebels.
“Never underestimate the power of a brilliant stylist,” says Peeta. It‘s hard to tell, but I think Tigris might actually blush under her stripes.
There are no helpful updates on the television, but the alley seems as thick with refugees as the previous morning. Our plan is to slip into the crowd in three groups. First Cressida and Pollux, who will
act as guides while keeping a safe lead on us. Then Gale and myself, who intend to position ourselves among the refugees assigned to the mansion today. Then Peeta, who will trail behind us, ready to
create a disturbance as needed.
Tigris watches through the shutters for the right moment, unbolts the door, and nods to Cressida and Pollux. “Take care,” Cressida says, and they are gone.
We‘ll be following in a minute. I get out the key, unlock Peeta‘s cuffs, and stuff them in my pocket. He rubs his wrists. Flexes them. I feel a kind of desperation rising up in me. It‘s like I‘m back in the Quarter Quell, with Beetee giving Johanna and me that coil of wire.
“Listen,” I say. “Don‘t do anything foolish.”
“No. It‘s last-resort stuff. Completely,” he says.
I wrap my arms around his neck, feel his arms hesitate before they embrace me. Not as steady as they once were, but still warm and strong. A thousand moments surge through me. All the times these
arms were my only refuge from the world. Perhaps not fully appreciated then, but so sweet in my memory, and now gone forever. “All right, then.” I release him.
“It‘s time,” says Tigris. I kiss her cheek, fasten my red hooded cloak, pull my scarf up over my nose, and follow Gale out into the frigid air.
Sharp, icy snowflakes bite my exposed skin. The rising sun‘s trying to break through the gloom without much success. There‘s enough light to see the bundled forms closest to you and little more.
Perfect conditions, really, except that I can‘t locate Cressida and Pollux. Gale and I drop our heads and shuffle along with the refugees. I can hear what I missed peeking through the shutters yesterday.
Crying, moaning, labored breathing. And, not too far away, gunfire.
“Where are we going, Uncle?” a shivering little boy asks a man weighed down with a small safe.
“To the president‘s mansion. They‘ll assign us a new place to live,” puffs the man.
We turn off the alley and spill out onto one of the main avenues. “Stay to the right!” a voice orders, and I see the Peacekeepers interspersed throughout the crowd, directing the flow of human traffic.
Scared faces peer out of the plate-glass windows of the shops, which are already becoming overrun with refugees. At this rate, Tigris may have new houseguests by lunch. It was good for everybody that
we got out when we did.
It‘s brighter now, even with the snow picking up. I catch sight of Cressida and Pollux about thirty yards ahead of us, plodding along with the crowd. I crane my head around to see if I can locate Peeta. I
can‘t, but I‘ve caught the eye of an inquisitive-looking little girl in a lemon yellow coat. I nudge Gale and slow my pace ever so slightly, to allow a wall of people to form between us.
“We might need to split up,” I say under my breath. “There‘s a girl—”
Gunfire rips through the crowd, and several people near me slump to the ground. Screams pierce the air as a second round mows down another group behind us. Gale and I drop to the street, scuttle
the ten yards to the shops, and take cover behind a display of spike-heeled boots outside a shoe seller‘s.
A row of feathery footwear blocks Gale‘s view. “Who is it? Can you see?” he asks me. What I can see, between alternating pairs of lavender and mint green leather boots, is a street full of bodies. The
little girl who was watching me kneels beside a motionless woman, screeching and trying to rouse her. Another wave of bullets slices across the chest of her yellow coat, staining it with red, knocking the
girl onto her back. For a moment, looking at her tiny crumpled form, I lose my ability to form words. Gale prods me with his elbow. “Katniss?”
“They‘re shooting from the roof above us,” I tell Gale. I watch a few more rounds, see the white uniforms dropping into the snowy streets. “Trying to take out the Peacekeepers, but they‘re not exactly
crack shots. It must be the rebels.” I don‘t feel a rush of joy, although theoretically my allies have broken through. I am transfixed by that lemon yellow coat.
“If we start shooting, that‘s it,” Gale says. “The whole world will know it‘s us.”
It‘s true. We‘re armed only with our fabulous bows. To release an arrow would be like announcing to both sides that we‘re here.
“No,” I say forcefully. “We‘ve got to get to Snow.”
“Then we better start moving before the whole block goes up,” says Gale. Hugging the wall, we continue along the street. Only the wall is mostly shopwindows. A pattern of sweaty palms and gaping
faces presses against the glass. I yank my scarf up higher over my cheekbones as we dart between outdoor displays. Behind a rack of framed photos of Snow, we encounter a wounded Peacekeeper
propped against a strip of brick wall. He asks us for help. Gale knees him in the side of the head and takes his gun. At the intersection, he shoots a second Peacekeeper and we both have firearms.
“So who are we supposed to be now?” I ask.
“Desperate citizens of the Capitol,” says Gale. “The Peacekeepers will think we‘re on their side, and hopefully the rebels have more interesting targets.”
I‘m mulling over the wisdom of this latest role as we sprint across the intersection, but by the time we reach the next block, it no longer matters who we are. Who anyone is. Because no one is looking
at faces. The rebels are here, all right. Pouring onto the avenue, taking cover in doorways, behind vehicles, guns blazing, hoarse voices shouting commands as they prepare to meet an army of
Peacekeepers marching toward us. Caught in the cross fire are the refugees, unarmed, disoriented, many wounded.
A pod‘s activated ahead of us, releasing a gush of steam that parboils everyone in its path, leaving the victims intestine-pink and very dead. After that, what little sense of order there was unravels. As
the remaining curlicues of steam intertwine with the snow, visibility extends just to the end of my barrel. Peacekeeper, rebel, citizen, who knows? Everything that moves is a target. People shoot reflexively,
and I‘m no exception. Heart pounding, adrenaline burning through me, everyone is my enemy. Except Gale. My hunting partner, the one person who has my back. There‘s nothing to do but move forward,
killing whoever comes into our path. Screaming people, bleeding people, dead people everywhere. As we reach the next corner, the entire block ahead of us lights up with a rich purple glow. We
backpedal, hunker down in a stairwell, and squint into the light. Something‘s happening to those illuminated by it. They‘re assaulted by… what? A sound? A wave? A laser? Weapons fall from their hands,
fingers clutch their faces, as blood sprays from all visible orifices—eyes, noses, mouths, ears. In less than a minute, everyone‘s dead and the glow vanishes. I grit my teeth and run, leaping over the bodies,
feet slipping in the gore. The wind whips the snow into blinding swirls but doesn‘t block out the sound of another wave of boots headed our way.
“Get down!” I hiss at Gale. We drop where we are. My face lands in a still-warm pool of someone‘s blood, but I play dead, remain motionless as the boots march over us. Some avoid the bodies.
Others grind into my hand, my back, kick my head in passing. As the boots recede, I open my eyes and nod to Gale.
On the next block, we encounter more terrified refugees, but few soldiers. Just when it seems we might have caught a break, there‘s a cracking sound, like an egg hitting the side of a bowl but magnified a thousand times. We stop, look around for the pod. There‘s nothing. Then I feel the tips of my boots beginning to tilt ever so slightly. “Run!” I cry to Gale. There‘s no time to explain, but in a few
seconds the nature of the pod becomes clear to everyone. A seam has opened up down the center of the block. The two sides of the tiled street are folding down like flaps, slowly emptying the people into
whatever lies beneath.
I‘m torn between making a beeline for the next intersection and trying to get to the doors that line the street and break my way into a building. As a result, I end up moving at a slight diagonal. As the
flap continues to drop, I find my feet scrambling, harder and harder, to find purchase on the slippery tiles. It‘s like running along the side of an icy hill that gets steeper at every step. Both of my destinations
—the intersection and the buildings—are a few feet away when I feel the flap going. There‘s nothing to do but use my last seconds of connection to the tiles to push off for the intersection. As my hands
latch on to the side, I realize the flaps have swung straight down. My feet dangle in the air, no foothold anywhere. From fifty feet below, a vile stench hits my nose, like rotted corpses in the summer heat.
Black forms crawl around in the shadows, silencing whoever survives the fall.
A strangled cry comes from my throat. No one is coming to help me. I‘m losing my grip on the icy ledge, when I see I‘m only about six feet from the corner of the pod. I inch my hands along the ledge,
trying to block out the terrifying sounds from below. When my hands straddle the corner, I swing my right boot up over the side. It catches on something and I painstakingly drag myself up to street level.
Panting, trembling, I crawl out and wrap my arm around a lamppost for an anchor, although the ground‘s perfectly flat.
“Gale?” I call into the abyss, heedless of being recognized. “Gale?”
“Over here!” I look in bewilderment to my left. The flap held up everything to the very base of the buildings. A dozen or so people made it that far and now hang from whatever provides a handhold.
Doorknobs, knockers, mail slots. Three doors down from me, Gale clings to the decorative iron grating around an apartment door. He could easily get inside if it was open. But despite repeated kicks to
the door, no one comes to his aid.
“Cover yourself!” I lift my gun. He turns away and I drill the lock until the door flies inward. Gale swings into the doorway, landing in a heap on the floor. For a moment, I experience the elation of his
rescue. Then the white-gloved hands clamp down on him.
Gale meets my eyes, mouths something at me I can‘t make out. I don‘t know what to do. I can‘t leave him, but I can‘t reach him either. His lips move again. I shake my head to indicate my confusion. At
any minute, they‘ll realize who they‘ve captured. The Peacekeepers are hauling him inside now. “Go!” I hear him yell.
I turn and run away from the pod. All alone now. Gale a prisoner. Cressida and Pollux could be dead ten times over. And Peeta? I haven‘t laid eyes on him since we left Tigris‘s. I hold on to the idea
that he may have gone back. Felt an attack coming and retreated to the cellar while he still had control. Realized there was no need for a diversion when the Capitol has provided so many. No need to be
bait and have to take the nightlock—the nightlock! Gale doesn‘t have any. And as for all that talk of detonating his arrows by hand, he‘ll never get the chance. The first thing the Peacekeepers will do is to
strip him of his weapons.
I fall into a doorway, tears stinging my eyes. Shoot me. That‘s what he was mouthing. I was supposed to shoot him! That was my job. That was our unspoken promise, all of us, to one another. And I
didn‘t do it and now the Capitol will kill him or torture him or hijack him or—the cracks begin opening inside me, threatening to break me into pieces. I have only one hope. That the Capitol falls, lays down
its arms, and gives up its prisoners before they hurt Gale. But I can‘t see that happening while Snow‘s alive.
A pair of Peacekeepers runs by, barely glancing at the whimpering Capitol girl huddled in a doorway. I choke down my tears, wipe the existing ones off my face before they can freeze, and pull myself
back together. Okay, I‘m still an anonymous refugee. Or did the Peacekeepers who caught Gale get a glimpse of me as I fled? I remove my cloak and turn it inside out, letting the black lining show instead
of the red exterior. Arrange the hood so it conceals my face. Grasping my gun close to my chest, I survey the block. There‘s only a handful of dazed-looking stragglers. I trail close behind a pair of old men
who take no notice of me. No one will expect me to be with old men. When we reach the end of the next intersection, they stop and I almost bump into them. It‘s the City Circle. Across the wide expanse
ringed by grand buildings sits the president‘s mansion.
The Circle‘s full of people milling around, wailing, or just sitting and letting the snow pile up around them. I fit right in. I begin to weave my way across to the mansion, tripping over abandoned treasures
and snow-frosted limbs. About halfway there, I become aware of the concrete barricade. It‘s about four feet high and extends in a large rectangle in front of the mansion. You would think it would be empty,
but it‘s packed with refugees. Maybe this is the group that‘s been chosen to be sheltered at the mansion? But as I draw closer, I notice something else. Everyone inside the barricade is a child. Toddlers to
teenagers. Scared and frostbitten. Huddled in groups or rocking numbly on the ground. They aren‘t being led into the mansion. They‘re penned in, guarded on all sides by Peacekeepers. I know
immediately it‘s not for their protection. If the Capitol wanted to safeguard them, they‘d be down in a bunker somewhere. This is for Snow‘s protection. The children form his human shield.
There‘s a commotion and the crowd surges to the left. I‘m caught up by larger bodies, borne sideways, carried off course. I hear shouts of “The rebels! The rebels!” and know they must‘ve broken
through. The momentum slams me into a flagpole and I cling to it. Using the rope that hangs from the top, I pull myself up out of the crush of bodies. Yes, I can see the rebel army pouring into the Circle,
driving the refugees back onto the avenues. I scan the area for the pods that will surely be detonating. But that doesn‘t happen. This is what happens:
A hovercraft marked with the Capitol‘s seal materializes directly over the barricaded children. Scores of silver parachutes rain down on them. Even in this chaos, the children know what silver
parachutes contain. Food. Medicine. Gifts. They eagerly scoop them up, frozen fingers struggling with the strings. The hovercraft vanishes, five seconds pass, and then about twenty parachutes
simultaneously explode.
A wail rises from the crowd. The snow‘s red and littered with undersized body parts. Many of the children die immediately, but others lie in agony on the ground. Some stagger around mutely, staring at
the remaining silver parachutes in their hands, as if they still might have something precious inside. I can tell the Peacekeepers didn‘t know this was coming by the way they are yanking away the
barricades, making a path to the children. Another flock of white uniforms sweeps into the opening. But these aren‘t Peacekeepers. They‘re medics. Rebel medics. I‘d know the uniforms anywhere. They
swarm in among the children, wielding medical kits.
First I get a glimpse of the blond braid down her back. Then, as she yanks off her coat to cover a wailing child, I notice the duck tail formed by her untucked shirt. I have the same reaction I did the day
Effie Trinket called her name at the reaping. At least, I must go limp, because I find myself at the base of the flagpole, unable to account for the last few seconds. Then I am pushing through the crowd, just
as I did before. Trying to shout her name above the roar. I‘m almost there, almost to the barricade, when I think she hears me. Because for just a moment, she catches sight of me, her lips form my name.
And that‘s when the rest of the parachutes go off.

Mockingjay Chapter 23

2012-03-02T18:21:00.001-08:00

Mockingjay Part 3: The Assassin

Chapter 23

Who the woman was calling to remains a mystery, because after searching the apartment, we find she was alone. Perhaps her cry was meant for a nearby neighbor, or was simply an expression of fear.
At any rate, there‘s no one else to hear her.
This apartment would be a classy place to hole up in for a while, but that‘s a luxury we can‘t afford. “How long do you think we have before they figure out some of us could‘ve survived?” I ask.
“I think they could be here anytime,” Gale answers. “They knew we were heading for the streets. Probably the explosion will throw them for a few minutes, then they‘ll start looking for our exit point.”
I go to a window that overlooks the street, and when I peek through the blinds, I‘m not faced with Peacekeepers but with a bundled crowd of people going about their business. During our underground
journey, we have left the evacuated zones far behind and surfaced in a busy section of the Capitol. This crowd offers our only chance of escape. I don‘t have a Holo, but I have Cressida. She joins me at
the window, confirms she knows our location, and gives me the good news that we aren‘t many blocks from the president‘s mansion.
One glance at my companions tells me this is no time for a stealth attack on Snow. Gale‘s still losing blood from the neck wound, which we haven‘t even cleaned. Peeta‘s sitting on a velvet sofa with
his teeth clamped down on a pillow, either fighting off madness or containing a scream. Pollux weeps against the mantel of an ornate fireplace. Cressida stands determinedly at my side, but she‘s so pale
her lips are bloodless. I‘m running on hate. When the energy for that ebbs, I‘ll be worthless.
“Let‘s check her closets,” I say.
In one bedroom we find hundreds of the woman‘s outfits, coats, pairs of shoes, a rainbow of wigs, enough makeup to paint a house. In a bedroom across the hall, there‘s a similar selection for men.
Perhaps they belong to her husband. Perhaps to a lover who had the good luck to be out this morning.
I call the others to dress. At the sight of Peeta‘s bloody wrists, I dig in my pocket for the handcuff key, but he jerks away from me.
“No,” he says. “Don‘t. They help hold me together.”
“You might need your hands,” says Gale.
“When I feel myself slipping, I dig my wrists into them, and the pain helps me focus,” says Peeta. I let them be.
Fortunately, it‘s cold out, so we can conceal most of our uniforms and weapons under flowing coats and cloaks. We hang our boots around our necks by their laces and hide them, pull on silly shoes to
replace them. The real challenge, of course, is our faces. Cressida and Pollux run the risk of being recognized by acquaintances, Gale could be familiar from the propos and news, and Peeta and I are
known by every citizen of Panem. We hastily help one another apply thick layers of makeup, pull on wigs and sunglasses. Cressida wraps scarves over Peeta‘s and my mouths and noses.
I can feel the clock ticking away, but stop for just a few moments to stuff pockets with food and first-aid supplies. “Stay together,” I say at the front door. Then we march right into the street. Snow flurries
have begun to fall. Agitated people swirl around us, speaking of rebels and hunger and me in their affected Capitol accents. We cross the street, pass a few more apartments. Just as we turn the corner,
three dozen Peacekeepers sweep past us. We hop out of their way, as the real citizens do, wait until the crowd returns to its normal flow, and keep moving. “Cressida,” I whisper. “Can you think of
anywhere?”
“I‘m trying,” she says.
We cover another block, and the sirens begin. Through an apartment window, I see an emergency report and pictures of our faces flashing. They haven‘t identified who in our party died yet, because I
see Castor and Finnick among the photos. Soon every passerby will be as dangerous as a Peacekeeper. “Cressida?”
“There‘s one place. It‘s not ideal. But we can try it,” she says. We follow her a few more blocks and turn through a gate into what looks like a private residence. It‘s some kind of shortcut, though,
because after walking through a manicured garden, we come out of another gate onto a small back street that connects two main avenues. There are a few poky stores—one that buys used goods,
another that sells fake jewelry. Only a couple of people are around, and they pay no attention to us. Cressida begins to babble in a high-pitched voice about fur undergarments, how essential they are
during the cold months. “Wait until you see the prices! Believe me, it‘s half what you pay on the avenues!”
We stop before a grimy storefront filled with mannequins in furry underwear. The place doesn‘t even look open, but Cressida pushes through the front door, setting off a dissonant chiming. Inside the
dim, narrow shop lined with racks of merchandise, the smell of pelts fills my nose. Business must be slow, since we‘re the only customers. Cressida heads straight for a hunched figure sitting in the back. I
follow, trailing my fingers through the soft garments as we go.
Behind a counter sits the strangest person I‘ve ever seen. She‘s an extreme example of surgical enhancement gone wrong, for surely not even in the Capitol could they find this face attractive. The skin
has been pulled back tightly and tattooed with black and gold stripes. The nose has been flattened until it barely exists. I‘ve seen cat whiskers on people in the Capitol before, but none so long. The result
is a grotesque, semi-feline mask, which now squints at us distrustfully.
Cressida takes off her wig, revealing her vines. “Tigris,” she says. “We need help.”
Tigris. Deep in my brain, the name rings a bell. She was a fixture—a younger, less disturbing version of herself—in the earliest Hunger Games I can remember. A stylist, I think. I don‘t remember for which district. Not 12. Then she must have had one operation too many and crossed the line into repellence.
So this is where stylists go when they‘ve outlived their use. To sad theme underwear shops where they wait for death. Out of the public eye.
I stare at her face, wondering if her parents actually named her Tigris, inspiring her mutilation, or if she chose the style and changed her name to match her stripes.
“Plutarch said you could be trusted,” adds Cressida.
Great, she‘s one of Plutarch‘s people. So if her first move isn‘t to turn us in to the Capitol, it will be to notify Plutarch, and by extension Coin, of our whereabouts. No, Tigris‘s shop is not ideal, but it‘s all
we have at the moment. If she‘ll even help us. She‘s peering between an old television on her counter and us, as if trying to place us. To help her, I pull down my scarf, remove my wig, and step closer so
that the light of the screen falls on my face.
Tigris gives a low growl, not unlike one Buttercup might greet me with. She slinks down off her stool and disappears behind a rack of fur-lined leggings. There‘s a sound of sliding, and then her hand
emerges and waves us forward. Cressida looks at me, as if to ask Are you sure? But what choice do we have? Returning to the streets under these conditions guarantees our capture or death. I push
around the furs and find Tigris has slid back a panel at the base of the wall. Behind it seems to be the top of a steep stone stairway. She gestures for me to enter.
Everything about the situation screams trap. I have a moment of panic and find myself turning to Tigris, searching those tawny eyes. Why is she doing this? She‘s no Cinna, someone willing to
sacrifice herself for others. This woman was the embodiment of Capitol shallowness. She was one of the stars of the Hunger Games until… until she wasn‘t. So is that it, then? Bitterness? Hatred?
Revenge? Actually, I‘m comforted by the idea. A need for revenge can burn long and hot. Especially if every glance in a mirror reinforces it.
“Did Snow ban you from the Games?” I ask. She just stares back at me. Somewhere her tiger tail flicks with displeasure. “Because I‘m going to kill him, you know.” Her mouth spreads into what I take
for a smile. Reassured that this isn‘t complete madness, I crawl through the space.
About halfway down the steps, my face runs into a hanging chain and I pull it, illuminating the hideout with a flickering fluorescent bulb. It‘s a small cellar with no doors or windows. Shallow and wide.
Probably just a strip between two real basements. A place whose existence could go unnoticed unless you had a very keen eye for dimensions. It‘s cold and dank, with piles of pelts that I‘m guessing
haven‘t seen the light of day in years. Unless Tigris gives us up, I don‘t believe anyone will find us here. By the time I reach the concrete floor, my companions are on the steps. The panel slides back in
place. I hear the underwear rack being adjusted on squeaky wheels. Tigris padding back to her stool. We have been swallowed up by her store.
Just in time, too, because Gale looks on the verge of collapse. We make a bed of pelts, strip off his layers of weapons, and help him onto his back. At the end of the cellar, there‘s a faucet about a foot
from the floor with a drain under it. I turn the tap and, after much sputtering and a lot of rust, clear water begins to flow. We clean Gale‘s neck wound and I realize bandages won‘t be enough. He‘s going to
need a few stitches. There‘s a needle and sterile thread in the first-aid supplies, but what we lack is a healer. It crosses my mind to enlist Tigris. As a stylist, she must know how to work a needle. But that
would leave no one manning the shop, and she‘s doing enough already. I accept that I‘m probably the most qualified for the job, grit my teeth, and put in a row of jagged sutures. It‘s not pretty but it‘s
functional. I smear it with medicine and wrap it up. Give him some painkillers. “You can rest now. It‘s safe here,” I tell him. He goes out like a light.
While Cressida and Pollux make fur nests for each of us, I attend to Peeta‘s wrists. Gently rinsing away the blood, putting on an antiseptic, and bandaging them beneath the cuffs. “You‘ve got to keep
them clean, otherwise the infection could spread and—”
“I know what blood poisoning is, Katniss,” says Peeta. “Even if my mother isn‘t a healer.”
I‘m jolted back in time, to another wound, another set of bandages. “You said that same thing to me in the first Hunger Games. Real or not real?”
“Real,” he says. “And you risked your life getting the medicine that saved me?”
“Real.” I shrug. “You were the reason I was alive to do it.”
“Was I?” The comment throws him into confusion. Some shiny memory must be fighting for his attention, because his body tenses and his newly bandaged wrists strain against the metal cuffs. Then all
the energy saps from his body. “I‘m so tired, Katniss.”
“Go to sleep,” I say. He won‘t until I‘ve rearranged his handcuffs and shackled him to one of the stair supports. It can‘t be comfortable, lying there with his arms above his head. But in a few minutes, he
drifts off, too.
Cressida and Pollux have made beds for us, arranged our food and medical supplies, and now ask what I want to do about setting up a guard. I look at Gale‘s pallor, Peeta‘s restraints. Pollux hasn‘t
slept for days, and Cressida and I only napped for a few hours. If a troop of Peacekeepers were to come through that door, we‘d be trapped like rats. We are completely at the mercy of a decrepit tigerwoman
with what I can only hope is an all-consuming passion for Snow‘s death.
“I don‘t honestly think there‘s any point in setting up a guard. Let‘s just try to get some sleep,” I say. They nod numbly, and we all burrow into our pelts. The fire inside me has flickered out, and with it my
strength. I surrender to the soft, musty fur and oblivion.
I have only one dream I remember. A long and wearying thing in which I‘m trying to get to District 12. The home I‘m seeking is intact, the people alive. Effie Trinket, conspicuous in a bright pink wig and
tailored outfit, travels with me. I keep trying to ditch her in places, but she inexplicably reappears at my side, insisting that as my escort she‘s responsible for my staying on schedule. Only the schedule is
constantly shifting, derailed by our lack of a stamp from an official or delayed when Effie breaks one of her high heels. We camp for days on a bench in a gray station in District 7, awaiting a train that never
comes. When I wake, somehow I feel even more drained by this than my usual nighttime forays into blood and terror.
Cressida, the only person awake, tells me it‘s late afternoon. I eat a can of beef stew and wash it down with a lot of water. Then I lean against the cellar wall, retracing the events of the last day. Moving
death by death. Counting them up on my fingers. One, two—Mitchell and Boggs lost on the block. Three—Messalla melted by the pod. Four, five—Leeg 1 and Jackson sacrificing themselves at the Meat Grinder. Six, seven, eight—Castor, Homes, and Finnick being decapitated by the rose-scented lizard mutts. Eight dead in twenty-four hours. I know it happened, and yet it doesn‘t seem real. Surely,
Castor is asleep under that pile of furs, Finnick will come bounding down the steps in a minute, Boggs will tell me his plan for our escape.
To believe them dead is to accept I killed them. Okay, maybe not Mitchell and Boggs—they died on an actual assignment. But the others lost their lives defending me on a mission I fabricated. My plot
to assassinate Snow seems so stupid now. So stupid as I sit shivering here in this cellar, tallying up our losses, fingering the tassels on the silver knee-high boots I stole from the woman‘s home. Oh, yeah
—I forgot about that. I killed her, too. I‘m taking out unarmed citizens now.
I think it‘s time I give myself up.
When everyone finally awakens, I confess. How I lied about the mission, how I jeopardized everyone in pursuit of revenge. There‘s a long silence after I finish. Then Gale says, “Katniss, we all knew you
were lying about Coin sending you to assassinate Snow.”
“You knew, maybe. The soldiers from Thirteen didn‘t,” I reply.
“Do you really think Jackson believed you had orders from Coin?” Cressida asks. “Of course she didn‘t. But she trusted Boggs, and he‘d clearly wanted you to go on.”
“I never even told Boggs what I planned to do,” I say.
“You told everyone in Command!” Gale says. “It was one of your conditions for being the Mockingjay. ‘I kill Snow.‘”
Those seem like two disconnected things. Negotiating with Coin for the privilege of executing Snow after the war and this unauthorized flight through the Capitol. “But not like this,” I say. “It‘s been a
complete disaster.”
“I think it would be considered a highly successful mission,” says Gale. “We‘ve infiltrated the enemy camp, showing that the Capitol‘s defenses can be breached. We‘ve managed to get footage of
ourselves all over the Capitol‘s news. We‘ve thrown the whole city into chaos trying to find us.”
“Trust me, Plutarch‘s thrilled,” Cressida adds.
“That‘s because Plutarch doesn‘t care who dies,” I say. “Not as long as his Games are a success.”
Cressida and Gale go round and round trying to convince me. Pollux nods at their words to back them up. Only Peeta doesn‘t offer an opinion.
“What do you think, Peeta?” I finally ask him.
“I think… you still have no idea. The effect you can have.” He slides his cuffs up the support and pushes himself to a sitting position. “None of the people we lost were idiots. They knew what they were
doing. They followed you because they believed you really could kill Snow.”
I don‘t know why his voice reaches me when no one else‘s can. But if he‘s right, and I think he is, I owe the others a debt that can only be repaid in one way. I pull my paper map from a pocket in my
uniform and spread it out on the floor with new resolve. “Where are we, Cressida?”
Tigris‘s shop sits about five blocks from the City Circle and Snow‘s mansion. We‘re in easy walking distance through a zone in which the pods are deactivated for the residents‘ safety. We have
disguises that, perhaps with some embellishments from Tigris‘s furry stock, could get us safely there. But then what? The mansion‘s sure to be heavily guarded, under round-the-clock camera surveillance,
and laced with pods that could become live at the flick of a switch.
“What we need is to get him out in the open,” Gale says to me. “Then one of us could pick him off.”
“Does he ever appear in public anymore?” asks Peeta.
“I don‘t think so,” says Cressida. “At least in all the recent speeches I‘ve seen, he‘s been in the mansion. Even before the rebels got here. I imagine he became more vigilant after Finnick aired his
crimes.”
That‘s right. It‘s not just the Tigrises of the Capitol who hate Snow now, but a web of people who know what he did to their friends and families. It would have to be something bordering on miraculous
to lure him out. Something like…
“I bet he‘d come out for me,” I say. “If I were captured. He‘d want that as public as possible. He‘d want my execution on his front steps.” I let this sink in. “Then Gale could shoot him from the audience.”
“No.” Peeta shakes his head. “There are too many alternative endings to that plan. Snow might decide to keep you and torture information out of you. Or have you executed publicly without being
present. Or kill you inside the mansion and display your body out front.”
“Gale?” I say.
“It seems like an extreme solution to jump to immediately,” he says. “Maybe if all else fails. Let‘s keep thinking.”
In the quiet that follows, we hear Tigris‘s soft footfall overhead. It must be closing time. She‘s locking up, fastening the shutters maybe. A few minutes later, the panel at the top of the stairs slides open.
“Come up,” says a gravelly voice. “I have some food for you.” It‘s the first time she‘s talked since we arrived. Whether it‘s natural or from years of practice, I don‘t know, but there‘s something in her
manner of speaking that suggests a cat‘s purr.
As we climb the stairs, Cressida asks, “Did you contact Plutarch, Tigris?”
“No way to.” Tigris shrugs. “He‘ll figure out you‘re in a safe house. Don‘t worry.”
Worry? I feel immensely relieved by the news that I won‘t be given—and have to ignore—direct orders from 13. Or make up some viable defense for the decisions I‘ve made over the last couple of
days.
In the shop, the counter holds some stale hunks of bread, a wedge of moldy cheese, and half a bottle of mustard. It reminds me that not everyone in the Capitol has full stomachs these days. I feel
obliged to tell Tigris about our remaining food supplies, but she waves my objections away. “I eat next to nothing,” she says. “And then, only raw meat.” This seems a little too in character, but I don‘t
question it. I just scrape the mold off the cheese and divide up the food among the rest of us.
While we eat, we watch the latest Capitol news coverage. The government has the rebel survivors narrowed down to the five of us. Huge bounties are offered for information leading to our capture.
They emphasize how dangerous we are. Show us exchanging gunfire with the Peacekeepers, although not the mutts ripping off their heads. Do a tragic tribute to the woman lying where we left her, with my
arrow still in her heart. Someone has redone her makeup for the cameras.
The rebels let the Capitol broadcast run on uninterrupted. “Have the rebels made a statement today?” I ask Tigris. She shakes her head. “I doubt Coin knows what to do with me now that I‘m still alive.”
Tigris gives a throaty cackle. “No one knows what to do with you, girlie.” Then she makes me take a pair of the fur leggings even though I can‘t pay her for them. It‘s the kind of gift you have to accept.
And anyway, it‘s cold in that cellar.
Downstairs after supper, we continue to rack our brains for a plan. Nothing good comes up, but we do agree that we can no longer go out as a group of five and that we should try to infiltrate the
president‘s mansion before I turn myself into bait. I consent to that second point to avoid further argument. If I do decide to give myself up, it won‘t require anyone else‘s permission or participation.
We change bandages, handcuff Peeta back to his support, and settle down to sleep. A few hours later, I slip back into consciousness and become aware of a quiet conversation. Peeta and Gale. I
can‘t stop myself from eavesdropping.
“Thanks for the water,” Peeta says.
“No problem,” Gale replies. “I wake up ten times a night anyway.”
“To make sure Katniss is still here?” asks Peeta.
“Something like that,” Gale admits.
There‘s a long pause before Peeta speaks again. “That was funny, what Tigris said. About no one knowing what to do with her.”
“Well, we never have,” Gale says.
They both laugh. It‘s so strange to hear them talking like this. Almost like friends. Which they‘re not. Never have been. Although they‘re not exactly enemies.
“She loves you, you know,” says Peeta. “She as good as told me after they whipped you.”
“Don‘t believe it,” Gale answers. “The way she kissed you in the Quarter Quell… well, she never kissed me like that.”
“It was just part of the show,” Peeta tells him, although there‘s an edge of doubt in his voice.
“No, you won her over. Gave up everything for her. Maybe that‘s the only way to convince her you love her.” There‘s a long pause. “I should have volunteered to take your place in the first Games.
Protected her then.”
“You couldn‘t,” says Peeta. “She‘d never have forgiven you. You had to take care of her family. They matter more to her than her life.”
“Well, it won‘t be an issue much longer. I think it‘s unlikely all three of us will be alive at the end of the war. And if we are, I guess it‘s Katniss‘s problem. Who to choose.” Gale yawns. “We should get
some sleep.”
“Yeah.” I hear Peeta‘s handcuffs slide down the support as he settles in. “I wonder how she‘ll make up her mind.”
“Oh, that I do know.” I can just catch Gale‘s last words through the layer of fur. “Katniss will pick whoever she thinks she can‘t survive without.”

Mockingjay Chapter 22

2012-03-02T18:18:00.000-08:00

Mockingjay Part 3: The Assassin

Chapter 22

The grace period has ended. Perhaps Snow had them digging through the night. As soon as the fire died down, anyway. They found Boggs‘s remains, briefly felt reassured, and then, as the hours went by
without further trophies, began to suspect. At some point, they realized that they had been tricked. And President Snow can‘t tolerate being made to look like a fool. It doesn‘t matter whether they tracked
us to the second apartment or assumed we went directly underground. They know we are down here now and they‘ve unleashed something, a pack of mutts probably, bent on finding me.
“Katniss.” I jump at the proximity of the sound. Look frantically for its source, bow loaded, seeking a target to hit. “Katniss.” Peeta‘s lips are barely moving, but there‘s no doubt, the name came out of
him. Just when I thought he seemed a little better, when I thought he might be inching his way back to me, here is proof of how deep Snow‘s poison went. “Katniss.” Peeta‘s programmed to respond to the
hissing chorus, to join in the hunt. He‘s beginning to stir. There‘s no choice. I position my arrow to penetrate his brain. He‘ll barely feel a thing. Suddenly, he‘s sitting up, eyes wide in alarm, short of breath.
“Katniss!” He whips his head toward me but doesn‘t seem to notice my bow, the waiting arrow. “Katniss! Get out of here!”
I hesitate. His voice is alarmed, but not insane. “Why? What‘s making that sound?”
“I don‘t know. Only that it has to kill you,” says Peeta. “Run! Get out! Go!”
After my own moment of confusion, I conclude I do not have to shoot him. Relax my bowstring. Take in the anxious faces around me. “Whatever it is, it‘s after me. It might be a good time to split up.”
“But we‘re your guard,” says Jackson.
“And your crew,” adds Cressida.
“I‘m not leaving you,” Gale says.
I look at the crew, armed with nothing but cameras and clipboards. And there‘s Finnick with two guns and a trident. I suggest that he give one of his guns to Castor. Eject the blank cartridge from
Peeta‘s, load it with a real one, and arm Pollux. Since Gale and I have our bows, we hand our guns over to Messalla and Cressida. There‘s no time to show them anything but how to point and pull the
trigger, but in close quarters, that might be enough. It‘s better than being defenseless. Now the only one without a weapon is Peeta, but anyone whispering my name with a bunch of mutts doesn‘t need one
anyway.
We leave the room free of everything but our scent. There‘s no way to erase that at the moment. I‘m guessing that‘s how the hissing things are tracking us, because we haven‘t left much of a physical
trail. The mutts‘ noses will be abnormally keen, but possibly the time we spent slogging through water in drainpipes will help throw them.
Outside the hum of the room, the hissing becomes more distinct. But it‘s also possible to get a better sense of the mutts‘ location. They‘re behind us, still a fair distance. Snow probably had them
released underground near the place where he found Boggs‘s body. Theoretically, we should have a good lead on them, although they‘re certain to be much faster than we are. My mind wanders to the
wolflike creatures in the first arena, the monkeys in the Quarter Quell, the monstrosities I‘ve witnessed on television over the years, and I wonder what form these mutts will take. Whatever Snow thinks will
scare me the most.
Pollux and I have worked out a plan for the next leg of our journey, and since it heads away from the hissing, I see no reason to alter it. If we move swiftly, maybe we can reach Snow‘s mansion before
the mutts reach us. But there‘s a sloppiness that comes with speed: the poorly placed boot that results in a splash, the accidental clang of a gun against a pipe, even my own commands, issued too loudly
for discretion.
We‘ve covered about three more blocks via an overflow pipe and a section of neglected train track when the screams begin. Thick, guttural. Bouncing off the tunnel walls.
“Avoxes,” says Peeta immediately. “That‘s what Darius sounded like when they tortured him.”
“The mutts must have found them,” says Cressida.
“So they‘re not just after Katniss,” says Leeg 1.
“They‘ll probably kill anyone. It‘s just that they won‘t stop until they get to her,” says Gale. After his hours studying with Beetee, he is most likely right.
And here I am again. With people dying because of me. Friends, allies, complete strangers, losing their lives for the Mockingjay. “Let me go on alone. Lead them off. I‘ll transfer the Holo to Jackson.
The rest of you can finish the mission.”
“No one‘s going to agree to that!” says Jackson in exasperation.
“We‘re wasting time!” says Finnick.
“Listen,” Peeta whispers.
The screams have stopped, and in their absence my name has rebounded, startling in its proximity. It‘s below as well as behind us now. “Katniss.”
I nudge Pollux on the shoulder and we start to run. Trouble is, we had planned to descend to a lower level, but that‘s out now. When we come to the steps leading down, Pollux and I are scanning for a possible alternative on the Holo when I start gagging.
“Masks on!” orders Jackson.
There‘s no need for masks. Everyone is breathing the same air. I‘m the only one losing my stew because I‘m the only one reacting to the odor. Drifting up from the stairwell. Cutting through the sewage.
Roses. I begin to tremble.
I swerve away from the smell and stumble right out onto the Transfer. Smooth, pastel-colored tiled streets, just like the ones above, but bordered by white brick walls instead of homes. A roadway
where delivery vehicles can drive with ease, without the congestion of the Capitol. Empty now, of everything but us. I swing up my bow and blow up the first pod with an explosive arrow, which kills the nest
of flesh-eating rats inside. Then I sprint for the next intersection, where I know one false step will cause the ground beneath our feet to disintegrate, feeding us into something labeled Meat Grinder. I shout
a warning to the others to stay with me. I plan for us to skirt around the corner and then detonate the Meat Grinder, but another unmarked pod lies in wait.
It happens silently. I would miss it entirely if Finnick didn‘t pull me to a stop. “Katniss!”
I whip back around, arrow poised for flight, but what can be done? Two of Gale‘s arrows already lie useless beside the wide shaft of golden light that radiates from ceiling to floor. Inside, Messalla is
as still as a statue, poised up on the ball of one foot, head tilted back, held captive by the beam. I can‘t tell if he‘s yelling, although his mouth is stretched wide. We watch, utterly helpless, as the flesh melts
off his body like candle wax.
“Can‘t help him!” Peeta starts shoving people forward. “Can‘t!” Amazingly, he‘s the only one still functional enough to get us moving. I don‘t know why he‘s in control, when he should be flipping out and
bashing my brains in, but that could happen any second. At the pressure of his hand against my shoulder, I turn away from the grisly thing that was Messalla; I make my feet go forward, fast, so fast that I
can barely skid to a stop before the next intersection.
A spray of gunfire brings down a shower of plaster. I jerk my head from side to side, looking for the pod, before I turn and see the squad of Peacekeepers pounding down the Transfer toward us. With
the Meat Grinder pod blocking our way, there‘s nothing to do but fire back. They outnumber us two to one, but we‘ve still got six original members of the Star Squad, who aren‘t trying to run and shoot at the
same time.
Fish in a barrel, I think, as blossoms of red stain their white uniforms. Three-quarters of them are down and dead when more begin to pour in from the side of the tunnel, the same one I flung myself
through to get away from the smell, from the—
Those aren‘t Peacekeepers.
They are white, four-limbed, about the size of a full-grown human, but that‘s where the comparisons stop. Naked, with long reptilian tails, arched backs, and heads that jut forward. They swarm over the
Peacekeepers, living and dead, clamp on to their necks with their mouths and rip off the helmeted heads. Apparently, having a Capitol pedigree is as useless here as it was in 13. It seems to take only
seconds before the Peacekeepers are decapitated. The mutts fall to their bellies and skitter toward us on all fours.
“This way!” I shout, hugging the wall and making a sharp right turn to avoid the pod. When everyone‘s joined me, I fire into the intersection, and the Meat Grinder activates. Huge mechanical teeth burst
through the street and chew the tile to dust. That should make it impossible for the mutts to follow us, but I don‘t know. The wolf and monkey mutts I‘ve encountered could leap unbelievably far.
The hissing burns my ears, and the reek of roses makes the walls spin.
I grab Pollux‘s arm. “Forget the mission. What‘s the quickest way aboveground?”
There‘s no time for checking the Holo. We follow Pollux for about ten yards along the Transfer and go through a doorway. I‘m aware of tile changing to concrete, of crawling through a tight, stinking pipe
onto a ledge about a foot wide. We‘re in the main sewer. A yard below, a poisonous brew of human waste, garbage, and chemical runoff bubbles by us. Parts of the surface are on fire, others emit evillooking
clouds of vapor. One look tells you that if you fall in, you‘re never coming out. Moving as quickly as we dare on the slippery ledge, we make our way to a narrow bridge and cross it. In an alcove at
the far side, Pollux smacks a ladder with his hand and points up the shaft. This is it. Our way out.
A quick glance at our party tells me something‘s off. “Wait! Where are Jackson and Leeg One?”
“They stayed at the Grinder to hold the mutts back,” says Homes.
“What?” I‘m lunging back for the bridge, willing to leave no one to those monsters, when he yanks me back.
“Don‘t waste their lives, Katniss. It‘s too late for them. Look!” Homes nods to the pipe, where the mutts are slithering onto the ledge.
“Stand back!” Gale shouts. With his explosive-tipped arrows, he rips the far side of the bridge from its foundation. The rest sinks into the bubbles, just as the mutts reach it.
For the first time, I get a good look at them. A mix of human and lizard and who knows what else. White, tight reptilian skin smeared with gore, clawed hands and feet, their faces a mess of conflicting
features. Hissing, shrieking my name now, as their bodies contort in rage. Lashing out with tails and claws, taking huge chunks of one another or their own bodies with wide, lathered mouths, driven mad
by their need to destroy me. My scent must be as evocative to them as theirs is to me. More so, because despite its toxicity, the mutts begin to throw themselves into the foul sewer.
Along our bank, everyone opens fire. I choose my arrows without discretion, sending arrowheads, fire, explosives into the mutts‘ bodies. They‘re mortal, but only just. No natural thing could keep
coming with two dozen bullets in it. Yes, we can eventually kill them, only there are so many, an endless supply pouring from the pipe, not even hesitating to take to the sewage.
But it‘s not their numbers that make my hands shake so.
No mutt is good. All are meant to damage you. Some take your life, like the monkeys. Others your reason, like the tracker jackers. However, the true atrocities, the most frightening, incorporate a
perverse psychological twist designed to terrify the victim. The sight of the wolf mutts with the dead tributes‘ eyes. The sound of the jabberjays replicating Prim‘s tortured screams. The smell of Snow‘s
roses mixed with the victims‘ blood. Carried across the sewer. Cutting through even this foulness. Making my heart run wild, my skin turn to ice, my lungs unable to suck air. It‘s as if Snow‘s breathing right
in my face, telling me it‘s time to die.
The others are shouting at me, but I can‘t seem to respond. Strong arms lift me as I blast the head off a mutt whose claws have just grazed my ankle. I‘m slammed into the ladder. Hands shoved
against the rungs. Ordered to climb. My wooden, puppet limbs obey. Movement slowly brings me back to my senses. I detect one person above me. Pollux. Peeta and Cressida are below. We reach a
platform. Switch to a second ladder. Rungs slick with sweat and mildew. At the next platform, my head has cleared and the reality of what‘s happened hits me. I begin frantically pulling people up off the
ladder. Peeta. Cressida. That‘s it.
What have I done? What have I abandoned the others to? I‘m scrambling back down the ladder when one of my boots kicks someone.
“Climb!” Gale barks at me. I‘m back up, hauling him in, peering into the gloom for more. “No.” Gale turns my face to him and shakes his head. Uniform shredded. Gaping wound in the side of his neck.
There‘s a human cry from below. “Someone‘s still alive,” I plead.
“No, Katniss. They‘re not coming,” says Gale. “Only the mutts are.”
Unable to accept it, I shine the light from Cressida‘s gun down the shaft. Far below, I can just make out Finnick, struggling to hang on as three mutts tear at him. As one yanks back his head to take the
death bite, something bizarre happens. It‘s as if I‘m Finnick, watching images of my life flash by. The mast of a boat, a silver parachute, Mags laughing, a pink sky, Beetee‘s trident, Annie in her wedding
dress, waves breaking over rocks. Then it‘s over.
I slide the Holo from my belt and choke out “nightlock, nightlock, nightlock.” Release it. Hunch against the wall with the others as the explosion rocks the platform and bits of mutt and human flesh shoot
out of the pipe and shower us.
There‘s a clank as Pollux slams a cover over the pipe and locks it in place. Pollux, Gale, Cressida, Peeta, and me. We‘re all that‘s left. Later, the human feelings will come. Now I‘m conscious only of
an animal need to keep the remnants of our band alive. “We can‘t stop here.”
Someone comes up with a bandage. We tie it around Gale‘s neck. Get him to his feet. Only one figure stays huddled against the wall. “Peeta,” I say. There‘s no response. Has he blacked out? I crouch
in front of him, pulling his cuffed hands from his face. “Peeta?” His eyes are like black pools, the pupils dilated so that the blue irises have all but vanished. The muscles in his wrists are hard as metal.
“Leave me,” he whispers. “I can‘t hang on.”
“Yes. You can!” I tell him.
Peeta shakes his head. “I‘m losing it. I‘ll go mad. Like them.”
Like the mutts. Like a rabid beast bent on ripping my throat out. And here, finally here in this place, in these circumstances, I will really have to kill him. And Snow will win. Hot, bitter hatred courses
through me. Snow has won too much already today.
It‘s a long shot, it‘s suicide maybe, but I do the only thing I can think of. I lean in and kiss Peeta full on the mouth. His whole body starts shuddering, but I keep my lips pressed to his until I have to come
up for air. My hands slide up his wrists to clasp his. “Don‘t let him take you from me.”
Peeta‘s panting hard as he fights the nightmares raging in his head. “No. I don‘t want to…”
I clench his hands to the point of pain. “Stay with me.”
His pupils contract to pinpoints, dilate again rapidly, and then return to something resembling normalcy. “Always,” he murmurs.
I help Peeta up and address Pollux. “How far to the street?” He indicates it‘s just above us. I climb the last ladder and push open the lid to someone‘s utility room. I‘m rising to my feet when a woman
throws open the door. She wears a bright turquoise silk robe embroidered with exotic birds. Her magenta hair‘s fluffed up like a cloud and decorated with gilded butterflies. Grease from the half-eaten
sausage she‘s holding smears her lipstick. The expression on her face says she recognizes me. She opens her mouth to call for help.
Without hesitation, I shoot her through the heart.

Mockingjay Chapter 21

2012-03-02T18:17:00.001-08:00

Mockingjay Part 3: The Assassin

Chapter 21

That makes two requests for Peeta‘s death in less than an hour.
“Don‘t be ridiculous,” says Jackson.
“I just murdered a member of our squad!” shouts Peeta.
“You pushed him off you. You couldn‘t have known he would trigger the net at that exact spot,” says Finnick, trying to calm him.
“Who cares? He‘s dead, isn‘t he?” Tears begin to run down Peeta‘s face. “I didn‘t know. I‘ve never seen myself like that before. Katniss is right. I‘m the monster. I‘m the mutt. I‘m the one Snow has
turned into a weapon!”
“It‘s not your fault, Peeta,” says Finnick.
“You can‘t take me with you. It‘s only a matter of time before I kill someone else.” Peeta looks around at our conflicted faces. “Maybe you think it‘s kinder to just dump me somewhere. Let me take my
chances. But that‘s the same thing as handing me over to the Capitol. Do you think you‘d be doing me a favor by sending me back to Snow?”
Peeta. Back in Snow‘s hands. Tortured and tormented until no bits of his former self will ever emerge again.
For some reason, the last stanza to “The Hanging Tree” starts running through my head. The one where the man wants his lover dead rather than have her face the evil that awaits her in the world.
Are you, are you
Coming to the tree
Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.
“I‘ll kill you before that happens,” says Gale. “I promise.”
Peeta hesitates, as if considering the reliability of this offer, and then shakes his head. “It‘s no good. What if you‘re not there to do it? I want one of those poison pills like the rest of you have.”
Nightlock. There‘s one pill back at camp, in its special slot on the sleeve of my Mockingjay suit. But there‘s another in the breast pocket of my uniform. Interesting that they didn‘t issue one to Peeta.
Perhaps Coin thought he might take it before he had the opportunity to kill me. It‘s unclear if Peeta means he‘d finish himself off now, to spare us having to murder him, or only if the Capitol took him
prisoner again. In the state he‘s in, I expect it would be sooner rather than later. It would certainly make things easier on the rest of us. Not to have to shoot him. It would certainly simplify the problem of
dealing with his homicidal episodes.
I don‘t know if it‘s the pods, or the fear, or watching Boggs die, but I feel the arena all around me. It‘s as if I‘ve never left, really. Once again I‘m battling not only for my own survival but for Peeta‘s as
well. How satisfying, how entertaining it would be for Snow to have me kill him. To have Peeta‘s death on my conscience for whatever is left of my life.
“It‘s not about you,” I say. “We‘re on a mission. And you‘re necessary to it.” I look to the rest of the group. “Think we might find some food here?”
Besides the medical kit and cameras, we have nothing but our uniforms and our weapons.
Half of us stay to guard Peeta or keep an eye out for Snow‘s broadcast, while the others hunt for something to eat. Messalla proves most valuable because he lived in a near replica of this apartment
and knows where people would be most likely to stash food. Like how there‘s a storage space concealed by a mirrored panel in the bedroom, or how easy it is to pop out the ventilation screen in the
hallway. So even though the kitchen cupboards are bare, we find over thirty canned goods and several boxes of cookies.
The hoarding disgusts the soldiers raised in 13. “Isn‘t this illegal?” says Leeg 1.
“On the contrary, in the Capitol you‘d be considered stupid not to do it,” says Messalla. “Even before the Quarter Quell, people were starting to stock up on scarce supplies.”
“While others went without,” says Leeg 1.
“Right,” says Messalla. “That‘s how it works here.”
“Fortunately, or we wouldn‘t have dinner,” says Gale. “Everybody grab a can.”
Some of our company seem reluctant to do this, but it‘s as good a method as any. I‘m really not in the mood to divvy up everything into eleven equal parts, factoring in age, body weight, and physical output. I poke around in the pile, about to settle on some cod chowder, when Peeta holds out a can to me. “Here.”
I take it, not knowing what to expect. The label reads Lamb Stew.
I press my lips together at the memories of rain dripping through stones, my inept attempts at flirting, and the aroma of my favorite Capitol dish in the chilly air. So some part of it must still be in his
head, too. How happy, how hungry, how close we were when that picnic basket arrived outside our cave. “Thanks.” I pop open the top. “It even has dried plums.” I bend the lid and use it as a makeshift
spoon, scooping a bit into my mouth. Now this place tastes like the arena, too.
We‘re passing around a box of fancy cream-filled cookies when the beeping starts again. The seal of Panem lights up on the screen and remains there while the anthem plays. And then they begin to
show images of the dead, just as they did with the tributes in the arena. They start with the four faces of our TV crew, followed by Boggs, Gale, Finnick, Peeta, and me. Except for Boggs, they don‘t bother
with the soldiers from 13, either because they have no idea who they are or because they know they won‘t mean anything to the audience. Then the man himself appears, seated at his desk, a flag draped
behind him, the fresh white rose gleaming in his lapel. I think he might have recently had more work done, because his lips are puffier than usual. And his prep team really needs to use a lighter hand with
his blush.
Snow congratulates the Peacekeepers on a masterful job, honors them for ridding the country of the menace called the Mockingjay. With my death, he predicts a turning of the tide in the war, since the
demoralized rebels have no one left to follow. And what was I, really? A poor, unstable girl with a small talent with a bow and arrow. Not a great thinker, not the mastermind of the rebellion, merely a face
plucked from the rabble because I had caught the nation‘s attention with my antics in the Games. But necessary, so very necessary, because the rebels have no real leader among them.
Somewhere in District 13, Beetee hits a switch, because now it‘s not President Snow but President Coin who‘s looking at us. She introduces herself to Panem, identifies herself as the head of the
rebellion, and then gives my eulogy. Praise for the girl who survived the Seam and the Hunger Games, then turned a country of slaves into an army of freedom fighters. “Dead or alive, Katniss Everdeen
will remain the face of this rebellion. If ever you waver in your resolve, think of the Mockingjay, and in her you will find the strength you need to rid Panem of its oppressors.”
“I had no idea how much I meant to her,” I say, which brings a laugh from Gale and questioning looks from the others.
Up comes a heavily doctored photo of me looking beautiful and fierce with a bunch of flames flickering behind me. No words. No slogan. My face is all they need now.
Beetee gives the reins back to a very controlled Snow. I have the feeling the president thought the emergency channel was impenetrable, and someone will end up dead tonight because it was
breached. “Tomorrow morning, when we pull Katniss Everdeen‘s body from the ashes, we will see exactly who the Mockingjay is. A dead girl who could save no one, not even herself.” Seal, anthem, and
out.
“Except that you won‘t find her,” says Finnick to the empty screen, voicing what we‘re all probably thinking. The grace period will be brief. Once they dig through those ashes and come up missing
eleven bodies, they‘ll know we escaped.
“We can get a head start on them at least,” I say. Suddenly, I‘m so tired. All I want is to lie down on a nearby green plush sofa and go to sleep. To cocoon myself in a comforter made of rabbit fur and
goose down. Instead, I pull out the Holo and insist that Jackson talk me through the most basic commands—which are really about entering the coordinates of the nearest map grid intersection—so that I
can at least begin to operate the thing myself. As the Holo projects our surroundings, I feel my heart sink even further. We must be moving closer to crucial targets, because the number of pods has
noticeably increased. How can we possibly move forward into this bouquet of blinking lights without detection? We can‘t. And if we can‘t, we are trapped like birds in a net. I decide it‘s best not to adopt
some sort of superior attitude when I‘m with these people. Especially when my eyes keep drifting to that green sofa. So I say, “Any ideas?”
“Why don‘t we start by ruling out possibilities,” says Finnick. “The street is not a possibility.”
“The rooftops are just as bad as the street,” says Leeg 1.
“We still might have a chance to withdraw, go back the way we came,” says Homes. “But that would mean a failed mission.”
A pang of guilt hits me since I‘ve fabricated said mission. “It was never intended for all of us to go forward. You just had the misfortune to be with me.”
“Well, that‘s a moot point. We‘re with you now,” says Jackson. “So, we can‘t stay put. We can‘t move up. We can‘t move laterally. I think that just leaves one option.”
“Underground,” says Gale.
Underground. Which I hate. Like mines and tunnels and 13. Underground, where I dread dying, which is stupid because even if I die aboveground, the next thing they‘ll do is bury me underground
anyway.
The Holo can show subterranean as well as street-level pods. I see that when we go underground the clean, dependable lines of the street plan are interlaced with a twisting, turning mess of tunnels.
The pods look less numerous, though.
Two doors down, a vertical tube connects our row of apartments to the tunnels. To reach the tube apartment, we will need to squeeze through a maintenance shaft that runs the length of the building.
We can enter the shaft through the back of a closet space on the upper floor.
“Okay, then. Let‘s make it look like we‘ve never been here,” I say. We erase all signs of our stay. Send the empty cans down a trash chute, pocket the full ones for later, flip sofa cushions smeared with
blood, wipe traces of gel from the tiles. There‘s no fixing the latch on the front door, but we lock a second bolt, which will at least keep the door from swinging open on contact.
Finally, there‘s only Peeta to contend with. He plants himself on the blue sofa, refusing to budge. “I‘m not going. I‘ll either disclose your position or hurt someone else.”
“Snow‘s people will find you,” says Finnick.
“Then leave me a pill. I‘ll only take it if I have to,” says Peeta.
“That‘s not an option. Come along,” says Jackson.
“Or you‘ll what? Shoot me?” asks Peeta.
“We‘ll knock you out and drag you with us,” says Homes. “Which will both slow us down and endanger us.”
“Stop being noble! I don‘t care if I die!” He turns to me, pleading now. “Katniss, please. Don‘t you see, I want to be out of this?”
The trouble is, I do see. Why can‘t I just let him go? Slip him a pill, pull the trigger? Is it because I care too much about Peeta or too much about letting Snow win? Have I turned him into a piece in my
private Games? That‘s despicable, but I‘m not sure it‘s beneath me. If it‘s true, it would be kindest to kill Peeta here and now. But for better or worse, I am not motivated by kindness. “We‘re wasting time.
Are you coming voluntarily or do we knock you out?”
Peeta buries his face in his hands for a few moments, then rises to join us.
“Should we free his hands?” asks Leeg 1.
“No!” Peeta growls at her, drawing his cuffs in close to his body.
“No,” I echo. “But I want the key.” Jackson passes it over without a word. I slip it into my pants pocket, where it clicks against the pearl.
When Homes pries open the small metal door to the maintenance shaft, we encounter another problem. There‘s no way the insect shells will be able to fit through the narrow passage. Castor and
Pollux remove them and detach emergency backup cameras. Each is the size of a shoe box and probably works about as well. Messalla can‘t think of anywhere better to hide the bulky shells, so we end
up dumping them in the closet. Leaving such an easy trail to follow frustrates me, but what else can we do?
Even going single file, holding our packs and gear out to the side, it‘s a tight fit. We sidestep our way past the first apartment, and break into the second. In this apartment, one of the bedrooms has a
door marked utility instead of a bathroom. Behind the door is the room with the entrance to the tube.
Messalla frowns at the wide circular cover, for a moment returning to his own fussy world. “It‘s why no one ever wants the center unit. Workmen coming and going whenever and no second bath. But the
rent‘s considerably cheaper.” Then he notices Finnick‘s amused expression and adds, “Never mind.”
The tube cover‘s simple to unlatch. A wide ladder with rubber treads on the steps allows for a swift, easy descent into the bowels of the city. We gather at the foot of the ladder, waiting for our eyes to
adjust to the dim strips of lights, breathing in the mixture of chemicals, mildew, and sewage.
Pollux, pale and sweaty, reaches out and latches on to Castor‘s wrist. Like he might fall over if there isn‘t someone to steady him.
“My brother worked down here after he became an Avox,” says Castor. Of course. Who else would they get to maintain these dank, evil-smelling passages mined with pods? “Took five years before
we were able to buy his way up to ground level. Didn‘t see the sun once.”
Under better conditions, on a day with fewer horrors and more rest, someone would surely know what to say. Instead we all stand there for a long time trying to formulate a response.
Finally, Peeta turns to Pollux. “Well, then you just became our most valuable asset.” Castor laughs and Pollux manages a smile.
We‘re halfway down the first tunnel when I realize what was so remarkable about the exchange. Peeta sounded like his old self, the one who could always think of the right thing to say when nobody
else could. Ironic, encouraging, a little funny, but not at anyone‘s expense. I glance back at him as he trudges along under his guards, Gale and Jackson, his eyes fixed on the ground, his shoulders
hunched forward. So dispirited. But for a moment, he was really here.
Peeta called it right. Pollux turns out to be worth ten Holos. There is a simple network of wide tunnels that directly corresponds to the main street plan above, underlying the major avenues and cross
streets. It‘s called the Transfer, since small trucks use it to deliver goods around the city. During the day, its many pods are deactivated, but at night it‘s a minefield. However, hundreds of additional
passages, utility shafts, train tracks, and drainage tubes form a multilevel maze. Pollux knows details that would lead to disaster for a newcomer, like which offshoots might require gas masks or have live
wires or rats the size of beavers. He alerts us to the gush of water that sweeps through the sewers periodically, anticipates the time the Avoxes will be changing shifts, leads us into damp, obscure pipes to
dodge the nearly silent passage of cargo trains. Most important, he has knowledge of the cameras. There aren‘t many down in this gloomy, misty place, except in the Transfer. But we keep well out of their
way.
Under Pollux‘s guidance we make good time—remarkable time, if you compare it to our aboveground travel. After about six hours, fatigue takes over. It‘s three in the morning, so I figure we still have a
few hours before our bodies are discovered missing, they search through the rubble of the whole block of apartments in case we tried to escape through the shafts, and the hunt begins.
When I suggest we rest, no one objects. Pollux finds a small, warm room humming with machines loaded with levers and dials. He holds up his fingers to indicate we must be gone in four hours.
Jackson works out a guard schedule, and, since I‘m not on the first shift, I wedge myself in the tight space between Gale and Leeg 1 and go right to sleep.
It seems like only minutes later when Jackson shakes me awake, tells me I‘m on watch. It‘s six o‘clock, and in one hour we must be on our way. Jackson tells me to eat a can of food and keep an eye
on Pollux, who‘s insisted on being on guard the entire night. “He can‘t sleep down here.” I drag myself into a state of relative alertness, eat a can of potato and bean stew, and sit against the wall facing the
door. Pollux seems wide awake. He‘s probably been reliving those five years of imprisonment all night. I get out the Holo and manage to input our grid coordinates and scan the tunnels. As expected,
more pods are registering the closer we move toward the center of the Capitol. For a while, Pollux and I click around on the Holo, seeing what traps lie where. When my head begins to spin, I hand it over
to him and lean back against the wall. I look down at the sleeping soldiers, crew, and friends, and I wonder how many of us will ever see the sun again.
When my eyes fall on Peeta, whose head rests right by my feet, I see he‘s awake. I wish I could read what‘s going on in his mind, that I could go in and untangle the mess of lies. Then I settle for
something I can accomplish.
“Have you eaten?” I ask. A slight shake of his head indicates he hasn‘t. I open a can of chicken and rice soup and hand it to him, keeping the lid in case he tries to slit his wrists with it or something. He
sits up and tilts the can, chugging back the soup without really bothering to chew it. The bottom of the can reflects the lights from the machines, and I remember something that‘s been itching at the back of
my mind since yesterday. “Peeta, when you asked about what happened to Darius and Lavinia, and Boggs told you it was real, you said you thought so. Because there was nothing shiny about it. What did
you mean?”
“Oh. I don‘t know exactly how to explain it,” he tells me. “In the beginning, everything was just complete confusion. Now I can sort certain things out. I think there‘s a pattern emerging. The memories they
altered with the tracker jacker venom have this strange quality about them. Like they‘re too intense or the images aren‘t stable. You remember what it was like when we were stung?”
“Trees shattered. There were giant colored butterflies. I fell in a pit of orange bubbles.” I think about it. “Shiny orange bubbles.”
“Right. But nothing about Darius or Lavinia was like that. I don‘t think they‘d given me any venom yet,” he says.
“Well, that‘s good, isn‘t it?” I ask. “If you can separate the two, then you can figure out what‘s true.”
“Yes. And if I could grow wings, I could fly. Only people can‘t grow wings,” he says. “Real or not real?”
“Real,” I say. “But people don‘t need wings to survive.”
“Mockingjays do.” He finishes the soup and returns the can to me.
In the fluorescent light, the circles under his eyes look like bruises. “There‘s still time. You should sleep.” Unresisting, he lies back down, but just stares at the needle on one of the dials as it twitches
from side to side. Slowly, as I would with a wounded animal, my hand stretches out and brushes a wave of hair from his forehead. He freezes at my touch, but doesn‘t recoil. So I continue to gently smooth
back his hair. It‘s the first time I have voluntarily touched him since the last arena.
“You‘re still trying to protect me. Real or not real,” he whispers.
“Real,” I answer. It seems to require more explanation. “Because that‘s what you and I do. Protect each other.” After a minute or so, he drifts off to sleep.
Shortly before seven, Pollux and I move among the others, rousing them. There are the usual yawns and sighs that accompany waking. But my ears are picking up something else, too. Almost like a
hissing. Perhaps it‘s only steam escaping a pipe or the far-off whoosh of one of the trains…
I hush the group to get a better read on it. There‘s a hissing, yes, but it‘s not one extended sound. More like multiple exhalations that form words. A single word. Echoing throughout the tunnels. One
word. One name. Repeated over and over again.
“Katniss.”

Mockingjay Chapter 20

2012-03-02T18:13:00.000-08:00

Mockingjay Part 3: The Assassin

Chapter 20

It‘s as if in an instant, a painted window shatters, revealing the ugly world behind it. Laughter changes to screams, blood stains pastel stones, real smoke darkens the special effect stuff made for
television.
A second explosion seems to split the air and leaves my ears ringing. But I can‘t make out where it came from.
I reach Boggs first, try to make sense of the torn flesh, missing limbs, to find something to stem the red flow from his body. Homes pushes me aside, wrenching open a first-aid kit. Boggs clutches my
wrist. His face, gray with dying and ash, seems to be receding. But his next words are an order. “The Holo.”
The Holo. I scramble around, digging through chunks of tile slick with blood, shuddering when I encounter bits of warm flesh. Find it rammed into a stairwell with one of Boggs‘s boots. Retrieve it,
wiping it clean with bare hands as I return it to my commander.
Homes has the stump of Boggs‘s left thigh cupped by some sort of compression bandage, but it‘s already soaked through. He‘s trying to tourniquet the other above the existing knee. The rest of the
squad has gathered in a protective formation around the crew and us. Finnick‘s attempting to revive Messalla, who was thrown into a wall by the explosion. Jackson‘s barking into a field communicator,
trying unsuccessfully to alert the camp to send medics, but I know it‘s too late. As a child, watching my mother work, I learned that once a pool of blood has reached a certain size, there‘s no going back.
I kneel beside Boggs, prepared to repeat the role I played with Rue, with the morphling from 6, giving him someone to hold on to as he‘s released from life. But Boggs has both hands working the
Holo. He‘s typing in a command, pressing his thumb to the screen for print recognition, speaking a string of letters and numbers in response to a prompt. A green shaft of light bursts out of the Holo and
illuminates his face. He says, “Unfit for command. Transfer of prime security clearance to Squad Four-Five-One Soldier Katniss Everdeen.” It‘s all he can do to turn the Holo toward my face. “Say your
name.”
“Katniss Everdeen,” I say into the green shaft. Suddenly, it has me trapped in its light. I can‘t move or even blink as images flicker rapidly before me. Scanning me? Recording me? Blinding me? It
vanishes, and I shake my head to clear it. “What did you do?”
“Prepare to retreat!” Jackson hollers.
Finnick‘s yelling something back, gesturing to the end of the block where we entered. Black, oily matter spouts like a geyser from the street, billowing between the buildings, creating an impenetrable
wall of darkness. It seems to be neither liquid nor gas, mechanical nor natural. Surely it‘s lethal. There‘s no heading back the way we came.
Deafening gunfire as Gale and Leeg 1 begin to blast a path across the stones toward the far end of the block. I don‘t know what they‘re doing until another bomb, ten yards away, detonates, opening a
hole in the street. Then I realize this is a rudimentary attempt at minesweeping. Homes and I latch on to Boggs and begin to drag him after Gale. Agony takes over and he‘s crying out in pain and I want to
stop, to find a better way, but the blackness is rising above the buildings, swelling, rolling at us like a wave.
I‘m yanked backward, lose my grip on Boggs, slam into the stones. Peeta looks down at me, gone, mad, flashing back into the land of the hijacked, his gun raised over me, descending to crush my
skull. I roll, hear the butt slam into the street, catch the tumble of bodies out of the corner of my eye as Mitchell tackles Peeta and pins him to the ground. But Peeta, always so powerful and now fueled by
tracker jacker insanity, gets his feet under Mitchell‘s belly and launches him farther down the block.
There‘s a loud snap of a trap as the pod triggers. Four cables, attached to tracks on the buildings, break through the stones, dragging up the net that encases Mitchell. It makes no sense—how
instantly bloodied he is—until we see the barbs sticking from the wire that encases him. I know it immediately. It decorated the top of the fence around 12. As I call to him not to move, I gag on the smell of
the blackness, thick, tarlike. The wave has crested and begun to fall.
Gale and Leeg 1 shoot through the front door lock of the corner building, then begin to fire at the cables holding Mitchell‘s net. Others are restraining Peeta now. I lunge back to Boggs, and Homes and
I drag him inside the apartment, through someone‘s pink and white velvet living room, down a hallway hung with family photos, onto the marble floor of a kitchen, where we collapse. Castor and Pollux carry
in a writhing Peeta between them. Somehow Jackson gets cuffs on him, but it only makes him wilder and they‘re forced to lock him in a closet.
In the living room, the front door slams, people shout. Then footsteps pound down the hall as the black wave roars past the building. From the kitchen, we can hear the windows groan, shatter. The
noxious tar smell permeates the air. Finnick carries in Messalla. Leeg 1 and Cressida stumble into the room after them, coughing.
“Gale!” I shriek.
He‘s there, slamming the kitchen door shut behind him, choking out one word. “Fumes!” Castor and Pollux grab towels, aprons to stuff in the cracks as Gale retches into a bright yellow sink.
“Mitchell?” asks Homes. Leeg 1 just shakes her head.
Boggs forces the Holo into my hand. His lips are moving, but I can‘t make out what he‘s saying. I lean my ear down to his mouth to catch his harsh whisper. “Don‘t trust them. Don‘t go back. Kill Peeta.
Do what you came to do.”
I draw back so I can see his face. “What? Boggs? Boggs?” His eyes are still open, but dead. Pressed in my hand, glued to it by his blood, is the Holo.
Peeta‘s feet slamming into the closet door break up the ragged breathing of the others. But even as we listen, his energy seems to ebb. The kicks diminish to an irregular drumming. Then nothing. I
wonder if he, too, is dead.
“He‘s gone?” Finnick asks, looking down at Boggs. I nod. “We need to get out of here. Now. We just set off a streetful of pods. You can bet they‘ve got us on surveillance tapes.”
“Count on it,” says Castor. “All the streets are covered by surveillance cameras. I bet they set off the black wave manually when they saw us taping the propo.”
“Our radio communicators went dead almost immediately. Probably an electromagnetic pulse device. But I‘ll get us back to camp. Give me the Holo.” Jackson reaches for the unit, but I clutch it to my
chest.
“No. Boggs gave it to me,” I say.
“Don‘t be ridiculous,” she snaps. Of course, she thinks it‘s hers. She‘s second in command.
“It‘s true,” says Homes. “He transferred the prime security clearance to her while he was dying. I saw it.”
“Why would he do that?” demands Jackson.
Why indeed? My head‘s reeling from the ghastly events of the last five minutes—Boggs mutilated, dying, dead, Peeta‘s homicidal rage, Mitchell bloody and netted and swallowed by that foul black
wave. I turn to Boggs, very badly needing him alive. Suddenly sure that he, and maybe he alone, is completely on my side. I think of his last orders…
“Don‘t trust them. Don‘t go back. Kill Peeta. Do what you came to do.”
What did he mean? Don‘t trust who? The rebels? Coin? The people looking at me right now? I won‘t go back, but he must know I can‘t just fire a bullet through Peeta‘s head. Can I? Should I? Did
Boggs guess that what I really came to do is desert and kill Snow on my own?
I can‘t work all of this out now, so I just decide to carry out the first two orders: to not trust anyone and to move deeper into the Capitol. But how can I justify this? Make them let me keep the Holo?
“Because I‘m on a special mission for President Coin. I think Boggs was the only one who knew about it.”
This in no way convinces Jackson. “To do what?”
Why not tell them the truth? It‘s as plausible as anything I‘ll come up with. But it must seem like a real mission, not revenge. “To assassinate President Snow before the loss of life from this war makes
our population unsustainable.”
“I don‘t believe you,” says Jackson. “As your current commander, I order you to transfer the prime security clearance over to me.”
“No,” I say. “That would be in direct violation of President Coin‘s orders.”
Guns are pointed. Half the squad at Jackson, half at me. Someone‘s about to die, when Cressida speaks up. “It‘s true. That‘s why we‘re here. Plutarch wants it televised. He thinks if we can film the
Mockingjay assassinating Snow, it will end the war.”
This gives even Jackson pause. Then she gestures with her gun toward the closet. “And why is he here?”
There she has me. I can think of no sane reason that Coin would send an unstable boy, programmed to kill me, along on such a key assignment. It really weakens my story. Cressida comes to my aid
again. “Because the two post-Games interviews with Caesar Flickerman were shot in President Snow‘s personal quarters. Plutarch thinks Peeta may be of some use as a guide in a location we have little
knowledge of.”
I want to ask Cressida why she‘s lying for me, why she‘s fighting for us to go on with my self-appointed mission. Now‘s not the time.
“We have to go!” says Gale. “I‘m following Katniss. If you don‘t want to, head back to camp. But let‘s move!”
Homes unlocks the closet and heaves an unconscious Peeta over his shoulder. “Ready.”
“Boggs?” says Leeg 1.
“We can‘t take him. He‘d understand,” says Finnick. He frees Boggs‘s gun from his shoulder and slings the strap over his own. “Lead on, Soldier Everdeen.”
I don‘t know how to lead on. I look at the Holo for direction. It‘s still activated, but it might as well be dead for all the good that does me. There‘s no time for fiddling around with the buttons, trying to
figure out how to work it. “I don‘t know how to use this. Boggs said you would help me,” I tell Jackson. “He said I could count on you.”
Jackson scowls, snatches the Holo from me, and taps in a command. An intersection comes up. “If we go out the kitchen door, there‘s a small courtyard, then the back side of another corner
apartment unit. We‘re looking at an overview of the four streets that meet at the intersection.”
I try to get my bearings as I stare at the cross section of the map blinking with pods in every direction. And those are only the pods Plutarch knows about. The Holo didn‘t indicate that the block we just
left was mined, had the black geyser, or that the net was made from barbed wire. Besides that, there may be Peacekeepers to deal with, now that they know our position. I bite the inside of my lip, feeling
everyone‘s eyes on me. “Put on your masks. We‘re going out the way we came in.”
Instant objections. I raise my voice over them. “If the wave was that powerful, then it may have triggered and absorbed other pods in our path.”
People stop to consider this. Pollux makes a few quick signs to his brother. “It may have disabled the cameras as well,” Castor translates. “Coated the lenses.”
Gale props one of his boots on the counter and examines the splatter of black on the toe. Scrapes it with a kitchen knife from a block on the counter. “It‘s not corrosive. I think it was meant to either suffocate or poison us.”
“Probably our best shot,” says Leeg 1.
Masks go on. Finnick adjusts Peeta‘s mask over his lifeless face. Cressida and Leeg 1 prop up a woozy Messalla between them.
I‘m waiting for someone to take the point position when I remember that‘s my job now. I push on the kitchen door and meet with no resistance. A half-inch layer of the black goo has spread from the
living room about three-quarters of the way down the hall. When I gingerly test it with the toe of my boot, I find it has the consistency of a gel. I lift my foot and after stretching slightly, it springs back into
place. I take three steps into the gel and look back. No footprints. It‘s the first good thing that‘s happened today. The gel becomes slightly thicker as I cross the living room. I ease open the front door,
expecting gallons of the stuff to pour in, but it holds its form.
The pink and orange block seems to have been dipped in glossy black paint and set out to dry. Paving stones, buildings, even the rooftops are coated in the gel. A large teardrop hangs above the
street. Two shapes project from it. A gun barrel and a human hand. Mitchell. I wait on the sidewalk, staring up at him until the entire group has joined me.
“If anyone needs to go back, for whatever reason, now is the time,” I say. “No questions asked, no hard feelings.” No one seems inclined to retreat. So I start moving into the Capitol, knowing we don‘t
have much time. The gel‘s deeper here, four to six inches, and makes a sucking sound each time you pick up your foot, but it still covers our tracks.
The wave must have been enormous, with tremendous power behind it, as it‘s affected several blocks that lie ahead. And though I tread with care, I think my instinct was right about its triggering other
pods. One block is sprinkled with the golden bodies of tracker jackers. They must have been set free only to succumb to the fumes. A little farther along, an entire apartment building has collapsed and lies
in a mound under the gel. I sprint across the intersections, holding up a hand for the others to wait while I look for trouble, but the wave seems to have dismantled the pods far better than any squad of
rebels could.
On the fifth block, I can tell that we‘ve reached the point where the wave began to peter out. The gel‘s only an inch deep, and I can see baby blue rooftops peeking out across the next intersection. The
afternoon light has faded, and we badly need to get under cover and form a plan. I choose an apartment two-thirds of the way down the block. Homes jimmies the lock, and I order the others inside. I stay
on the street for just a minute, watching the last of our footprints fade away, then close the door behind me.
Flashlights built into our guns illuminate a large living room with mirrored walls that throw our faces back at us at every turn. Gale checks the windows, which show no damage, and removes his mask.
“It‘s all right. You can smell it, but it‘s not too strong.”
The apartment seems to be laid out exactly like the first one we took refuge in. The gel blacks out any natural daylight in the front, but some light still slips through the shutters in the kitchen. Along the
hallway are two bedrooms with baths. A spiral staircase in the living room leads up to an open space that composes much of the second floor. There are no windows upstairs, but the lights have been left
on, probably by someone hastily evacuating. A huge television screen, blank but glowing softly, occupies one wall. Plush chairs and sofas are strewn around the room. This is where we congregate, slump
into upholstery, try to catch our breath.
Jackson has her gun trained on Peeta even though he‘s still cuffed and unconscious, draped across a deep-blue sofa where Homes deposited him. What on earth am I going to do with him? With the
crew? With everybody, frankly, besides Gale and Finnick? Because I‘d rather track down Snow with those two than without them. But I can‘t lead ten people through the Capitol on a pretend mission, even
if I could read the Holo. Should I, could I have sent them back when I had a chance? Or was it too dangerous? Both to them personally and to my mission? Maybe I shouldn‘t have listened to Boggs,
because he might have been in some delusional death state. Maybe I should just come clean, but then Jackson would take over and we‘d end up back at camp. Where I‘d have Coin to answer to.
Just as the complexity of the mess I‘ve dragged everybody into begins to overload my brain, a distant chain of explosions sends a tremor through the room.
“It wasn‘t close,” Jackson assures us. “A good four or five blocks away.”
“Where we left Boggs,” says Leeg 1.
Although no one has made a move toward it, the television flares to life, emitting a high-pitched beeping sound, bringing half our party to its feet.
“It‘s all right!” calls Cressida. “It‘s just an emergency broadcast. Every Capitol television is automatically activated for it.”
There we are on-screen, just after the bomb took out Boggs. A voice-over tells the audience what they are viewing as we try to regroup, react to the black gel shooting from the street, lose control of
the situation. We watch the chaos that follows until the wave blots out the cameras. The last thing we see is Gale, alone on the street, trying to shoot through the cables that hold Mitchell aloft.
The reporter identifies Gale, Finnick, Boggs, Peeta, Cressida, and me by name.
“There‘s no aerial footage. Boggs must have been right about their hovercraft capacity,” says Castor. I didn‘t notice this, but I guess it‘s the kind of thing a cameraman picks up on.
Coverage continues from the courtyard behind the apartment where we took shelter. Peacekeepers line the roof across from our former hideout. Shells are launched into the row of apartments, setting
off the chain of explosions we heard, and the building collapses into rubble and dust.
Now we cut to a live feed. A reporter stands on the roof with the Peacekeepers. Behind her, the apartment block burns. Firefighters try to control the blaze with water hoses. We are pronounced dead.
“Finally, a bit of luck,” says Homes.
I guess he‘s right. Certainly it‘s better than having the Capitol in pursuit of us. But I just keep imagining how this will be playing back in 13. Where my mother and Prim, Hazelle and the kids, Annie,
Haymitch, and a whole lot of people from 13 think that they have just seen us die.
“My father. He just lost my sister and now…” says Leeg 1.
We watch as they play the footage over and over. Revel in their victory, especially over me. Break away to do a montage of the Mockingjay‘s rise to rebel power—I think they‘ve had this part prepared
for a while, because it seems pretty polished—and then go live so a couple of reporters can discuss my well-deserved violent end. Later, they promise, Snow will make an official statement. The screen
fades back to a glow.
The rebels made no attempt to break in during the broadcast, which leads me to believe they think it‘s true. If that‘s so, we really are on our own.
“So, now that we‘re dead, what‘s our next move?” asks Gale.
“Isn‘t it obvious?” No one even knew Peeta had regained consciousness. I don‘t know how long he‘s been watching, but by the look of misery on his face, long enough to see what happened on the
street. How he went mad, tried to bash my head in, and hurled Mitchell into the pod. He painfully pushes himself up to a sitting position and directs his words to Gale.
“Our next move… is to kill me.”

Mockingjay Chapter 19

2012-03-01T19:02:00.000-08:00

Mockingjay Part 3: The Assassin

Chapter 19

I‘ve never really seen Boggs angry before. Not when I‘ve disobeyed his orders or puked on him, not even when Gale broke his nose. But he‘s angry when he returns from his phone call with the president.
The first thing he does is instruct Soldier Jackson, his second in command, to set up a two-person, round-the-clock guard on Peeta. Then he takes me on a walk, weaving through the sprawling tent
encampment until our squad is far behind us.
“He‘ll try and kill me anyway,” I say. “Especially here. Where there are so many bad memories to set him off.”
“I‘ll keep him contained, Katniss,” says Boggs.
“Why does Coin want me dead now?” I ask.
“She denies she does,” he answers.
“But we know it‘s true,” I say. “And you must at least have a theory.”
Boggs gives me a long, hard look before he answers. “Here‘s as much as I know. The president doesn‘t like you. She never did. It was Peeta she wanted rescued from the arena, but no one else
agreed. It made matters worse when you forced her to give the other victors immunity. But even that could be overlooked in view of how well you‘ve performed.”
“Then what is it?” I insist.
“Sometime in the near future, this war will be resolved. A new leader will be chosen,” says Boggs.
I roll my eyes. “Boggs, no one thinks I‘m going to be the leader.”
“No. They don‘t,” he agrees. “But you‘ll throw support to someone. Would it be President Coin? Or someone else?”
“I don‘t know. I‘ve never thought about it,” I say.
“If your immediate answer isn‘t Coin, then you‘re a threat. You‘re the face of the rebellion. You may have more influence than any other single person,” says Boggs. “Outwardly, the most you‘ve ever
done is tolerated her.”
“So she‘ll kill me to shut me up.” The minute I say the words, I know they‘re true.
“She doesn‘t need you as a rallying point now. As she said, your primary objective, to unite the districts, has succeeded,” Boggs reminds me. “These current propos could be done without you. There‘s
only one last thing you could do to add fire to the rebellion.”
“Die,” I say quietly.
“Yes. Give us a martyr to fight for,” says Boggs. “But that‘s not going to happen under my watch, Soldier Everdeen. I‘m planning for you to have a long life.”
“Why?” This kind of thinking will only bring him trouble. “You don‘t owe me anything.”
“Because you‘ve earned it,” he says. “Now get back to your squad.”
I know I should feel appreciative of Boggs sticking his neck out for me, but really I‘m just frustrated. I mean, how can I steal his Holo and desert now? Betraying him was complicated enough without this
whole new layer of debt. I already owe him for saving my life.
Seeing the cause of my current dilemma calmly pitching his tent back at our site makes me furious. “What time is my watch?” I ask Jackson.
She squints at me in doubt, or maybe she‘s just trying to get my face in focus. “I didn‘t put you in the rotation.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“I‘m not sure you could really shoot Peeta, if it came to it,” she says.
I speak up so the whole squad can hear me clearly. “I wouldn‘t be shooting Peeta. He‘s gone. Johanna‘s right. It‘d be just like shooting another of the Capitol‘s mutts.” It feels good to say something
horrible about him, out loud, in public, after all the humiliation I‘ve felt since his return.
“Well, that sort of comment isn‘t recommending you either,” says Jackson.
“Put her in the rotation,” I hear Boggs say behind me.
Jackson shakes her head and makes a note. “Midnight to four. You‘re on with me.”
The dinner whistle sounds, and Gale and I line up at the canteen. “Do you want me to kill him?” he asks bluntly.
“That‘ll get us both sent back for sure,” I say. But even though I‘m furious, the brutality of the offer rattles me. “I can deal with him.”
“You mean until you take off? You and your paper map and possibly a Holo if you can get your hands on it?” So Gale has not missed my preparations. I hope they haven‘t been so obvious to the others.
None of them know my mind like he does, though. “You‘re not planning on leaving me behind, are you?” he asks.
Up until this point, I was. But having my hunting partner to watch my back doesn‘t sound like a bad idea. “As your fellow soldier, I have to strongly recommend you stay with your squad. But I can‘t stop
you from coming, can I?”
He grins. “No. Not unless you want me to alert the rest of the army.”
Squad 451 and the television crew collect dinner from the canteen and gather in a tense circle to eat. At first I think that Peeta is the cause of the unease, but by the end of the meal, I realize more than
a few unfriendly looks have been directed my way. This is a quick turnaround, since I‘m pretty sure when Peeta appeared the whole team was concerned about how dangerous he might be, especially to
me. But it‘s not until I get a phone call through to Haymitch that I understand.
“What are you trying to do? Provoke him into an attack?” he asks me.
“Of course not. I just want him to leave me alone,” I say.
“Well, he can‘t. Not after what the Capitol put him through,” says Haymitch. “Look, Coin may have sent him there hoping he‘d kill you, but Peeta doesn‘t know that. He doesn‘t understand what‘s
happened to him. So you can‘t blame him—”
“I don‘t!” I say.
“You do! You‘re punishing him over and over for things that are out of his control. Now, I‘m not saying you shouldn‘t have a fully loaded weapon next to you round the clock. But I think it‘s time you flipped
this little scenario around in your head. If you‘d been taken by the Capitol, and hijacked, and then tried to kill Peeta, is this the way he would be treating you?” demands Haymitch.
I fall silent. It isn‘t. It isn‘t how he would be treating me at all. He would be trying to get me back at any cost. Not shutting me out, abandoning me, greeting me with hostility at every turn.
“You and me, we made a deal to try and save him. Remember?” Haymitch says. When I don‘t respond, he disconnects after a curt “Try and remember.”
The autumn day turns from brisk to cold. Most of the squad hunker down in their sleeping bags. Some sleep under the open sky, close to the heater in the center of our camp, while others retreat to
their tents. Leeg 1 has finally broken down over her sister‘s death, and her muffled sobs reach us through the canvas. I huddle in my tent, thinking over Haymitch‘s words. Realizing with shame that my
fixation with assassinating Snow has allowed me to ignore a much more difficult problem. Trying to rescue Peeta from the shadowy world the hijacking has stranded him in. I don‘t know how to find him, let
alone lead him out. I can‘t even conceive of a plan. It makes the task of crossing a loaded arena, locating Snow, and putting a bullet through his head look like child‘s play.
At midnight, I crawl out of my tent and position myself on a camp stool near the heater to take my watch with Jackson. Boggs told Peeta to sleep out in full view where the rest of us could keep an eye
on him. He isn‘t sleeping, though. Instead, he sits with his bag pulled up to his chest, clumsily trying to make knots in a short length of rope. I know it well. It‘s the one Finnick lent me that night in the bunker.
Seeing it in his hands, it‘s like Finnick‘s echoing what Haymitch just said, that I‘ve cast off Peeta. Now might be a good time to begin to remedy that. If I could think of something to say. But I can‘t. So I
don‘t. I just let the sounds of soldiers‘ breathing fill the night.
After about an hour, Peeta speaks up. “These last couple of years must have been exhausting for you. Trying to decide whether to kill me or not. Back and forth. Back and forth.”
That seems grossly unfair, and my first impulse is to say something cutting. But I revisit my conversation with Haymitch and try to take the first tentative step in Peeta‘s direction. “I never wanted to kill
you. Except when I thought you were helping the Careers kill me. After that, I always thought of you as… an ally.” That‘s a good safe word. Empty of any emotional obligation, but nonthreatening.
“Ally.” Peeta says the word slowly, tasting it. “Friend. Lover. Victor. Enemy. Fiancee. Target. Mutt. Neighbor. Hunter. Tribute. Ally. I‘ll add it to the list of words I use to try to figure you out.” He weaves
the rope in and out of his fingers. “The problem is, I can‘t tell what‘s real anymore, and what‘s made up.”
The cessation of rhythmic breathing suggests that either people have woken or have never really been asleep at all. I suspect the latter.
Finnick‘s voice rises from a bundle in the shadows. “Then you should ask, Peeta. That‘s what Annie does.”
“Ask who?” Peeta says. “Who can I trust?”
“Well, us for starters. We‘re your squad,” says Jackson.
“You‘re my guards,” he points out.
“That, too,” she says. “But you saved a lot of lives in Thirteen. It‘s not the kind of thing we forget.”
In the quiet that follows, I try to imagine not being able to tell illusion from reality. Not knowing if Prim or my mother loved me. If Snow was my enemy. If the person across the heater saved or sacrificed
me. With very little effort, my life rapidly morphs into a nightmare. I suddenly want to tell Peeta everything about who he is, and who I am, and how we ended up here. But I don‘t know how to start.
Worthless. I‘m worthless.
At a few minutes before four, Peeta turns to me again. “Your favorite color… it‘s green?”
“That‘s right.” Then I think of something to add. “And yours is orange.”
“Orange?” He seems unconvinced.
“Not bright orange. But soft. Like the sunset,” I say. “At least, that‘s what you told me once.”
“Oh.” He closes his eyes briefly, maybe trying to conjure up that sunset, then nods his head. “Thank you.”
But more words tumble out. “You‘re a painter. You‘re a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces.”
Then I dive into my tent before I do something stupid like cry.
In the morning, Gale, Finnick, and I go out to shoot some glass off the buildings for the camera crew. When we get back to camp, Peeta‘s sitting in a circle with the soldiers from 13, who are armed but
talking openly with him. Jackson has devised a game called “Real or Not Real” to help Peeta. He mentions something he thinks happened, and they tell him if it‘s true or imagined, usually followed by a
brief explanation.
“Most of the people from Twelve were killed in the fire.”
“Real. Less than nine hundred of you made it to Thirteen alive.”
“The fire was my fault.”
“Not real. President Snow destroyed Twelve the way he did Thirteen, to send a message to the rebels.”
This seems like a good idea until I realize that I‘ll be the only one who can confirm or deny most of what weighs on him. Jackson breaks us up into watches. She matches up Finnick, Gale, and me
each with a soldier from 13. This way Peeta will always have access to someone who knows him more personally. It‘s not a steady conversation. Peeta spends a long time considering even small pieces
of information, like where people bought their soap back home. Gale fills him in on a lot of stuff about 12; Finnick is the expert on both of Peeta‘s Games, as he was a mentor in the first and a tribute in the
second. But since Peeta‘s greatest confusion centers around me—and not everything can be explained simply—our exchanges are painful and loaded, even though we touch on only the most superficial
of details. The color of my dress in 7. My preference for cheese buns. The name of our math teacher when we were little. Reconstructing his memory of me is excruciating. Perhaps it isn‘t even possible
after what Snow did to him. But it does feel right to help him try.
The next afternoon, we‘re notified that the whole squad is needed to stage a fairly complicated propo. Peeta‘s been right about one thing: Coin and Plutarch are unhappy with the quality of footage
they‘re getting from the Star Squad. Very dull. Very uninspiring. The obvious response is that they never let us do anything but playact with our guns. However, this is not about defending ourselves, it‘s
about coming up with a usable product. So today, a special block has been set aside for filming. It even has a couple of active pods on it. One unleashes a spray of gunfire. The other nets the invader and
traps them for either interrogation or execution, depending on the captors‘ preference. But it‘s still an unimportant residential block with nothing of strategic consequence.
The television crew means to provide a sense of heightened jeopardy by releasing smoke bombs and adding gunfire sound effects. We suit up in heavy protective gear, even the crew, as if we‘re
heading into the heart of battle. Those of us with specialty weapons are allowed to take them along with our guns. Boggs gives Peeta back his gun, too, although he makes sure to tell him in a loud voice
that it‘s only loaded with blanks.
Peeta just shrugs. “I‘m not much of a shot anyway.” He seems preoccupied with watching Pollux, to the point where it‘s getting a little worrisome, when he finally puzzles it out and begins to speak with
agitation. “You‘re an Avox, aren‘t you? I can tell by the way you swallow. There were two Avoxes with me in prison. Darius and Lavinia, but the guards mostly called them the redheads. They‘d been our
servants in the Training Center, so they arrested them, too. I watched them being tortured to death. She was lucky. They used too much voltage and her heart stopped right off. It took days to finish him off.
Beating, cutting off parts. They kept asking him questions, but he couldn‘t speak, he just made these horrible animal sounds. They didn‘t want information, you know? They wanted me to see it.”
Peeta looks around at our stunned faces, as if waiting for a reply. When none is forthcoming, he asks, “Real or not real?” The lack of response upsets him more. “Real or not real?!” he demands.
“Real,” says Boggs. “At least, to the best of my knowledge… real.”
Peeta sags. “I thought so. There was nothing… shiny about it.” He wanders away from the group, muttering something about fingers and toes.
I move to Gale, press my forehead into the body armor where his chest should be, feel his arm tighten around me. We finally know the name of the girl who we watched the Capitol abduct from the
woods of 12, the fate of the Peacekeeper friend who tried to keep Gale alive. This is no time to call up happy moments of remembrance. They lost their lives because of me. I add them to my personal list
of kills that began in the arena and now includes thousands. When I look up, I see it has taken Gale differently. His expression says that there are not enough mountains to crush, enough cities to destroy. It
promises death.
With Peeta‘s grisly account fresh in our minds, we crunch through the streets of broken glass until we reach our target, the block we are to take. It is a real, if small, goal to accomplish. We gather
around Boggs to examine the Holo projection of the street. The gunfire pod is positioned about a third of the way down, just above an apartment awning. We should be able to trigger it with bullets. The net
pod is at the far end, almost the next corner. This will require someone to set off the body sensor mechanism. Everyone volunteers except Peeta, who doesn‘t seem to know quite what‘s going on. I don‘t
get picked. I get sent to Messalla, who dabs some makeup on my face for the anticipated close-ups.
The squad positions itself under Boggs‘s direction, and then we have to wait for Cressida to get the cameramen in place as well. They‘re both to our left, with Castor toward the front and Pollux
bringing up the rear so they‘ll be sure not to record each other. Messalla sets off a couple of smoke charges for atmosphere. Since this is both a mission and a shoot, I‘m about to ask who‘s in charge, my
commander or my director, when Cressida calls, “Action!”
We slowly proceed down the hazy street, just like one of our exercises in the Block. Everyone has at least one section of windows to blow out, but Gale‘s assigned the real target. When he hits the pod,
we take cover—ducking into doorways or flattening onto the pretty, light orange and pink paving stones—as a hail of bullets sweeps back and forth over our heads. After a while, Boggs orders us forward.
Cressida stops us before we can rise, since she needs some close-up shots. We take turns reenacting our responses. Falling to the ground, grimacing, diving into alcoves. We know it‘s supposed to
be serious business, but the whole thing feels a little ridiculous. Especially when it turns out that I‘m not the worst actor in the squad. Not by a long shot. We‘re all laughing so hard at Mitchell‘s attempt to
project his idea of desperation, which involves teeth grinding and nostrils flaring, that Boggs has to reprimand us.
“Pull it together, Four-Five-One,” he says firmly. But you can see him suppressing a smile as he‘s double-checking the next pod. Positioning the Holo to find the best light in the smoky air. Still facing us
as his left foot steps back onto the orange paving stone. Triggering the bomb that blows off his legs.

Mockingjay Chapter 18

2012-03-01T18:51:00.000-08:00

Mockingjay Part 2: The Assault

Chapter 18

I throw myself into training with a vengeance. Eat, live, and breathe the workouts, drills, weapons practice, lectures on tactics. A handful of us are moved into an additional class that gives me hope I may
be a contender for the actual war. The soldiers simply call it the Block, but the tattoo on my arm lists it as S.S.C., short for Simulated Street Combat. Deep in 13, they‘ve built an artificial Capitol city block.
The instructor breaks us into squads of eight and we attempt to carry out missions—gaining a position, destroying a target, searching a home—as if we were really fighting our way through the Capitol.
The thing‘s rigged so that everything that can go wrong for you does. A false step triggers a land mine, a sniper appears on a rooftop, your gun jams, a crying child leads you into an ambush, your
squadron leader—who‘s just a voice on the program—gets hit by a mortar and you have to figure out what to do without orders. Part of you knows it‘s fake and that they‘re not going to kill you. If you set off
a land mine, you hear the explosion and have to pretend to fall over dead. But in other ways, it feels pretty real in there—the enemy soldiers dressed in Peacekeepers‘ uniforms, the confusion of a smoke
bomb. They even gas us. Johanna and I are the only ones who get our masks on in time. The rest of our squad gets knocked out for ten minutes. And the supposedly harmless gas I took a few lungfuls of
gives me a wicked headache for the rest of the day.
Cressida and her crew tape Johanna and me on the firing range. I know Gale and Finnick are being filmed as well. It‘s part of a new propos series to show the rebels preparing for the Capitol
invasion. On the whole, things are going pretty well.
Then Peeta starts showing up for our morning workouts. The manacles are off, but he‘s still constantly accompanied by a pair of guards. After lunch, I see him across the field, drilling with a group of
beginners. I don‘t know what they‘re thinking. If a spat with Delly can reduce him to arguing with himself, he‘s got no business learning how to assemble a gun.
When I confront Plutarch, he assures me that it‘s all for the camera. They‘ve got footage of Annie getting married and Johanna hitting targets, but all of Panem is wondering about Peeta. They need to
see he‘s fighting for the rebels, not for Snow. And maybe if they could just get a couple of shots of the two of us, not kissing necessarily, just looking happy to be back together—
I walk away from the conversation right then. That is not going to happen.
In my rare moments of downtime, I anxiously watch the preparations for the invasions. See equipment and provisions readied, divisions assembled. You can tell when someone‘s received orders
because they‘re given a very short haircut, the mark of a person going into battle. There is much talk of the opening offensive, which will be to secure the train tunnels that feed up into the Capitol.
Just a few days before the first troops are to move out, York unexpectedly tells Johanna and me she‘s recommended us for the exam, and we‘re to report immediately. There are four parts: an
obstacle course that assesses your physical condition, a written tactics exam, a test of weapons proficiency, and a simulated combat situation in the Block. I don‘t even have time to get nervous for the first
three and do well, but there‘s a backlog at the Block. Some kind of technical bug they‘re working out. A group of us exchanges information. This much seems true. You go through alone. There‘s no
predicting what situation you‘ll be thrown into. One boy says, under his breath, that he‘s heard it‘s designed to target each individual‘s weaknesses.
My weaknesses? That‘s a door I don‘t even want to open. But I find a quiet spot and try to assess what they might be. The length of the list depresses me. Lack of physical brute force. A bare minimum
of training. And somehow my stand-out status as the Mockingjay doesn‘t seem to be an advantage in a situation where they‘re trying to get us to blend into a pack. They could nail me to the wall on any
number of things.
Johanna‘s called three ahead of me, and I give her a nod of encouragement. I wish I had been at the top of the list because now I‘m really overthinking the whole thing. By the time my name‘s called, I
don‘t know what my strategy should be. Fortunately, once I‘m in the Block, a certain amount of training does kick in. It‘s an ambush situation. Peacekeepers appear almost instantly and I have to make my
way to a rendezvous point to meet up with my scattered squad. I slowly navigate the street, taking out Peacekeepers as I go. Two on the rooftop to my left, another in the doorway up ahead. It‘s
challenging, but not as hard as I was expecting. There‘s a nagging feeling that if it‘s too simple, I must be missing the point. I‘m within a couple of buildings from my goal when things begin to heat up. A half
dozen Peacekeepers come charging around the corner. They will outgun me, but I notice something. A drum of gasoline lying carelessly in the gutter. This is it. My test. To perceive that blowing up the
drum will be the only way to achieve my mission. Just as I step out to do it, my squadron leader, who‘s been fairly useless up to this point, quietly orders me to hit the ground. Every instinct I have screams
for me to ignore the voice, to pull the trigger, to blow the Peacekeepers sky-high. And suddenly, I realize what the military will think my biggest weakness is. From my first moment in the Games, when I ran
for that orange backpack, to the firefight in 8, to my impulsive race across the square in 2. I cannot take orders.
I smack into the ground so hard and fast, I‘ll be picking gravel out of my chin for a week. Someone else blows the gas tank. The Peacekeepers die. I make my rendezvous point. When I exit the Block
on the far side, a soldier congratulates me, stamps my hand with squad number 451, and tells me to report to Command. Almost giddy with success, I run through the halls, skidding around corners,
bounding down the steps because the elevator‘s too slow. I bang into the room before the oddity of the situation dawns on me. I shouldn‘t be in Command; I should be getting my hair buzzed. The people
around the table aren‘t freshly minted soldiers but the ones calling the shots.
Boggs smiles and shakes his head when he sees me. “Let‘s see it.” Unsure now, I hold out my stamped hand. “You‘re with me. It‘s a special unit of sharpshooters. Join your squad.” He nods over at a
group lining the wall. Gale. Finnick. Five others I don‘t know. My squad. I‘m not only in, I get to work under Boggs. With my friends. I force myself to take calm, soldierly steps to join them, instead of jumping
up and down.
We must be important, too, because we‘re in Command, and it has nothing to do with a certain Mockingjay. Plutarch stands over a wide, flat panel in the center of the table. He‘s explaining something
about the nature of what we will encounter in the Capitol. I‘m thinking this is a terrible presentation—because even on tiptoe I can‘t see what‘s on the panel—until he hits a button. A holographic image of a block of the Capitol projects into the air.
“This, for example, is the area surrounding one of the Peacekeepers‘ barracks. Not unimportant, but not the most crucial of targets, and yet look.” Plutarch enters some sort of code on a keyboard, and
lights begin to flash. They‘re in an assortment of colors and blink at different speeds. “Each light is called a pod. It represents a different obstacle, the nature of which could be anything from a bomb to a
band of mutts. Make no mistake, whatever it contains is designed to either trap or kill you. Some have been in place since the Dark Days, others developed over the years. To be honest, I created a fair
number myself. This program, which one of our people absconded with when we left the Capitol, is our most recent information. They don‘t know we have it. But even so, it‘s likely that new pods have been
activated in the last few months. This is what you will face.”
I‘m unaware that my feet are moving to the table until I‘m inches from the holograph. My hand reaches in and cups a rapidly blinking green light.
Someone joins me, his body tense. Finnick, of course. Because only a victor would see what I see so immediately. The arena. Laced with pods controlled by Gamemakers. Finnick‘s fingers caress a
steady red glow over a doorway. “Ladies and gentlemen…”
His voice is quiet, but mine rings through the room. “Let the Seventy-sixth Hunger Games begin!”
I laugh. Quickly. Before anyone has time to register what lies beneath the words I have just uttered. Before eyebrows are raised, objections are uttered, two and two are put together, and the solution is
that I should be kept as far away from the Capitol as possible. Because an angry, independently thinking victor with a layer of psychological scar tissue too thick to penetrate is maybe the last person you
want on your squad.
“I don‘t even know why you bothered to put Finnick and me through training, Plutarch,” I say.
“Yeah, we‘re already the two best-equipped soldiers you have,” Finnick adds cockily.
“Do not think that fact escapes me,” he says with an impatient wave. “Now back in line, Soldiers Odair and Everdeen. I have a presentation to finish.”
We retreat to our places, ignoring the questioning looks thrown our way. I adopt an attitude of extreme concentration as Plutarch continues, nodding my head here and there, shifting my position to get
a better view, all the while telling myself to hang on until I can get to the woods and scream. Or curse. Or cry. Or maybe all three at once.
If this was a test, Finnick and I both pass it. When Plutarch finishes and the meeting‘s adjourned, I have a bad moment when I learn there‘s a special order for me. But it‘s merely that I skip the military
haircut because they would like the Mockingjay to look as much like the girl in the arena as possible at the anticipated surrender. For the cameras, you know. I shrug to communicate that my hair length‘s a
matter of complete indifference to me. They dismiss me without further comment.
Finnick and I gravitate toward each other in the hallway. “What will I tell Annie?” he says under his breath.
“Nothing,” I answer. “That‘s what my mother and sister will be hearing from me.” Bad enough that we know we‘re heading back into a fully equipped arena. No use dropping it on our loved ones.
“If she sees that holograph—” he begins.
“She won‘t. It‘s classified information. It must be,” I say. “Anyway, it‘s not like an actual Games. Any number of people will survive. We‘re just overreacting because—well, you know why. You still want to
go, don‘t you?”
“Of course. I want to destroy Snow as much as you do,” he says.
“It won‘t be like the others,” I say firmly, trying to convince myself as well. Then the real beauty of the situation dawns on me. “This time Snow will be a player, too.”
Before we can continue, Haymitch appears. He wasn‘t at the meeting, isn‘t thinking of arenas but something else. “Johanna‘s back in the hospital.”
I assumed Johanna was fine, had passed her exam, but simply wasn‘t assigned to a sharpshooters‘ unit. She‘s wicked throwing an ax but about average with a gun. “Is she hurt? What happened?”
“It was while she was on the Block. They try to ferret out a soldier‘s potential weaknesses. So they flooded the street,” says Haymitch.
This doesn‘t help. Johanna can swim. At least, I seem to remember her swimming around some in the Quarter Quell. Not like Finnick, of course, but none of us are like Finnick. “So?”
“That‘s how they tortured her in the Capitol. Soaked her and then used electric shocks,” says Haymitch. “In the Block she had some kind of flashback. Panicked, didn‘t know where she was. She‘s
back under sedation.” Finnick and I just stand there, as if we‘ve lost the ability to respond. I think of the way Johanna never showers. How she forced herself into the rain like it was acid that day. I had
attributed her misery to the morphling withdrawal.
“You two should go see her. You‘re as close to friends as she‘s got,” says Haymitch.
That makes the whole thing worse. I don‘t really know what‘s between Johanna and Finnick. But I hardly know her. No family. No friends. Not so much as a token from 7 to set beside her regulation
clothes in her anonymous drawer. Nothing.
“I better go tell Plutarch. He won‘t be happy,” Haymitch continues. “He wants as many victors as possible for the cameras to follow in the Capitol. Thinks it makes for better television.”
“Are you and Beetee going?” I ask.
“As many young and attractive victors as possible,” Haymitch corrects himself. “So, no. We‘ll be here.”
Finnick goes directly down to see Johanna, but I linger outside a few minutes until Boggs comes out. He‘s my commander now, so I guess he‘s the one to ask for any special favors. When I tell him
what I want to do, he writes me a pass so that I can go to the woods during Reflection, provided I stay within sight of the guards. I run to my compartment, thinking to use the parachute, but it‘s so full of ugly
memories. Instead, I go across the hall and take one of the white cotton bandages I brought from 12. Square. Sturdy. Just the thing.
In the woods, I find a pine tree and strip handfuls of fragrant needles from the boughs. After making a neat pile in the middle of the bandage, I gather up the sides, give them a twist, and tie them tightly
with a length of vine, making an apple-sized bundle.
At the hospital room door, I watch Johanna for a moment, realize that most of her ferocity is in her abrasive attitude. Stripped of that, as she is now, there‘s only a slight young woman, her wide-set
eyes fighting to stay awake against the power of the drugs. Terrified of what sleep will bring. I cross to her and hold out the bundle.
“What‘s that?” she says hoarsely. Damp edges of her hair form little spikes over her forehead.
“I made it for you. Something to put in your drawer.” I place it in her hands. “Smell it.”
She lifts the bundle to her nose and takes a tentative sniff. “Smells like home.” Tears flood her eyes.
“That‘s what I was hoping. You being from Seven and all,” I say. “Remember when we met? You were a tree. Well, briefly.”
Suddenly, she has my wrist in an iron grip. “You have to kill him, Katniss.”
“Don‘t worry.” I resist the temptation to wrench my arm free.
“Swear it. On something you care about,” she hisses.
“I swear it. On my life.” But she doesn‘t let go of my arm.
“On your family‘s life,” she insists.
“On my family‘s life,” I repeat. I guess my concern for my own survival isn‘t compelling enough. She lets go and I rub my wrist. “Why do you think I‘m going, anyway, brainless?”
That makes her smile a little. “I just needed to hear it.” She presses the bundle of pine needles to her nose and closes her eyes.
The remaining days go by in a whirl. After a brief workout each morning, my squad‘s on the shooting range full-time in training. I practice mostly with a gun, but they reserve an hour a day for specialty
weapons, which means I get to use my Mockingjay bow, Gale his heavy militarized one. The trident Beetee designed for Finnick has a lot of special features, but the most remarkable is that he can throw
it, press a button on a metal cuff on his wrist, and return it to his hand without chasing it down.
Sometimes we shoot at Peacekeeper dummies to become familiar with the weaknesses in their protective gear. The chinks in the armor, so to speak. If you hit flesh, you‘re rewarded with a burst of
fake blood. Our dummies are soaked in red.
It‘s reassuring to see just how high the overall level of accuracy is in our group. Along with Finnick and Gale, the squad includes five soldiers from 13. Jackson, a middle-aged woman who‘s Boggs‘s
second in command, looks kind of sluggish but can hit things the rest of us can‘t even see without a scope. Farsighted, she says. There‘s a pair of sisters in their twenties named Leeg—we call them Leeg
1 and Leeg 2 for clarity—who are so similar in uniform, I can‘t tell them apart until I notice Leeg 1 has weird yellow flecks in her eyes. Two older guys, Mitchell and Homes, never say much but can shoot the
dust off your boots at fifty yards. I see other squads that are also quite good, but I don‘t fully understand our status until the morning Plutarch joins us.
“Squad Four-Five-One, you have been selected for a special mission,” he begins. I bite the inside of my lip, hoping against hope that it‘s to assassinate Snow. “We have numerous sharpshooters, but
rather a dearth of camera crews. Therefore, we‘ve handpicked the eight of you to be what we call our ’Star Squad.‘ You will be the on-screen faces of the invasion.”
Disappointment, shock, then anger run through the group. “What you‘re saying is, we won‘t be in actual combat,” snaps Gale.
“You will be in combat, but perhaps not always on the front line. If one can even isolate a front line in this type of war,” says Plutarch.
“None of us wants that.” Finnick‘s remark is followed by a general rumble of assent, but I stay silent. “We‘re going to fight.”
“You‘re going to be as useful to the war effort as possible,” Plutarch says. “And it‘s been decided that you are of most value on television. Just look at the effect Katniss had running around in that
Mockingjay suit. Turned the whole rebellion around. Do you notice how she‘s the only one not complaining? It‘s because she understands the power of that screen.”
Actually, Katniss isn‘t complaining because she has no intention of staying with the “Star Squad,” but she recognizes the necessity of getting to the Capitol before carrying out any plan. Still, to be too
compliant may arouse suspicion as well.
“But it‘s not all pretend, is it?” I ask. “That‘d be a waste of talent.”
“Don‘t worry,” Plutarch tells me. “You‘ll have plenty of real targets to hit. But don‘t get blown up. I‘ve got enough on my plate without having to replace you. Now get to the Capitol and put on a good
show.”
The morning we ship out, I say good-bye to my family. I haven‘t told them how much the Capitol‘s defenses mirror the weapons in the arena, but my going off to war is awful enough on its own. My
mother holds me tightly for a long time. I feel tears on her cheek, something she suppressed when I was slated for the Games. “Don‘t worry. I‘ll be perfectly safe. I‘m not even a real soldier. Just one of
Plutarch‘s televised puppets,” I reassure her.
Prim walks me as far as the hospital doors. “How do you feel?”
“Better, knowing you‘re somewhere Snow can‘t reach you,” I say.
“Next time we see each other, we‘ll be free of him,” says Prim firmly. Then she throws her arms around my neck. “Be careful.”
I consider saying a final good-bye to Peeta, decide it would only be bad for both of us. But I do slip the pearl into the pocket of my uniform. A token of the boy with the bread.
A hovercraft takes us to, of all places, 12, where a makeshift transportation area has been set up outside the fire zone. No luxury trains this time, but a cargo car packed to the limit with soldiers in their
dark gray uniforms, sleeping with their heads on their packs. After a couple of days‘ travel, we disembark inside one of the mountain tunnels leading to the Capitol, and make the rest of the six-hour trek on
foot, taking care to step only on a glowing green paint line that marks safe passage to the air above.
We come out in the rebel encampment, a ten-block stretch outside the train station where Peeta and I made our previous arrivals. It‘s already crawling with soldiers. Squad 451 is assigned a spot to
pitch its tents. This area has been secured for over a week. Rebels pushed out the Peacekeepers, losing hundreds of lives in the process. The Capitol forces fell back and have regrouped farther into the
city. Between us lie the booby-trapped streets, empty and inviting. Each one will need to be swept of pods before we can advance.
Mitchell asks about hoverplane bombings—we do feel very naked pitched out in the open—but Boggs says it‘s not an issue. Most of the Capitol‘s air fleet was destroyed in 2 or during the invasion. If it
has any craft left, it‘s holding on to them. Probably so Snow and his inner circle can make a last-minute escape to some presidential bunker somewhere if needed. Our own hoverplanes were grounded
after the Capitol‘s antiaircraft missiles decimated the first few waves. This war will be battled out on the streets with, hopefully, only superficial damage to the infrastructure and a minimum of human
casualties. The rebels want the Capitol, just as the Capitol wanted 13.
After three days, much of Squad 451 risks deserting out of boredom. Cressida and her team take shots of us firing. They tell us we‘re part of the disinformation team. If the rebels only shoot Plutarch‘s
pods, it will take the Capitol about two minutes to realize we have the holograph. So there‘s a lot of time spent shattering things that don‘t matter, to throw them off the scent. Mostly we just add to the piles
of rainbow glass that‘s been blown off the exteriors of the candy-colored buildings. I suspect they are intercutting this footage with the destruction of significant Capitol targets. Once in a while it seems a
real sharpshooter‘s services are needed. Eight hands go up, but Gale, Finnick, and I are never chosen.
“It‘s your own fault for being so camera-ready,” I tell Gale. If looks could kill.
I don‘t think they quite know what to do with the three of us, particularly me. I have my Mockingjay outfit with me, but I‘ve only been taped in my uniform. Sometimes I use a gun, sometimes they ask me
to shoot with my bow and arrows. It‘s as if they don‘t want to entirely lose the Mockingjay, but they want to downgrade my role to foot soldier. Since I don‘t care, it‘s amusing rather than upsetting to imagine
the arguments going on back in 13.
While I outwardly express discontent about our lack of any real participation, I‘m busy with my own agenda. Each of us has a paper map of the Capitol. The city forms an almost perfect square. Lines
divide the map into smaller squares, with letters along the top and numbers down the side to form a grid. I consume this, noting every intersection and side street, but it‘s remedial stuff. The commanders
here are working off Plutarch‘s holograph. Each has a handheld contraption called a Holo that produces images like I saw in Command. They can zoom into any area of the grid and see what pods await
them. The Holo‘s an independent unit, a glorified map really, since it can neither send nor receive signals. But it‘s far superior to my paper version.
A Holo is activated by a specific commander‘s voice giving his or her name. Once it‘s working, it responds to the other voices in the squadron so if, say, Boggs were killed or severely disabled,
someone could take over. If anyone in the squad repeats “nightlock” three times in a row, the Holo will explode, blowing everything in a five-yard radius sky-high. This is for security reasons in the event of
capture. It‘s understood that we would all do this without hesitation.
So what I need to do is steal Boggs‘s activated Holo and clear out before he notices. I think it would be easier to steal his teeth.
On the fourth morning, Soldier Leeg 2 hits a mislabeled pod. It doesn‘t unleash a swarm of muttation gnats, which the rebels are prepared for, but shoots out a sunburst of metal darts. One finds her
brain. She‘s gone before the medics can reach her. Plutarch promises a speedy replacement.
The following evening, the newest member of our squad arrives. With no manacles. No guards. Strolling out of the train station with his gun swinging from the strap over his shoulder. There‘s shock,
confusion, resistance, but 451 is stamped on the back of Peeta‘s hand in fresh ink. Boggs relieves him of his weapon and goes to make a call.
“It won‘t matter,” Peeta tells the rest of us. “The president assigned me herself. She decided the propos needed some heating up.”
Maybe they do. But if Coin sent Peeta here, she‘s decided something else as well. That I‘m of more use to her dead than alive.

Mockingjay Chapter 17

2012-03-01T18:48:00.000-08:00

Mockingjay Part 2: The Assault

Chapter 17

Blindsided. That‘s how I feel when Haymitch tells me in the hospital. I fly down the steps to Command, mind racing a mile a minute, and burst right into a war meeting.
“What do you mean, I‘m not going to the Capitol? I have to go! I‘m the Mockingjay!” I say.
Coin barely looks up from her screen. “And as the Mockingjay, your primary goal of unifying the districts against the Capitol has been achieved. Don‘t worry—if it goes well, we‘ll fly you in for the
surrender.”
The surrender?
“That‘ll be too late! I‘ll miss all the fighting. You need me—I‘m the best shot you‘ve got!” I shout. I don‘t usually brag about this, but it‘s got to be at least close to true. “Gale‘s going.”
“Gale has shown up for training every day unless occupied with other approved duties. We feel confident he can manage himself in the field,” says Coin. “How many training sessions do you estimate
you‘ve attended?”
None. That‘s how many. “Well, sometimes I was hunting. And… I trained with Beetee down in Special Weaponry.”
“It‘s not the same, Katniss,” says Boggs. “We all know you‘re smart and brave and a good shot. But we need soldiers in the field. You don‘t know the first thing about executing orders, and you‘re not
exactly at your physical peak.”
“That didn‘t bother you when I was in Eight. Or Two, for that matter,” I counter.
“You weren‘t originally authorized for combat in either case,” says Plutarch, shooting me a look that signals I‘m about to reveal too much.
No, the bomber battle in 8 and my intervention in 2 were spontaneous, rash, and definitely unauthorized.
“And both resulted in your injury,” Boggs reminds me. Suddenly, I see myself through his eyes. A smallish seventeen-year-old girl who can‘t quite catch her breath since her ribs haven‘t fully healed.
Disheveled. Undisciplined. Recuperating. Not a soldier, but someone who needs to be looked after.
“But I have to go,” I say.
“Why?” asks Coin.
I can‘t very well say it‘s so I can carry out my own personal vendetta against Snow. Or that the idea of remaining here in 13 with the latest version of Peeta while Gale goes off to fight is unbearable. But
I have no shortage of reasons to want to fight in the Capitol. “Because of Twelve. Because they destroyed my district.”
The president thinks about this a moment. Considers me. “Well, you have three weeks. It‘s not long, but you can begin training. If the Assignment Board deems you fit, possibly your case will be
reviewed.”
That‘s it. That‘s the most I can hope for. I guess it‘s my own fault. I did blow off my schedule every single day unless something suited me. It didn‘t seem like much of a priority, jogging around a field
with a gun with so many other things going on. And now I‘m paying for my negligence.
Back in the hospital, I find Johanna in the same circumstance and spitting mad. I tell her about what Coin said. “Maybe you can train, too.”
“Fine. I‘ll train. But I‘m going to the stinking Capitol if I have to kill a crew and fly there myself,” says Johanna.
“Probably best not to bring that up in training,” I say. “But it‘s nice to know I‘ll have a ride.”
Johanna grins, and I feel a slight but significant shift in our relationship. I don‘t know that we‘re actually friends, but possibly the word allies would be accurate. That‘s good. I‘m going to need an ally.
The next morning, when we report for training at 7:30, reality slaps me in the face. We‘ve been funneled into a class of relative beginners, fourteen- or fifteen-year-olds, which seems a little insulting
until it‘s obvious that they‘re in far better condition than we are. Gale and the other people already chosen to go to the Capitol are in a different, accelerated phase of training. After we stretch—which hurts
—there‘s a couple of hours of strengthening exercises—which hurt—and a five-mile run—which kills. Even with Johanna‘s motivational insults driving me on, I have to drop out after a mile.
“It‘s my ribs,” I explain to the trainer, a no-nonsense middle-aged woman we‘re supposed to address as Soldier York. “They‘re still bruised.”
“Well, I‘ll tell you, Soldier Everdeen, those are going to take at least another month to heal up on their own,” she says.
I shake my head. “I don‘t have a month.”
She looks me up and down. “The doctors haven‘t offered you any treatment?”
“Is there a treatment?” I ask. “They said they had to mend naturally.”
“That‘s what they say. But they could speed up the process if I recommend it. I warn you, though, it isn‘t any fun,” she tells me.
“Please. I‘ve got to get to the Capitol,” I say.
Soldier York doesn‘t question this. She scribbles something on a pad and sends me directly back to the hospital. I hesitate. I don‘t want to miss any more training. “I‘ll be back for the afternoon
session,” I promise. She just purses her lips.
Twenty-four needle jabs to my rib cage later, I‘m flattened out on my hospital bed, gritting my teeth to keep from begging them to bring back my morphling drip. It‘s been by my bed so I can take a hit as
needed. I haven‘t used it lately, but I kept it for Johanna‘s sake. Today they tested my blood to make sure it was clean of the painkiller, as the mixture of the two drugs—the morphling and whatever‘s set my
ribs on fire—has dangerous side effects. They made it clear I would have a difficult couple of days. But I told them to go ahead.
It‘s a bad night in our room. Sleep‘s out of the question. I think I can actually smell the ring of flesh around my chest burning, and Johanna‘s fighting off withdrawal symptoms. Early on, when I apologize
about cutting off her morphling supply, she waves it off, saying it had to happen anyway. But by three in the morning, I‘m the target of every colorful bit of profanity District 7 has to offer. At dawn, she drags
me out of bed, determined to get to training.
“I don‘t think I can do it,” I confess.
“You can do it. We both can. We‘re victors, remember? We‘re the ones who can survive anything they throw at us,” she snarls at me. She‘s a sick greenish color, shaking like a leaf. I get dressed.
We must be victors to make it through the morning. I think I‘m going to lose Johanna when we realize it‘s pouring outside. Her face turns ashen and she seems to have ceased breathing.
“It‘s just water. It won‘t kill us,” I say. She clenches her jaw and stomps out into the mud. Rain drenches us as we work our bodies and then slog around the running course. I bail after a mile again, and I
have to resist the temptation to take off my shirt so the cold water can sizzle off my ribs. I force down my field lunch of soggy fish and beet stew. Johanna gets halfway through her bowl before it comes
back up. In the afternoon, we learn to assemble our guns. I manage it, but Johanna can‘t hold her hands steady enough to fit the parts together. When York‘s back is turned, I help her out. Even though the
rain continues, the afternoon‘s an improvement because we‘re on the shooting range. At last, something I‘m good at. It takes some adjusting from a bow to a gun, but by the end of the day, I‘ve got the best
score in my class.
We‘re just inside the hospital doors when Johanna declares, “This has to stop. Us living in the hospital. Everyone views us as patients.”
It‘s not a problem for me. I can move into our family compartment, but Johanna‘s never been assigned one. When she tries to get discharged from the hospital, they won‘t agree to let her live alone,
even if she comes in for daily talks with the head doctor. I think they may have put two and two together about the morphling and this only adds to their view that she‘s unstable. “She won‘t be alone. I‘m
going to room with her,” I announce. There‘s some dissent, but Haymitch takes our part, and by bedtime, we have a compartment across from Prim and my mother, who agrees to keep an eye on us.
After I take a shower, and Johanna sort of wipes herself down with a damp cloth, she makes a cursory inspection of the place. When she opens the drawer that holds my few possessions, she shuts it
quickly. “Sorry.”
I think how there‘s nothing in Johanna‘s drawer but her government-issued clothes. That she doesn‘t have one thing in the world to call her own. “It‘s okay. You can look at my stuff if you want.”
Johanna unlatches my locket, studying the pictures of Gale, Prim, and my mother. She opens the silver parachute and pulls out the spile and slips it onto her pinkie. “Makes me thirsty just looking at it.”
Then she finds the pearl Peeta gave me. “Is this—?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Made it through somehow.” I don‘t want to talk about Peeta. One of the best things about training is, it keeps me from thinking of him.
“Haymitch says he‘s getting better,” she says.
“Maybe. But he‘s changed,” I say.
“So have you. So have I. And Finnick and Haymitch and Beetee. Don‘t get me started on Annie Cresta. The arena messed us all up pretty good, don‘t you think? Or do you still feel like the girl who
volunteered for your sister?” she asks me.
“No,” I answer.
“That‘s the one thing I think my head doctor might be right about. There‘s no going back. So we might as well get on with things.” She neatly returns my keepsakes to the drawer and climbs into the bed
across from me just as the lights go out. “You‘re not afraid I‘ll kill you tonight?”
“Like I couldn‘t take you,” I answer. Then we laugh, since both our bodies are so wrecked, it will be a miracle if we can get up the next day. But we do. Each morning, we do. And by the end of the
week, my ribs feel almost like new, and Johanna can assemble her rifle without help.
Soldier York gives the pair of us an approving nod as we knock off for the day. “Fine job, Soldiers.”
When we move out of hearing, Johanna mutters, “I think winning the Games was easier.” But the look on her face says she‘s pleased.
In fact, we‘re almost in good spirits when we go to the dining hall, where Gale‘s waiting to eat with me. Receiving a giant serving of beef stew doesn‘t hurt my mood either. “First shipments of food
arrived this morning,” Greasy Sae tells me. “That‘s real beef, from District Ten. Not any of your wild dog.”
“Don‘t remember you turning it down,” Gale tosses back.
We join a group that includes Delly, Annie, and Finnick. It‘s something to see Finnick‘s transformation since his marriage. His earlier incarnations—the decadent Capitol heartthrob I met before the
Quell, the enigmatic ally in the arena, the broken young man who tried to help me hold it together—these have been replaced by someone who radiates life. Finnick‘s real charms of self-effacing humor
and an easygoing nature are on display for the first time. He never lets go of Annie‘s hand. Not when they walk, not when they eat. I doubt he ever plans to. She‘s lost in some daze of happiness. There are “Please. I‘ve got to get to the Capitol,” I say.
Soldier York doesn‘t question this. She scribbles something on a pad and sends me directly back to the hospital. I hesitate. I don‘t want to miss any more training. “I‘ll be back for the afternoon
session,” I promise. She just purses her lips.
Twenty-four needle jabs to my rib cage later, I‘m flattened out on my hospital bed, gritting my teeth to keep from begging them to bring back my morphling drip. It‘s been by my bed so I can take a hit as
needed. I haven‘t used it lately, but I kept it for Johanna‘s sake. Today they tested my blood to make sure it was clean of the painkiller, as the mixture of the two drugs—the morphling and whatever‘s set my
ribs on fire—has dangerous side effects. They made it clear I would have a difficult couple of days. But I told them to go ahead.
It‘s a bad night in our room. Sleep‘s out of the question. I think I can actually smell the ring of flesh around my chest burning, and Johanna‘s fighting off withdrawal symptoms. Early on, when I apologize
about cutting off her morphling supply, she waves it off, saying it had to happen anyway. But by three in the morning, I‘m the target of every colorful bit of profanity District 7 has to offer. At dawn, she drags
me out of bed, determined to get to training.
“I don‘t think I can do it,” I confess.
“You can do it. We both can. We‘re victors, remember? We‘re the ones who can survive anything they throw at us,” she snarls at me. She‘s a sick greenish color, shaking like a leaf. I get dressed.
We must be victors to make it through the morning. I think I‘m going to lose Johanna when we realize it‘s pouring outside. Her face turns ashen and she seems to have ceased breathing.
“It‘s just water. It won‘t kill us,” I say. She clenches her jaw and stomps out into the mud. Rain drenches us as we work our bodies and then slog around the running course. I bail after a mile again, and I
have to resist the temptation to take off my shirt so the cold water can sizzle off my ribs. I force down my field lunch of soggy fish and beet stew. Johanna gets halfway through her bowl before it comes
back up. In the afternoon, we learn to assemble our guns. I manage it, but Johanna can‘t hold her hands steady enough to fit the parts together. When York‘s back is turned, I help her out. Even though the
rain continues, the afternoon‘s an improvement because we‘re on the shooting range. At last, something I‘m good at. It takes some adjusting from a bow to a gun, but by the end of the day, I‘ve got the best
score in my class.
We‘re just inside the hospital doors when Johanna declares, “This has to stop. Us living in the hospital. Everyone views us as patients.”
It‘s not a problem for me. I can move into our family compartment, but Johanna‘s never been assigned one. When she tries to get discharged from the hospital, they won‘t agree to let her live alone,
even if she comes in for daily talks with the head doctor. I think they may have put two and two together about the morphling and this only adds to their view that she‘s unstable. “She won‘t be alone. I‘m
going to room with her,” I announce. There‘s some dissent, but Haymitch takes our part, and by bedtime, we have a compartment across from Prim and my mother, who agrees to keep an eye on us.
After I take a shower, and Johanna sort of wipes herself down with a damp cloth, she makes a cursory inspection of the place. When she opens the drawer that holds my few possessions, she shuts it
quickly. “Sorry.”
I think how there‘s nothing in Johanna‘s drawer but her government-issued clothes. That she doesn‘t have one thing in the world to call her own. “It‘s okay. You can look at my stuff if you want.”
Johanna unlatches my locket, studying the pictures of Gale, Prim, and my mother. She opens the silver parachute and pulls out the spile and slips it onto her pinkie. “Makes me thirsty just looking at it.”
Then she finds the pearl Peeta gave me. “Is this—?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Made it through somehow.” I don‘t want to talk about Peeta. One of the best things about training is, it keeps me from thinking of him.
“Haymitch says he‘s getting better,” she says.
“Maybe. But he‘s changed,” I say.
“So have you. So have I. And Finnick and Haymitch and Beetee. Don‘t get me started on Annie Cresta. The arena messed us all up pretty good, don‘t you think? Or do you still feel like the girl who
volunteered for your sister?” she asks me.
“No,” I answer.
“That‘s the one thing I think my head doctor might be right about. There‘s no going back. So we might as well get on with things.” She neatly returns my keepsakes to the drawer and climbs into the bed
across from me just as the lights go out. “You‘re not afraid I‘ll kill you tonight?”
“Like I couldn‘t take you,” I answer. Then we laugh, since both our bodies are so wrecked, it will be a miracle if we can get up the next day. But we do. Each morning, we do. And by the end of the
week, my ribs feel almost like new, and Johanna can assemble her rifle without help.
Soldier York gives the pair of us an approving nod as we knock off for the day. “Fine job, Soldiers.”
When we move out of hearing, Johanna mutters, “I think winning the Games was easier.” But the look on her face says she‘s pleased.
In fact, we‘re almost in good spirits when we go to the dining hall, where Gale‘s waiting to eat with me. Receiving a giant serving of beef stew doesn‘t hurt my mood either. “First shipments of food
arrived this morning,” Greasy Sae tells me. “That‘s real beef, from District Ten. Not any of your wild dog.”
“Don‘t remember you turning it down,” Gale tosses back.
We join a group that includes Delly, Annie, and Finnick. It‘s something to see Finnick‘s transformation since his marriage. His earlier incarnations—the decadent Capitol heartthrob I met before the
Quell, the enigmatic ally in the arena, the broken young man who tried to help me hold it together—these have been replaced by someone who radiates life. Finnick‘s real charms of self-effacing humor
and an easygoing nature are on display for the first time. He never lets go of Annie‘s hand. Not when they walk, not when they eat. I doubt he ever plans to. She‘s lost in some daze of happiness. There are still moments when you can tell something slips in her brain and another world blinds her to us. But a few words from Finnick call her back.
Delly, who I‘ve known since I was little but never gave much thought to, has grown in my estimation. She was told what Peeta said to me that night after the wedding, but she‘s not a gossip. Haymitch
says she‘s the best defender I have when Peeta goes off on some kind of tear about me. Always taking my side, blaming his negative perceptions on the Capitol‘s torture. She has more influence on him
than any of the others do, because he really does know her. Anyway, even if she‘s sugarcoating my good points, I appreciate it. Frankly, I could use a little sugarcoating.
I‘m starving and the stew is so delicious—beef, potatoes, turnips, and onions in a thick gravy—that I have to force myself to slow down. All around the dining hall, you can feel the rejuvenating effect that
a good meal can bring on. The way it can make people kinder, funnier, more optimistic, and remind them it‘s not a mistake to go on living. It‘s better than any medicine. So I try to make it last and join in the
conversation. Sop up the gravy on my bread and nibble on it as I listen to Finnick telling some ridiculous story about a sea turtle swimming off with his hat. Laugh before I realize he‘s standing there.
Directly across the table, behind the empty seat next to Johanna. Watching me. I choke momentarily as the gravy bread sticks in my throat.
“Peeta!” says Delly. “It‘s so nice to see you out… and about.”
Two large guards stand behind him. He holds his tray awkwardly, balanced on his fingertips since his wrists are shackled with a short chain between them.
“What‘s with the fancy bracelets?” asks Johanna.
“I‘m not quite trustworthy yet,” says Peeta. “I can‘t even sit here without your permission.” He indicates the guards with his head.
“Sure he can sit here. We‘re old friends,” says Johanna, patting the space beside her. The guards nod and Peeta takes a seat. “Peeta and I had adjoining cells in the Capitol. We‘re very familiar with
each other‘s screams.”
Annie, who‘s on Johanna‘s other side, does that thing where she covers her ears and exits reality. Finnick shoots Johanna an angry look as his arm encircles Annie.
“What? My head doctor says I‘m not supposed to censor my thoughts. It‘s part of my therapy,” replies Johanna.
The life has gone out of our little party. Finnick murmurs things to Annie until she slowly removes her hands. Then there‘s a long silence while people pretend to eat.
“Annie,” says Delly brightly, “did you know it was Peeta who decorated your wedding cake? Back home, his family ran the bakery and he did all the icing.”
Annie cautiously looks across Johanna. “Thank you, Peeta. It was beautiful.”
“My pleasure, Annie,” says Peeta, and I hear that old note of gentleness in his voice that I thought was gone forever. Not that it‘s directed at me. But still.
“If we‘re going to fit in that walk, we better go,” Finnick tells her. He arranges both of their trays so he can carry them in one hand while holding tightly to her with the other. “Good seeing you, Peeta.”
“You be nice to her, Finnick. Or I might try and take her away from you.” It could be a joke, if the tone wasn‘t so cold. Everything it conveys is wrong. The open distrust of Finnick, the implication that
Peeta has his eye on Annie, that Annie could desert Finnick, that I do not even exist.
“Oh, Peeta,” says Finnick lightly. “Don‘t make me sorry I restarted your heart.” He leads Annie away after giving me a concerned glance.
When they‘re gone, Delly says in a reproachful voice, “He did save your life, Peeta. More than once.”
“For her.” He gives me a brief nod. “For the rebellion. Not for me. I don‘t owe him anything.”
I shouldn‘t rise to the bait, but I do. “Maybe not. But Mags is dead and you‘re still here. That should count for something.”
“Yeah, a lot of things should count for something that don‘t seem to, Katniss. I‘ve got some memories I can‘t make sense of, and I don‘t think the Capitol touched them. A lot of nights on the train, for
instance,” he says.
Again the implications. That more happened on the train than did. That what did happen—those nights I only kept my sanity because his arms were around me—no longer matters. Everything a lie,
everything a way of misusing him.
Peeta makes a little gesture with his spoon, connecting Gale and me. “So, are you two officially a couple now, or are they still dragging out the star-crossed lover thing?”
“Still dragging,” says Johanna.
Spasms cause Peeta‘s hands to tighten into fists, then splay out in a bizarre fashion. Is it all he can do to keep them from my neck? I can feel the tension in Gale‘s muscles next to me, fear an
altercation. But Gale simply says, “I wouldn‘t have believed it if I hadn‘t seen it myself.”
“What‘s that?” asks Peeta.
“You,” Gale answers.
“You‘ll have to be a little more specific,” says Peeta. “What about me?”
“That they‘ve replaced you with the evil-mutt version of yourself,” says Johanna.
Gale finishes his milk. “You done?” he asks me. I rise and we cross to drop off our trays. At the door, an old man stops me because I‘m still clutching the rest of my gravy bread in my hand. Something
in my expression, or maybe the fact that I‘ve made no attempt to conceal it, makes him go easy on me. He lets me stuff the bread in my mouth and move on. Gale and I are almost to my compartment when
he speaks again. “I didn‘t expect that.”
“I told you he hated me,” I say.
“It‘s the way he hates you. It‘s so… familiar. I used to feel like that,” he admits. “When I‘d watch you kissing him on the screen. Only I knew I wasn‘t being entirely fair. He can‘t see that.”
We reach my door. “Maybe he just sees me as I really am. I have to get some sleep.”
Gale catches my arm before I can disappear. “So that‘s what you‘re thinking now?” I shrug. “Katniss, as your oldest friend, believe me when I say he‘s not seeing you as you really are.” He kisses my
cheek and goes.
I sit on my bed, trying to stuff information from my Military Tactics books into my head while memories of my nights with Peeta on the train distract me. After about twenty minutes, Johanna comes in
and throws herself across the foot of my bed. “You missed the best part. Delly lost her temper at Peeta over how he treated you. She got very squeaky. It was like someone stabbing a mouse with a fork
repeatedly. The whole dining hall was riveted.”
“What‘d Peeta do?” I ask.
“He started arguing with himself like he was two people. The guards had to take him away. On the good side, no one seemed to notice I finished his stew.” Johanna rubs her hand over her protruding
belly. I look at the layer of grime under her fingernails. Wonder if the people in 7 ever bathe.
We spend a couple of hours quizzing each other on military terms. I visit my mother and Prim for a while. When I‘m back in my compartment, showered, staring into the darkness, I finally ask, “Johanna,
could you really hear him screaming?”
“That was part of it,” she says. “Like the jabberjays in the arena. Only it was real. And it didn‘t stop after an hour. Tick, tock.”
“Tick, tock,” I whisper back.
Roses. Wolf mutts. Tributes. Frosted dolphins. Friends. Mockingjays. Stylists. Me.
Everything screams in my dreams tonight.

Mockingjay Chapter 16

2012-03-01T18:45:00.001-08:00

Mockingjay Part 2: The Assault

Chapter 16

“Always.”
In the twilight of morphling, Peeta whispers the word and I go searching for him. It‘s a gauzy, violet-tinted world, with no hard edges, and many places to hide. I push through cloud banks, follow faint
tracks, catch the scent of cinnamon, of dill. Once I feel his hand on my cheek and try to trap it, but it dissolves like mist through my fingers.
When I finally begin to surface into the sterile hospital room in 13, I remember. I was under the influence of sleep syrup. My heel had been injured after I‘d climbed out on a branch over the electric fence
and dropped back into 12. Peeta had put me to bed and I had asked him to stay with me as I was drifting off. He had whispered something I couldn‘t quite catch. But some part of my brain had trapped his
single word of reply and let it swim up through my dreams to taunt me now. “Always.”
Morphling dulls the extremes of all emotions, so instead of a stab of sorrow, I merely feel emptiness. A hollow of dead brush where flowers used to bloom. Unfortunately, there‘s not enough of the drug
left in my veins for me to ignore the pain in the left side of my body. That‘s where the bullet hit. My hands fumble over the thick bandages encasing my ribs and I wonder what I‘m still doing here.
It wasn‘t him, the man kneeling before me on the square, the burned one from the Nut. He didn‘t pull the trigger. It was someone farther back in the crowd. There was less a sense of penetration than
the feeling that I‘d been struck with a sledgehammer. Everything after the moment of impact is confusion riddled with gunfire. I try to sit up, but the only thing I manage is a moan.
The white curtain that divides my bed from the next patient‘s whips back, and Johanna Mason stares down at me. At first I feel threatened, because she attacked me in the arena. I have to remind
myself that she did it to save my life. It was part of the rebel plot. But still, that doesn‘t mean she doesn‘t despise me. Maybe her treatment of me was all an act for the Capitol?
“I‘m alive,” I say rustily.
“No kidding, brainless.” Johanna walks over and plunks down on my bed, sending spikes of pain shooting across my chest. When she grins at my discomfort, I know we‘re not in for some warm
reunion scene. “Still a little sore?” With an expert hand, she quickly detaches the morphling drip from my arm and plugs it into a socket taped into the crook of her own. “They started cutting back my supply
a few days ago. Afraid I‘m going to turn into one of those freaks from Six. I‘ve had to borrow from you when the coast was clear. Didn‘t think you‘d mind.”
Mind? How can I mind when she was almost tortured to death by Snow after the Quarter Quell? I have no right to mind, and she knows it.
Johanna sighs as the morphling enters her bloodstream. “Maybe they were onto something in Six. Drug yourself out and paint flowers on your body. Not such a bad life. Seemed happier than the rest
of us, anyway.”
In the weeks since I left 13, she‘s gained some weight back. A soft down of hair has sprouted on her shaved head, helping to hide some of the scars. But if she‘s siphoning off my morphling, she‘s
struggling.
“They‘ve got this head doctor who comes around every day. Supposed to be helping me recover. Like some guy who‘s spent his life in this rabbit warren‘s going to fix me up. Complete idiot. At least
twenty times a session he reminds me that I‘m totally safe.” I manage a smile. It‘s a truly stupid thing to say, especially to a victor. As if such a state of being ever existed, anywhere, for anyone. “How about
you, Mockingjay? You feel totally safe?”
“Oh, yeah. Right up until I got shot,” I say.
“Please. That bullet never even touched you. Cinna saw to that,” she says.
I think of the layers of protective armor in my Mockingjay outfit. But the pain came from somewhere. “Broken ribs?”
“Not even. Bruised pretty good. The impact ruptured your spleen. They couldn‘t repair it.” She gives a dismissive wave of her hand. “Don‘t worry, you don‘t need one. And if you did, they‘d find you one,
wouldn‘t they? It‘s everybody‘s job to keep you alive.”
“Is that why you hate me?” I ask.
“Partly,” she admits. “Jealousy is certainly involved. I also think you‘re a little hard to swallow. With your tacky romantic drama and your defender-of-the-helpless act. Only it isn‘t an act, which makes you
more unbearable. Please feel free to take this personally.”
“You should have been the Mockingjay. No one would‘ve had to feed you lines,” I say.
“True. But no one likes me,” she tells me.
“They trusted you, though. To get me out,” I remind her. “And they‘re afraid of you.”
“Here, maybe. In the Capitol, you‘re the one they‘re scared of now.” Gale appears in the doorway, and Johanna neatly unhooks herself and reattaches me to the morphling drip. “Your cousin‘s not
afraid of me,” she says confidentially. She scoots off my bed and crosses to the door, nudging Gale‘s leg with her hip as she passes him. “Are you, gorgeous?” We can hear her laughter as she
disappears down the hall.
I raise my eyebrows at him as he takes my hand. “Terrified,” he mouths. I laugh, but it turns into a wince. “Easy.” He strokes my face as the pain ebbs. “You‘ve got to stop running straight into trouble.”
“I know. But someone blew up a mountain,” I answer.
Instead of pulling back, he leans in closer, searching my face. “You think I‘m heartless.”
“I know you‘re not. But I won‘t tell you it‘s okay,” I say.
Now he draws back, almost impatiently. “Katniss, what difference is there, really, between crushing our enemy in a mine or blowing them out of the sky with one of Beetee‘s arrows? The result is the
same.”
“I don‘t know. We were under attack in Eight, for one thing. The hospital was under attack,” I say.
“Yes, and those hoverplanes came from District Two,” he says. “So, by taking them out, we prevented further attacks.”
“But that kind of thinking… you could turn it into an argument for killing anyone at any time. You could justify sending kids into the Hunger Games to prevent the districts from getting out of line,” I say.
“I don‘t buy that,” he tells me.
“I do,” I reply. “It must be those trips to the arena.”
“Fine. We know how to disagree,” he says. “We always have. Maybe it‘s good. Between you and me, we‘ve got District Two now.”
“Really?” For a moment a feeling of triumph flares up inside me. Then I think about the people on the square. “Was there fighting after I was shot?”
“Not much. The workers from the Nut turned on the Capitol soldiers. The rebels just sat by and watched,” he says. “Actually, the whole country just sat by and watched.”
“Well, that‘s what they do best,” I say.
You‘d think that losing a major organ would entitle you to lie around a few weeks, but for some reason, my doctors want me up and moving almost immediately. Even with the morphling, the internal
pain‘s severe the first few days, but then it slacks off considerably. The soreness from the bruised ribs, however, promises to hang on for a while. I begin to resent Johanna dipping into my morphling
supply, but I still let her take whatever she likes.
Rumors of my death have been running rampant, so they send in the team to film me in my hospital bed. I show off my stitches and impressive bruising and congratulate the districts on their successful
battle for unity. Then I warn the Capitol to expect us soon.
As part of my rehabilitation, I take short walks aboveground each day. One afternoon, Plutarch joins me and gives me an update on our current situation. Now that District 2 has allied with us, the
rebels are taking a breather from the war to regroup. Fortifying supply lines, seeing to the wounded, reorganizing their troops. The Capitol, like 13 during the Dark Days, finds itself completely cut off from
outside help as it holds the threat of nuclear attack over its enemies. Unlike 13, the Capitol is not in a position to reinvent itself and become self-sufficient.
“Oh, the city might be able to scrape along for a while,” says Plutarch. “Certainly, there are emergency supplies stockpiled. But the significant difference between Thirteen and the Capitol are the
expectations of the populace. Thirteen was used to hardship, whereas in the Capitol, all they‘ve known is Panem et Circenses.”
“What‘s that?” I recognize Panem, of course, but the rest is nonsense.
“It‘s a saying from thousands of years ago, written in a language called Latin about a place called Rome,” he explains. “Panem et Circenses translates into ’Bread and Circuses.‘ The writer was
saying that in return for full bellies and entertainment, his people had given up their political responsibilities and therefore their power.”
I think about the Capitol. The excess of food. And the ultimate entertainment. The Hunger Games. “So that‘s what the districts are for. To provide the bread and circuses.”
“Yes. And as long as that kept rolling in, the Capitol could control its little empire. Right now, it can provide neither, at least at the standard the people are accustomed to,” says Plutarch. “We have the
food and I‘m about to orchestrate an entertainment propo that‘s sure to be popular. After all, everybody loves a wedding.”
I freeze in my tracks, sick at the idea of what he‘s suggesting. Somehow staging some perverse wedding between Peeta and me. I haven‘t been able to face that one-way glass since I‘ve been back
and, at my own request, only get updates about Peeta‘s condition from Haymitch. He speaks very little about it. Different techniques are being tried. There will never truly be a way to cure him. And now
they want me to marry Peeta for a propo?
Plutarch rushes to reassure me. “Oh, no, Katniss. Not your wedding. Finnick and Annie‘s. All you need to do is show up and pretend to be happy for them.”
“That‘s one of the few things I won‘t have to pretend, Plutarch,” I tell him.
The next few days bring a flurry of activity as the event is planned. The differences between the Capitol and 13 are thrown into sharp relief by the event. When Coin says “wedding,” she means two
people signing a piece of paper and being assigned a new compartment. Plutarch means hundreds of people dressed in finery at a three-day celebration. It‘s amusing to watch them haggle over the
details. Plutarch has to fight for every guest, every musical note. After Coin vetoes a dinner, entertainment, and alcohol, Plutarch yells, “What‘s the point of the propo if no one‘s having any fun!”
It‘s hard to put a Gamemaker on a budget. But even a quiet celebration causes a stir in 13, where they seem to have no holidays at all. When it‘s announced that children are wanted to sing District 4‘s
wedding song, practically every kid shows up. There‘s no shortage of volunteers to help make decorations. In the dining hall, people chat excitedly about the event.
Maybe it‘s more than the festivities. Maybe it‘s that we are all so starved for something good to happen that we want to be part of it. It would explain why—when Plutarch has a fit over what the bride will
wear—I volunteer to take Annie back to my house in 12, where Cinna left a variety of evening clothes in a big storage closet downstairs. All of the wedding gowns he designed for me went back to the
Capitol, but there are some dresses I wore on the Victory Tour. I‘m a little leery about being with Annie since all I really know about her is that Finnick loves her and everybody thinks she‘s mad. On the hovercraft ride, I decide she‘s less mad than unstable. She laughs at odd places in the conversation or drops out of it distractedly. Those green eyes fixate on a point with such intensity that you find
yourself trying to make out what she sees in the empty air. Sometimes, for no reason, she presses both her hands over her ears as if to block out a painful sound. All right, she‘s strange, but if Finnick loves
her, that‘s good enough for me.
I got permission for my prep team to come along, so I‘m relieved of having to make any fashion decisions. When I open the closet, we all fall silent because Cinna‘s presence is so strong in the flow of
the fabrics. Then Octavia drops to her knees, rubs the hem of a skirt against her cheek, and bursts into tears. “It‘s been so long,” she gasps, “since I‘ve seen anything pretty.”
Despite reservations on Coin‘s side that it‘s too extravagant, and on Plutarch‘s side that it‘s too drab, the wedding is a smash hit. The three hundred lucky guests culled from 13 and the many refugees
wear their everyday clothes, the decorations are made from autumn foliage, the music is provided by a choir of children accompanied by the lone fiddler who made it out of 12 with his instrument. So it‘s
simple, frugal by the Capitol‘s standards. It doesn‘t matter because nothing can compete with the beauty of the couple. It isn‘t about their borrowed finery—Annie wears a green silk dress I wore in 5,
Finnick one of Peeta‘s suits that they altered—although the clothes are striking. Who can look past the radiant faces of two people for whom this day was once a virtual impossibility? Dalton, the cattle guy
from 10, conducts the ceremony, since it‘s similar to the one used in his district. But there are unique touches of District 4. A net woven from long grass that covers the couple during their vows, the
touching of each other‘s lips with salt water, and the ancient wedding song, which likens marriage to a sea voyage.
No, I don‘t have to pretend to be happy for them.
After the kiss that seals the union, the cheers, and a toast with apple cider, the fiddler strikes up a tune that turns every head from 12. We may have been the smallest, poorest district in Panem, but we
know how to dance. Nothing has been officially scheduled at this point, but Plutarch, who‘s calling the propo from the control room, must have his fingers crossed. Sure enough, Greasy Sae grabs Gale by
the hand and pulls him into the center of the floor and faces off with him. People pour in to join them, forming two long lines. And the dancing begins.
I‘m standing off to the side, clapping to the rhythm, when a bony hand pinches me above the elbow. Johanna scowls at me. “Are you going to miss the chance to let Snow see you dancing?” She‘s
right. What could spell victory louder than a happy Mockingjay twirling around to music? I find Prim in the crowd. Since winter evenings gave us a lot of time to practice, we‘re actually pretty good partners. I
brush off her concerns about my ribs, and we take our places in the line. It hurts, but the satisfaction of having Snow watch me dance with my little sister reduces other feelings to dust.
Dancing transforms us. We teach the steps to the District 13 guests. Insist on a special number for the bride and groom. Join hands and make a giant, spinning circle where people show off their
footwork. Nothing silly, joyful, or fun has happened in so long. This could go on all night if not for the last event planned in Plutarch‘s propo. One I hadn‘t heard about, but then it was meant to be a surprise.
Four people wheel out a huge wedding cake from a side room. Most of the guests back up, making way for this rarity, this dazzling creation with blue-green, white-tipped icing waves swimming with
fish and sailboats, seals and sea flowers. But I push my way through the crowd to confirm what I knew at first sight. As surely as the embroidery stitches in Annie‘s gown were done by Cinna‘s hand, the
frosted flowers on the cake were done by Peeta‘s.
This may seem like a small thing, but it speaks volumes. Haymitch has been keeping a great deal from me. The boy I last saw, screaming his head off, trying to tear free of his restraints, could never
have made this. Never have had the focus, kept his hands steady, designed something so perfect for Finnick and Annie. As if anticipating my reaction, Haymitch is at my side.
“Let‘s you and me have a talk,” he says.
Out in the hall, away from the cameras, I ask, “What‘s happening to him?”
Haymitch shakes his head. “I don‘t know. None of us knows. Sometimes he‘s almost rational, and then, for no reason, he goes off again. Doing the cake was a kind of therapy. He‘s been working on it
for days. Watching him… he seemed almost like before.”
“So, he‘s got the run of the place?” I ask. The idea makes me nervous on about five different levels.
“Oh, no. He frosted under heavy guard. He‘s still under lock and key. But I‘ve talked to him,” Haymitch says.
“Face-to-face?” I ask. “And he didn‘t go nuts?”
“No. Pretty angry with me, but for all the right reasons. Not telling him about the rebel plot and whatnot.” Haymitch pauses a moment, as if deciding something. “He says he‘d like to see you.”
I‘m on a frosting sailboat, tossed around by blue-green waves, the deck shifting beneath my feet. My palms press into the wall to steady myself. This wasn‘t part of the plan. I wrote Peeta off in 2. Then I
was to go to the Capitol, kill Snow, and get taken out myself. The gunshot was only a temporary setback. Never was I supposed to hear the words He says he‘d like to see you. But now that I have, there‘s
no way to refuse.
At midnight, I‘m standing outside the door to his cell. Hospital room. We had to wait for Plutarch to finish getting his wedding footage, which, despite the lack of what he calls razzle-dazzle, he‘s
pleased with. “The best thing about the Capitol basically ignoring Twelve all these years is that you people still have a little spontaneity. The audience eats that up. Like when Peeta announced he was in
love with you or you did the trick with the berries. Makes for good television.”
I wish I could meet with Peeta privately. But the audience of doctors has assembled behind the one-way glass, clipboards ready, pens poised. When Haymitch gives me the okay in my earpiece, I
slowly open the door.
Those blue eyes lock on me instantly. He‘s got three restraints on each arm, and a tube that can dispense a knockout drug just in case he loses control. He doesn‘t fight to free himself, though, only
observes me with the wary look of someone who still hasn‘t ruled out that he‘s in the presence of a mutt. I walk over until I‘m standing about a yard from the bed. There‘s nothing to do with my hands, so I
cross my arms protectively over my ribs before I speak. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he responds. It‘s like his voice, almost his voice, except there‘s something new in it. An edge of suspicion and reproach.
“Haymitch said you wanted to talk to me,” I say.
“Look at you, for starters.” It‘s like he‘s waiting for me to transform into a hybrid drooling wolf right before his eyes. He stares so long I find myself casting furtive glances at the one-way glass, hoping for
some direction from Haymitch, but my earpiece stays silent. “You‘re not very big, are you? Or particularly pretty?”
I know he‘s been through hell and back, and yet somehow the observation rubs me the wrong way. “Well, you‘ve looked better.”
Haymitch‘s advice to back off gets muffled by Peeta‘s laughter. “And not even remotely nice. To say that to me after all I‘ve been through.”
“Yeah. We‘ve all been through a lot. And you‘re the one who was known for being nice. Not me.” I‘m doing everything wrong. I don‘t know why I feel so defensive. He‘s been tortured! He‘s been
hijacked! What‘s wrong with me? Suddenly, I think I might start screaming at him—I‘m not even sure about what—so I decide to get out of there. “Look, I don‘t feel so well. Maybe I‘ll drop by tomorrow.”
I‘ve just reached the door when his voice stops me. “Katniss. I remember about the bread.”
The bread. Our one moment of real connection before the Hunger Games.
“They showed you the tape of me talking about it,” I say.
“No. Is there a tape of you talking about it? Why didn‘t the Capitol use it against me?” he asks.
“I made it the day you were rescued,” I answer. The pain in my chest wraps around my ribs like a vise. The dancing was a mistake. “So what do you remember?”
“You. In the rain,” he says softly. “Digging in our trash bins. Burning the bread. My mother hitting me. Taking the bread out for the pig but then giving it to you instead.”
“That‘s it. That‘s what happened,” I say. “The next day, after school, I wanted to thank you. But I didn‘t know how.”
“We were outside at the end of the day. I tried to catch your eye. You looked away. And then… for some reason, I think you picked a dandelion.” I nod. He does remember. I have never spoken about
that moment aloud. “I must have loved you a lot.”
“You did.” My voice catches and I pretend to cough.
“And did you love me?” he asks.
I keep my eyes on the tiled floor. “Everyone says I did. Everyone says that‘s why Snow had you tortured. To break me.”
“That‘s not an answer,” he tells me. “I don‘t know what to think when they show me some of the tapes. In that first arena, it looked like you tried to kill me with those tracker jackers.”
“I was trying to kill all of you,” I say. “You had me treed.”
“Later, there‘s a lot of kissing. Didn‘t seem very genuine on your part. Did you like kissing me?” he asks.
“Sometimes,” I admit. “You know people are watching us now?”
“I know. What about Gale?” he continues.
My anger‘s returning. I don‘t care about his recovery—this isn‘t the business of the people behind the glass. “He‘s not a bad kisser either,” I say shortly.
“And it was okay with both of us? You kissing the other?” he asks.
“No. It wasn‘t okay with either of you. But I wasn‘t asking your permission,” I tell him.
Peeta laughs again, coldly, dismissively. “Well, you‘re a piece of work, aren‘t you?”
Haymitch doesn‘t protest when I walk out. Down the hall. Through the beehive of compartments. Find a warm pipe to hide behind in a laundry room. It takes a long time before I get to the bottom of why
I‘m so upset. When I do, it‘s almost too mortifying to admit. All those months of taking it for granted that Peeta thought I was wonderful are over. Finally, he can see me for who I really am. Violent.
Distrustful. Manipulative. Deadly.
And I hate him for it.

Mockingjay Chapter 15

2012-03-01T18:43:00.000-08:00

Mockingjay Part 2: The Assault

Chapter 15

The implications of what Gale is suggesting settle quietly around the room. You can see the reaction playing out on people‘s faces. The expressions range from pleasure to distress, from sorrow to
satisfaction.
“The majority of the workers are citizens from Two,” says Beetee neutrally.
“So what?” says Gale. “We‘ll never be able to trust them again.”
“They should at least have a chance to surrender,” says Lyme.
“Well, that‘s a luxury we weren‘t given when they fire-bombed Twelve, but you‘re all so much cozier with the Capitol here,” says Gale. By the look on Lyme‘s face, I think she might shoot him, or at least
take a swing. She‘d probably have the upper hand, too, with all her training. But her anger only seems to infuriate him and he yells, “We watched children burn to death and there was nothing we could do!”
I have to close my eyes a minute, as the image rips through me. It has the desired effect. I want everyone in that mountain dead. Am about to say so. But then… I‘m also a girl from District 12. Not
President Snow. I can‘t help it. I can‘t condemn someone to the death he‘s suggesting. “Gale,” I say, taking his arm and trying to speak in a reasonable tone. “The Nut‘s an old mine. It‘d be like causing a
massive coal mining accident.” Surely the words are enough to make anyone from 12 think twice about the plan.
“But not so quick as the one that killed our fathers,” he retorts. “Is that everyone‘s problem? That our enemies might have a few hours to reflect on the fact that they‘re dying, instead of just being blown
to bits?”
Back in the old days, when we were nothing more than a couple of kids hunting outside of 12, Gale said things like this and worse. But then they were just words. Here, put into practice, they become
deeds that can never be reversed.
“You don‘t know how those District Two people ended up in the Nut,” I say. “They may have been coerced. They may be held against their will. Some are our own spies. Will you kill them, too?”
“I would sacrifice a few, yes, to take out the rest of them,” he replies. “And if I were a spy in there, I‘d say, ’Bring on the avalanches!‘”
I know he‘s telling the truth. That Gale would sacrifice his life in this way for the cause—no one doubts it. Perhaps we‘d all do the same if we were the spies and given the choice. I guess I would. But
it‘s a coldhearted decision to make for other people and those who love them.
“You said we had two choices,” Boggs tells him. “To trap them or to flush them out. I say we try to avalanche the mountain but leave the train tunnel alone. People can escape into the square, where
we‘ll be waiting for them.”
“Heavily armed, I hope,” says Gale. “You can be sure they‘ll be.”
“Heavily armed. We‘ll take them prisoner,” agrees Boggs.
“Let‘s bring Thirteen into the loop now,” Beetee suggests. “Let President Coin weigh in.”
“She‘ll want to block the tunnel,” says Gale with conviction.
“Yes, most likely. But you know, Peeta did have a point in his propos. About the dangers of killing ourselves off. I‘ve been playing with some numbers. Factoring in the casualties and the wounded
and… I think it‘s at least worth a conversation,” says Beetee.
Only a handful of people are invited to be part of that conversation. Gale and I are released with the rest. I take him hunting so he can blow off some steam, but he‘s not talking about it. Probably too
angry with me for countering him.
The call does happen, a decision is made, and by evening I‘m suited up in my Mockingjay outfit, with my bow slung over my shoulder and an earpiece that connects me to Haymitch in 13—just in case
a good opportunity for a propo arises. We wait on the roof of the Justice Building with a clear view of our target.
Our hoverplanes are initially ignored by the commanders in the Nut, because in the past they‘ve been little more trouble than flies buzzing around a honeypot. But after two rounds of bombings in the
higher elevations of the mountain, the planes have their attention. By the time the Capitol‘s antiaircraft weapons begin to fire, it‘s already too late.
Gale‘s plan exceeds anyone‘s expectations. Beetee was right about being unable to control the avalanches once they‘d been set in motion. The mountainsides are naturally unstable, but weakened by
the explosions, they seem almost fluid. Whole sections of the Nut collapse before our eyes, obliterating any sign that human beings have ever set foot on the place. We stand speechless, tiny and
insignificant, as waves of stone thunder down the mountain. Burying the entrances under tons of rock. Raising a cloud of dirt and debris that blackens the sky. Turning the Nut into a tomb.
I imagine the hell inside the mountain. Sirens wailing. Lights flickering into darkness. Stone dust choking the air. The shrieks of panicked, trapped beings stumbling madly for a way out, only to find the
entrances, the launchpad, the ventilation shafts themselves clogged with earth and rock trying to force its way in. Live wires flung free, fires breaking out, rubble making a familiar path a maze. People
slamming, shoving, scrambling like ants as the hill presses in, threatening to crush their fragile shells.
“Katniss?” Haymitch‘s voice is in my earpiece. I try to answer back and find both of my hands are clamped tightly over my mouth. “Katniss!”
On the day my father died, the sirens went off during my school lunch. No one waited for dismissal, or was expected to. The response to a mine accident was something outside the control of even the
Capitol. I ran to Prim‘s class. I still remember her, tiny at seven, very pale, but sitting straight up with her hands folded on her desk. Waiting for me to collect her as I‘d promised I would if the sirens ever
sounded. She sprang out of her seat, grabbed my coat sleeve, and we wove through the streams of people pouring out onto the streets to pool at the main entrance of the mine. We found our mother
clenching the rope that had been hastily strung to keep the crowd back. In retrospect, I guess I should have known there was a problem right then. Because why were we looking for her, when the reverse
should have been true?
The elevators were screeching, burning up and down their cables as they vomited smoke-blackened miners into the light of day. With each group came cries of relief, relatives diving under the rope to
lead off their husbands, wives, children, parents, siblings. We stood in the freezing air as the afternoon turned overcast, a light snow dusted the earth. The elevators moved more slowly now and disgorged
fewer beings. I knelt on the ground and pressed my hands into the cinders, wanting so badly to pull my father free. If there‘s a more helpless feeling than trying to reach someone you love who‘s trapped
underground, I don‘t know it. The wounded. The bodies. The waiting through the night. Blankets put around your shoulders by strangers. A mug of something hot that you don‘t drink. And then finally, at
dawn, the grieved expression on the face of the mine captain that could only mean one thing.
What did we just do?
“Katniss! Are you there?” Haymitch is probably making plans to have me fitted for a head shackle at this very moment.
I drop my hands. “Yes.”
“Get inside. Just in case the Capitol tries to retaliate with what‘s left of its air force,” he instructs.
“Yes,” I repeat. Everyone on the roof, except for the soldiers manning the machine guns, begin to make their way inside. As I descend the stairs, I can‘t help brushing my fingers along the unblemished
white marble walls. So cold and beautiful. Even in the Capitol, there‘s nothing to match the magnificence of this old building. But there is no give to the surface—only my flesh yields, my warmth taken.
Stone conquers people every time.
I sit at the base of one of the gigantic pillars in the great entrance hall. Through the doors I can see the white expanse of marble that leads to the steps on the square. I remember how sick I was the day
Peeta and I accepted congratulations there for winning the Games. Worn down by the Victory Tour, failing in my attempt to calm the districts, facing the memories of Clove and Cato, particularly Cato‘s
gruesome, slow death by mutts.
Boggs crouches down beside me, his skin pale in the shadows. “We didn‘t bomb the train tunnel, you know. Some of them will probably get out.”
“And then we‘ll shoot them when they show their faces?” I ask.
“Only if we have to,” he answers.
“We could send in trains ourselves. Help evacuate the wounded,” I say.
“No. It was decided to leave the tunnel in their hands. That way they can use all the tracks to bring people out,” says Boggs. “Besides, it will give us time to get the rest of our soldiers to the square.”
A few hours ago, the square was a no-man‘s-land, the front line of the fight between the rebels and the Peacekeepers. When Coin gave approval for Gale‘s plan, the rebels launched a heated attack
and drove the Capitol forces back several blocks so that we would control the train station in the event that the Nut fell. Well, it‘s fallen. The reality has sunk in. Any survivors will escape to the square. I can
hear the gunfire starting again, as the Peacekeepers are no doubt trying to fight their way in to rescue their comrades. Our own soldiers are being brought in to counter this.
“You‘re cold,” says Boggs. “I‘ll see if I can find a blanket.” He goes before I can protest. I don‘t want a blanket, even if the marble continues to leech my body heat.
“Katniss,” says Haymitch in my ear.
“Still here,” I answer.
“Interesting turn of events with Peeta this afternoon. Thought you‘d want to know,” he says. Interesting isn‘t good. It isn‘t better. But I don‘t really have any choice but to listen. “We showed him that clip of
you singing ’The Hanging Tree.‘ It was never aired, so the Capitol couldn‘t use it when he was being hijacked. He says he recognized the song.”
For a moment, my heart skips a beat. Then I realize it‘s just more tracker jacker serum confusion. “He couldn‘t, Haymitch. He never heard me sing that song.”
“Not you. Your father. He heard him singing it one day when he came to trade at the bakery. Peeta was small, probably six or seven, but he remembered it because he was specially listening to see if
the birds stopped singing,” says Haymitch. “Guess they did.”
Six or seven. That would have been before my mother banned the song. Maybe even right around the time I was learning it. “Was I there, too?”
“Don‘t think so. No mention of you anyway. But it‘s the first connection to you that hasn‘t triggered some mental meltdown,” says Haymitch. “It‘s something, at least, Katniss.”
My father. He seems to be everywhere today. Dying in the mine. Singing his way into Peeta‘s muddled consciousness. Flickering in the look Boggs gives me as he protectively wraps the blanket
around my shoulders. I miss him so badly it hurts.
The gunfire‘s really picking up outside. Gale hurries by with a group of rebels, eagerly headed for the battle. I don‘t petition to join the fighters, not that they would let me. I have no stomach for it anyway,
no heat in my blood. I wish Peeta was here—the old Peeta—because he would be able to articulate why it is so wrong to be exchanging fire when people, any people, are trying to claw their way out of the
mountain. Or is my own history making me too sensitive? Aren‘t we at war? Isn‘t this just another way to kill our enemies?
Night falls quickly. Huge, bright spotlights are turned on, illuminating the square. Every bulb must be burning at full wattage inside the train station as well. Even from my position across the square, I
can see clearly through the plate-glass front of the long, narrow building. It would be impossible to miss the arrival of a train, or even a single person. But hours pass and no one comes. With each minute, it
becomes harder to imagine that anyone survived the assault on the Nut.
It‘s well after midnight when Cressida comes to attach a special microphone to my costume. “What‘s this for?” I ask.
Haymitch‘s voice comes on to explain. “I know you‘re not going to like this, but we need you to make a speech.”
“A speech?” I say, immediately feeling queasy.
“I‘ll feed it to you, line by line,” he assures me. “You‘ll just have to repeat what I say. Look, there‘s no sign of life from that mountain. We‘ve won, but the fighting‘s continuing. So we thought if you went
out on the steps of the Justice Building and laid it out—told everybody that the Nut‘s defeated, that the Capitol‘s presence in District Two is finished—you might be able to get the rest of their forces to
surrender.”
I peer at the darkness beyond the square. “I can‘t even see their forces.”
“That‘s what the mike‘s for,” he says. “You‘ll be broadcast, both your voice through their emergency audio system, and your image wherever people have access to a screen.”
I know there are a couple of huge screens here on the square. I saw them on the Victory Tour. It might work, if I were good at this sort of thing. Which I‘m not. They tried to feed me lines in those early
experiments with the propos, too, and it was a flop.
“You could save a lot of lives, Katniss,” Haymitch says finally.
“All right. I‘ll give it a try,” I tell him.
It‘s strange standing outside at the top of the stairs, fully costumed, brightly lit, but with no visible audience to deliver my speech to. Like I‘m doing a show for the moon.
“Let‘s make this quick,” says Haymitch. “You‘re too exposed.”
My television crew, positioned out in the square with special cameras, indicates that they‘re ready. I tell Haymitch to go ahead, then click on my mike and listen carefully to him dictate the first line of the
speech. A huge image of me lights up one of the screens over the square as I begin. “People of District Two, this is Katniss Everdeen speaking to you from the steps of your Justice Building, where—”
The pair of trains comes screeching into the train station side by side. As the doors slide open, people tumble out in a cloud of smoke they‘ve brought from the Nut. They must have had at least an
inkling of what would await them at the square, because you can see them trying to act evasively. Most of them flatten on the floor, and a spray of bullets inside the station takes out the lights. They‘ve come
armed, as Gale predicted, but they‘ve come wounded as well. The moans can be heard in the otherwise silent night air.
Someone kills the lights on the stairs, leaving me in the protection of shadow. A flame blooms inside the station—one of the trains must actually be on fire—and a thick, black smoke billows against
the windows. Left with no choice, the people begin to push out into the square, choking but defiantly waving their guns. My eyes dart around the rooftops that ring the square. Every one of them has been
fortified with rebel-manned machine gun nests. Moonlight glints off oiled barrels.
A young man staggers out from the station, one hand pressed against a bloody cloth at his cheek, the other dragging a gun. When he trips and falls to his face, I see the scorch marks down the back of
his shirt, the red flesh beneath. And suddenly, he‘s just another burn victim from a mine accident.
My feet fly down the steps and I take off running for him. “Stop!” I yell at the rebels. “Hold your fire!” The words echo around the square and beyond as the mike amplifies my voice. “Stop!” I‘m nearing
the young man, reaching down to help him, when he drags himself up to his knees and trains his gun on my head.
I instinctively back up a few steps, raise my bow over my head to show my intention was harmless. Now that he has both hands on his gun, I notice the ragged hole in his cheek where something—
falling stone maybe—punctured the flesh. He smells of burning things, hair and meat and fuel. His eyes are crazed with pain and fear.
“Freeze,” Haymitch‘s voice whispers in my ear. I follow his order, realizing that this is what all of District 2, all of Panem maybe, must be seeing at the moment. The Mockingjay at the mercy of a man
with nothing to lose.
His garbled speech is barely comprehensible. “Give me one reason I shouldn‘t shoot you.”
The rest of the world recedes. There‘s only me looking into the wretched eyes of the man from the Nut who asks for one reason. Surely I should be able to come up with thousands. But the words that
make it to my lips are “I can‘t.”
Logically, the next thing that should happen is the man pulling the trigger. But he‘s perplexed, trying to make sense of my words. I experience my own confusion as I realize what I‘ve said is entirely true,
and the noble impulse that carried me across the square is replaced by despair. “I can‘t. That‘s the problem, isn‘t it?” I lower my bow. “We blew up your mine. You burned my district to the ground. We‘ve
got every reason to kill each other. So do it. Make the Capitol happy. I‘m done killing their slaves for them.” I drop my bow on the ground and give it a nudge with my boot. It slides across the stone and
comes to rest at his knees.
“I‘m not their slave,” the man mutters.
“I am,” I say. “That‘s why I killed Cato… and he killed Thresh… and he killed Clove… and she tried to kill me. It just goes around and around, and who wins? Not us. Not the districts. Always the Capitol.
But I‘m tired of being a piece in their Games.”
Peeta. On the rooftop the night before our first Hunger Games. He understood it all before we‘d even set foot in the arena. I hope he‘s watching now, that he remembers that night as it happened, and maybe forgives me when I die.
“Keep talking. Tell them about watching the mountain go down,” Haymitch insists.
“When I saw that mountain fall tonight, I thought… they‘ve done it again. Got me to kill you—the people in the districts. But why did I do it? District Twelve and District Two have no fight except the one
the Capitol gave us.” The young man blinks at me uncomprehendingly. I sink on my knees before him, my voice low and urgent. “And why are you fighting with the rebels on the rooftops? With Lyme, who
was your victor? With people who were your neighbors, maybe even your family?”
“I don‘t know,” says the man. But he doesn‘t take his gun off me.
I rise and turn slowly in a circle, addressing the machine guns. “And you up there? I come from a mining town. Since when do miners condemn other miners to that kind of death, and then stand by to
kill whoever manages to crawl from the rubble?”
“Who is the enemy?” whispers Haymitch.
“These people”—I indicate the wounded bodies on the square—“are not your enemy!” I whip back around to the train station. “The rebels are not your enemy! We all have one enemy, and it‘s the
Capitol! This is our chance to put an end to their power, but we need every district person to do it!”
The cameras are tight on me as I reach out my hands to the man, to the wounded, to the reluctant rebels across Panem. “Please! Join us!”
My words hang in the air. I look to the screen, hoping to see them recording some wave of reconciliation going through the crowd.
Instead I watch myself get shot on television.

Mockingjay Chapter 14

2012-03-01T18:40:00.002-08:00

Mockingjay Part 2: The Assault

Chapter 14

District 2 is a large district, as one might expect, composed of a series of villages spread across the mountains. Each was originally associated with a mine or quarry, although now, many are devoted to
the housing and training of Peacekeepers. None of this would present much of a challenge, since the rebels have 13‘s airpower on their side, except for one thing: At the center of the district is a virtually
impenetrable mountain that houses the heart of the Capitol‘s military.
We‘ve nicknamed the mountain the Nut since I relayed Plutarch‘s “tough nut to crack” comment to the weary and discouraged rebel leaders here. The Nut was established directly after the Dark Days,
when the Capitol had lost 13 and was desperate for a new underground stronghold. They had some of their military resources situated on the outskirts of the Capitol itself—nuclear missiles, aircraft, troops
—but a significant chunk of their power was now under an enemy‘s control. Of course, there was no way they could hope to replicate 13, which was the work of centuries. However, in the old mines of
nearby District 2, they saw opportunity. From the air, the Nut appeared to be just another mountain with a few entrances on its faces. But inside were vast cavernous spaces where slabs of stones had
been cut, hauled to the surface, and transported down slippery narrow roads to make distant buildings. There was even a train system to facilitate transporting the miners from the Nut to the very center of
the main town in District 2. It ran right to the square that Peeta and I visited during the Victory Tour, standing on the wide marble steps of the Justice Building, trying not to look too closely at Cato‘s and
Clove‘s grieving families assembled below us.
It was not the most ideal terrain, plagued as it was by mudslides, floods, and avalanches. But the advantages outweighed the concerns. As they‘d cut deep into the mountain, the miners had left large
pillars and walls of stone to support the infrastructure. The Capitol reinforced these and set about making the mountain their new military base. Filling it with computer banks and meeting rooms, barracks
and arsenals. Widening entrances to allow the exit of hovercraft from the hangar, installing missile launchers. But on the whole, leaving the exterior of the mountain largely unchanged. A rough, rocky tangle
of trees and wildlife. A natural fortress to protect them from their enemies.
By the other districts‘ standards, the Capitol babied the inhabitants here. Just by looking at the District 2 rebels, you can tell they were decently fed and cared for in childhood. Some did end up as
quarry and mine workers. Others were educated for jobs in the Nut or funneled into the ranks of Peacekeepers. Trained young and hard for combat. The Hunger Games were an opportunity for wealth and
a kind of glory not seen elsewhere. Of course, the people of 2 swallowed the Capitol‘s propaganda more easily than the rest of us. Embraced their ways. But for all that, at the end of the day, they were still
slaves. And if that was lost on the citizens who became Peacekeepers or worked in the Nut, it was not lost on the stonecutters who formed the backbone of the resistance here.
Things stand as they did when I arrived two weeks ago. The outer villages are in rebel hands, the town divided, and the Nut is as untouchable as ever. Its few entrances heavily fortified, its heart safely
enfolded in the mountain. While every other district has now wrested control from the Capitol, 2 remains in its pocket.
Each day, I do whatever I can to help. Visit the wounded. Tape short propos with my camera crew. I‘m not allowed in actual combat, but they invite me to the meetings on the status of the war, which is
a lot more than they did in 13. It‘s much better here. Freer, no schedules on my arm, fewer demands on my time. I live aboveground in the rebel villages or surrounding caves. For safety‘s sake, I‘m
relocated often. During the day, I‘ve been given clearance to hunt as long as I take a guard along and don‘t stray too far. In the thin, cold mountain air, I feel some physical strength returning, my mind
clearing away the rest of the fogginess. But with this mental clarity comes an even sharper awareness of what has been done to Peeta.
Snow has stolen him from me, twisted him beyond recognition, and made me a present of him. Boggs, who came to 2 when I did, told me that even with all the plotting, it was a little too easy to rescue
Peeta. He believes if 13 hadn‘t made the effort, Peeta would‘ve been delivered to me anyway. Dropped off in an actively warring district or perhaps 13 itself. Tied up with ribbons and tagged with my
name. Programmed to murder me.
It‘s only now that he‘s been corrupted that I can fully appreciate the real Peeta. Even more than I would‘ve if he‘d died. The kindness, the steadiness, the warmth that had an unexpected heat behind it.
Outside of Prim, my mother, and Gale, how many people in the world love me unconditionally? I think in my case, the answer may now be none. Sometimes when I‘m alone, I take the pearl from where it
lives in my pocket and try to remember the boy with the bread, the strong arms that warded off nightmares on the train, the kisses in the arena. To make myself put a name to the thing I‘ve lost. But what‘s
the use? It‘s gone. He‘s gone. Whatever existed between us is gone. All that‘s left is my promise to kill Snow. I tell myself this ten times a day.
Back in 13, Peeta‘s rehabilitation continues. Even though I don‘t ask, Plutarch gives me cheerful updates on the phone like “Good news, Katniss! I think we‘ve almost got him convinced you‘re not a
mutt!” Or “Today he was allowed to feed himself pudding!”
When Haymitch gets on after, he admits Peeta‘s no better. The only dubious ray of hope has come from my sister. “Prim came up with the idea of trying to hijack him back,” Haymitch tells me. “Bring
up the distorted memories of you and then give him a big dose of a calming drug, like morphling. We‘ve only tried it on one memory. The tape of the two of you in the cave, when you told him that story
about getting Prim the goat.”
“Any improvement?” I ask.
“Well, if extreme confusion is an improvement over extreme terror, then yes,” says Haymitch. “But I‘m not sure it is. He lost the ability to speak for several hours. Went into some sort of stupor. When he
came out, the only thing he asked about was the goat.”
“Right,” I say.
“How‘s it out there?” he asks.
“No forward motion,” I tell him.
“We‘re sending out a team to help with the mountain. Beetee and some of the others,” he says. “You know, the brains.”
When the brains are selected, I‘m not surprised to see Gale‘s name on the list. I thought Beetee would bring him, not for his technological expertise, but in the hopes that he could somehow think of a
way to ensnare a mountain. Originally, Gale offered to come with me to 2, but I could see I was tearing him away from his work with Beetee. I told him to sit tight and stay where he was most needed. I
didn‘t tell him his presence would make it even more difficult for me to mourn Peeta.
Gale finds me when they arrive late one afternoon. I‘m sitting on a log at the edge of my current village, plucking a goose. A dozen or so of the birds are piled at my feet. Great flocks of them have been
migrating through here since I‘ve arrived, and the pickings are easy. Without a word, Gale settles beside me and begins to relieve a bird of its feathers. We‘re through about half when he says, “Any
chance we‘ll get to eat these?”
“Yeah. Most go to the camp kitchen, but they expect me to give a couple to whoever I‘m staying with tonight,” I say. “For keeping me.”
“Isn‘t the honor of the thing enough?” he says.
“You‘d think,” I reply. “But word‘s gotten out that mockingjays are hazardous to your health.”
We pluck in silence for a while longer. Then he says, “I saw Peeta yesterday. Through the glass.”
“What‘d you think?” I ask.
“Something selfish,” says Gale.
“That you don‘t have to be jealous of him anymore?” My fingers give a yank, and a cloud of feathers floats down around us.
“No. Just the opposite.” Gale pulls a feather out of my hair. “I thought… I‘ll never compete with that. No matter how much pain I‘m in.” He spins the feather between his thumb and forefinger. “I don‘t
stand a chance if he doesn‘t get better. You‘ll never be able to let him go. You‘ll always feel wrong about being with me.”
“The way I always felt wrong kissing him because of you,” I say.
Gale holds my gaze. “If I thought that was true, I could almost live with the rest of it.”
“It is true,” I admit. “But so is what you said about Peeta.”
Gale makes a sound of exasperation. Nonetheless, after we‘ve dropped off the birds and volunteered to go back to the woods to gather kindling for the evening fire, I find myself wrapped in his arms.
His lips brushing the faded bruises on my neck, working their way to my mouth. Despite what I feel for Peeta, this is when I accept deep down that he‘ll never come back to me. Or I‘ll never go back to him.
I‘ll stay in 2 until it falls, go to the Capitol and kill Snow, and then die for my trouble. And he‘ll die insane and hating me. So in the fading light I shut my eyes and kiss Gale to make up for all the kisses I‘ve
withheld, and because it doesn‘t matter anymore, and because I‘m so desperately lonely I can‘t stand it.
Gale‘s touch and taste and heat remind me that at least my body‘s still alive, and for the moment it‘s a welcome feeling. I empty my mind and let the sensations run through my flesh, happy to lose
myself. When Gale pulls away slightly, I move forward to close the gap, but I feel his hand under my chin. “Katniss,” he says. The instant I open my eyes, the world seems disjointed. This is not our woods or
our mountains or our way. My hand automatically goes to the scar on my left temple, which I associate with confusion. “Now kiss me.” Bewildered, unblinking, I stand there while he leans in and presses his
lips to mine briefly. He examines my face closely. “What‘s going on in your head?”
“I don‘t know,” I whisper back.
“Then it‘s like kissing someone who‘s drunk. It doesn‘t count,” he says with a weak attempt at a laugh. He scoops up a pile of kindling and drops it in my empty arms, returning me to myself.
“How do you know?” I say, mostly to cover my embarrassment. “Have you kissed someone who‘s drunk?” I guess Gale could‘ve been kissing girls right and left back in 12. He certainly had enough
takers. I never thought about it much before.
He just shakes his head. “No. But it‘s not hard to imagine.”
“So, you never kissed any other girls?” I ask.
“I didn‘t say that. You know, you were only twelve when we met. And a real pain besides. I did have a life outside of hunting with you,” he says, loading up with firewood.
Suddenly, I‘m genuinely curious. “Who did you kiss? And where?”
“Too many to remember. Behind the school, on the slag heap, you name it,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “So when did I become so special? When they carted me off to the Capitol?”
“No. About six months before that. Right after New Year‘s. We were in the Hob, eating some slop of Greasy Sae‘s. And Darius was teasing you about trading a rabbit for one of his kisses. And I
realized… I minded,” he tells me.
I remember that day. Bitter cold and dark by four in the afternoon. We‘d been hunting, but a heavy snow had driven us back into town. The Hob was crowded with people looking for refuge from the
weather. Greasy Sae‘s soup, made with stock from the bones of a wild dog we‘d shot a week earlier, was below her usual standards. Still, it was hot, and I was starving as I scooped it up, sitting crosslegged
on her counter. Darius was leaning on the post of the stall, tickling my cheek with the end of my braid, while I smacked his hand away. He was explaining why one of his kisses merited a rabbit, or possibly two, since everyone knows redheaded men are the most virile. And Greasy Sae and I were laughing because he was so ridiculous and persistent and kept pointing out women around the Hob
who he said had paid far more than a rabbit to enjoy his lips. “See? The one in the green muffler? Go ahead and ask her. If you need a reference.”
A million miles from here, a billion days ago, this happened. “Darius was just joking around,” I say.
“Probably. Although you‘d be the last to figure out if he wasn‘t,” Gale tells me. “Take Peeta. Take me. Or even Finnick. I was starting to worry he had his eye on you, but he seems back on track now.”
“You don‘t know Finnick if you think he‘d love me,” I say.
Gale shrugs. “I know he was desperate. That makes people do all kinds of crazy things.”
I can‘t help thinking that‘s directed at me.
Bright and early the next morning, the brains assemble to take on the problem of the Nut. I‘m asked to the meeting, although I don‘t have much to contribute. I avoid the conference table and perch in
the wide windowsill that has a view of the mountain in question. The commander from 2, a middle-aged woman named Lyme, takes us on a virtual tour of the Nut, its interior and fortifications, and recounts
the failed attempts to seize it. I‘ve crossed paths with her briefly a couple of times since my arrival, and was dogged by the feeling I‘d met her before. She‘s memorable enough, standing over six feet tall
and heavily muscled. But it‘s only when I see a clip of her in the field, leading a raid on the main entrance of the Nut, that something clicks and I realize I‘m in the presence of another victor. Lyme, the tribute
from District 2, who won her Hunger Games over a generation ago. Effie sent us her tape, among others, to prepare for the Quarter Quell. I‘ve probably caught glimpses of her during the Games over the
years, but she‘s kept a low profile. With my newfound knowledge of Haymitch‘s and Finnick‘s treatment, all I can think is: What did the Capitol do to her after she won?
When Lyme finishes the presentation, the questions from the brains begin. Hours pass, and lunch comes and goes, as they try to come up with a realistic plan for taking the Nut. But while Beetee
thinks he might be able to override certain computer systems, and there‘s some discussion of putting the handful of internal spies to use, no one has any really innovative thoughts. As the afternoon wears
on, talk keeps returning to a strategy that has been tried repeatedly—the storming of the entrances. I can see Lyme‘s frustration building because so many variations of this plan have already failed, so
many of her soldiers have been lost. Finally, she bursts out, “The next person who suggests we take the entrances better have a brilliant way to do it, because you‘re going to be the one leading that
mission!”
Gale, who is too restless to sit at the table for more than a few hours, has been alternating between pacing and sharing my windowsill. Early on, he seemed to accept Lyme‘s assertion that the
entrances couldn‘t be taken, and dropped out of the conversation entirely. For the last hour or so, he‘s sat quietly, his brow knitted in concentration, staring at the Nut through the window glass. In the
silence that follows Lyme‘s ultimatum, he speaks up. “Is it really so necessary that we take the Nut? Or would it be enough to disable it?”
“That would be a step in the right direction,” says Beetee. “What do you have in mind?”
“Think of it as a wild dog den,” Gale continues. “You‘re not going to fight your way in. So you have two choices. Trap the dogs inside or flush them out.”
“We‘ve tried bombing the entrances,” says Lyme. “They‘re set too far inside the stone for any real damage to be done.”
“I wasn‘t thinking of that,” says Gale. “I was thinking of using the mountain.” Beetee rises and joins Gale at the window, peering through his ill-fitting glasses. “See? Running down the sides?”
“Avalanche paths,” says Beetee under his breath. “It‘d be tricky. We‘d have to design the detonation sequence with great care, and once it‘s in motion, we couldn‘t hope to control it.”
“We don‘t need to control it if we give up the idea that we have to possess the Nut,” says Gale. “Only shut it down.”
“So you‘re suggesting we start avalanches and block the entrances?” asks Lyme.
“That‘s it,” says Gale. “Trap the enemy inside, cut off from supplies. Make it impossible for them to send out their hovercraft.”
While everyone considers the plan, Boggs flips through a stack of blueprints of the Nut and frowns. “You risk killing everyone inside. Look at the ventilation system. It‘s rudimentary at best. Nothing like
what we have in Thirteen. It depends entirely on pumping in air from the mountainsides. Block those vents and you‘ll suffocate whoever is trapped.”
“They could still escape through the train tunnel to the square,” says Beetee.
“Not if we blow it up,” says Gale brusquely. His intent, his full intent, becomes clear. Gale has no interest in preserving the lives of those in the Nut. No interest in caging the prey for later use.
This is one of his death traps.

Mockingjay Chapter 13

2012-03-01T18:39:00.000-08:00

Mockingjay Part 2: The Assault

Chapter 13

The cold collar chafes my neck and makes the shivering even harder to control. At least I am no longer in the claustrophobic tube, while the machines click and whir around me, listening to a disembodied
voice telling me to hold still while I try to convince myself I can still breathe. Even now, when I‘ve been assured there will be no permanent damage, I hunger for air.
The medical team‘s main concerns—damage to my spinal cord, airway, veins, and arteries—have been allayed. Bruising, hoarseness, the sore larynx, this strange little cough—not to be worried
about. It will all be fine. The Mockingjay will not lose her voice. Where, I want to ask, is the doctor who determines if I am losing my mind? Only I‘m not supposed to talk right now. I can‘t even thank Boggs
when he comes to check on me. To look me over and tell me he‘s seen a lot worse injuries among the soldiers when they teach choke holds in training.
It was Boggs who knocked out Peeta with one blow before any permanent damage could be done. I know Haymitch would have come to my defense if he hadn‘t been utterly unprepared. To catch both
Haymitch and myself off guard is a rare thing. But we have been so consumed with saving Peeta, so tortured by having him in the Capitol‘s hands, that the elation at having him back blinded us. If I‘d had a
private reunion with Peeta, he would have killed me. Now that he‘s deranged.
No, not deranged, I remind myself. Hijacked. That‘s the word I heard pass between Plutarch and Haymitch as I was wheeled past them in the hallway. Hijacked. I don‘t know what it means.
Prim, who appeared moments after the attack and has stayed as close to me as possible ever since, spreads another blanket over me. “I think they‘ll take the collar off soon, Katniss. You won‘t be so
cold then.” My mother, who‘s been assisting in a complicated surgery, has still not been informed of Peeta‘s assault. Prim takes one of my hands, which is clutched in a fist, and massages it until it opens
and blood begins to flow through my fingers again. She‘s starting on the second fist when the doctors show up, remove the collar, and give me a shot of something for pain and swelling. I lie, as instructed,
with my head still, not aggravating the injuries to my neck.
Plutarch, Haymitch, and Beetee have been waiting in the hall for the doctors to give them clearance to see me. I don‘t know if they‘ve told Gale, but since he‘s not here, I assume they haven‘t. Plutarch
ushers the doctors out and tries to order Prim to go as well, but she says, “No. If you force me to leave, I‘ll go directly to surgery and tell my mother everything that‘s happened. And I warn you, she doesn‘t
think much of a Gamemaker calling the shots on Katniss‘s life. Especially when you‘ve taken such poor care of her.”
Plutarch looks offended, but Haymitch chuckles. “I‘d let it go, Plutarch,” he says. Prim stays.
“So, Katniss, Peeta‘s condition has come as a shock to all of us,” says Plutarch. “We couldn‘t help but notice his deterioration in the last two interviews. Obviously, he‘d been abused, and we put his
psychological state down to that. Now we believe something more was going on. That the Capitol has been subjecting him to a rather uncommon technique known as hijacking. Beetee?”
“I‘m sorry,” Beetee says, “but I can‘t tell you all the specifics of it, Katniss. The Capitol‘s very secretive about this form of torture, and I believe the results are inconsistent. This we do know. It‘s a type of
fear conditioning. The term hijack comes from an old English word that means ’to capture,‘ or even better, ’seize.‘ We believe it was chosen because the technique involves the use of tracker jacker
venom, and the jack suggested hijack. You were stung in your first Hunger Games, so unlike most of us, you have firsthand knowledge of the effects of the venom.”
Terror. Hallucinations. Nightmarish visions of losing those I love. Because the venom targets the part of the brain that houses fear.
“I‘m sure you remember how frightening it was. Did you also suffer mental confusion in the aftermath?” asks Beetee. “A sense of being unable to judge what was true and what was false? Most people
who have been stung and lived to tell about it report something of the kind.”
Yes. That encounter with Peeta. Even after I was clearheaded, I wasn‘t sure if he had saved my life by taking on Cato or if I‘d imagined it.
“Recall is made more difficult because memories can be changed.” Beetee taps his forehead. “Brought to the forefront of your mind, altered, and saved again in the revised form. Now imagine that I
ask you to remember something—either with a verbal suggestion or by making you watch a tape of the event—and while that experience is refreshed, I give you a dose of tracker jacker venom. Not
enough to induce a three-day blackout. Just enough to infuse the memory with fear and doubt. And that‘s what your brain puts in long-term storage.”
I start to feel sick. Prim asks the question that‘s in my mind. “Is that what they‘ve done to Peeta? Taken his memories of Katniss and distorted them so they‘re scary?”
Beetee nods. “So scary that he‘d see her as life-threatening. That he might try to kill her. Yes, that‘s our current theory.”
I cover my face with my arms because this isn‘t happening. It isn‘t possible. For someone to make Peeta forget he loves me… no one could do that.
“But you can reverse it, right?” asks Prim.
“Um… very little data on that,” says Plutarch. “None, really. If hijacking rehabilitation has been attempted before, we have no access to those records.”
“Well, you‘re going to try, aren‘t you?” Prim persists. “You‘re not just going to lock him up in some padded room and leave him to suffer?”
“Of course, we‘ll try, Prim,” says Beetee. “It‘s just, we don‘t know to what degree we‘ll succeed. If any. My guess is that fearful events are the hardest to root out. They‘re the ones we naturally remember
the best, after all.”
“And apart from his memories of Katniss, we don‘t yet know what else has been tampered with,” says Plutarch. “We‘re putting together a team of mental health and military professionals to come up
with a counterattack. I, personally, feel optimistic that he‘ll make a full recovery.”
“Do you?” asks Prim caustically. “And what do you think, Haymitch?”
I shift my arms slightly so I can see his expression through the crack. He‘s exhausted and discouraged as he admits, “I think Peeta might get somewhat better. But… I don‘t think he‘ll ever be the
same.” I snap my arms back together, closing the crack, shutting them all out.
“At least he‘s alive,” says Plutarch, as if he‘s losing patience with the lot of us. “Snow executed Peeta‘s stylist and his prep team on live television tonight. We‘ve no idea what happened to Effie
Trinket. Peeta‘s damaged, but he‘s here. With us. And that‘s a definite improvement over his situation twelve hours ago. Let‘s keep that in mind, all right?”
Plutarch‘s attempt to cheer me up—laced with the news of another four, possibly five, murders—somehow backfires. Portia. Peeta‘s prep team. Effie. The effort to fight back tears makes my throat
throb until I‘m gasping again. Eventually, they have no choice but to sedate me.
When I wake, I wonder if this will be the only way I sleep now, with drugs shot into my arm. I‘m glad I‘m not supposed to talk for the next few days, because there‘s nothing I want to say. Or do. In fact, I‘m
a model patient, my lethargy taken for restraint, obedience to the doctors‘ orders. I no longer feel like crying. In fact, I can only manage to hold on to one simple thought: an image of Snow‘s face
accompanied by the whisper in my head. I will kill you.
My mother and Prim take turns nursing me, coaxing me to swallow bites of soft food. People come in periodically to give me updates on Peeta‘s condition. The high levels of tracker jacker venom are
working their way out of his body. He‘s being treated only by strangers, natives of 13—no one from home or the Capitol has been allowed to see him—to keep any dangerous memories from triggering. A
team of specialists works long hours designing a strategy for his recovery.
Gale‘s not supposed to visit me, as he‘s confined to bed with some kind of shoulder wound. But on the third night, after I‘ve been medicated and the lights turned down low for bedtime, he slips silently
into my room. He doesn‘t speak, just runs his fingers over the bruises on my neck with a touch as light as moth wings, plants a kiss between my eyes, and disappears.
The next morning, I‘m discharged from the hospital with instructions to move quietly and speak only when necessary. I‘m not imprinted with a schedule, so I wander around aimlessly until Prim‘s
excused from her hospital duties to take me to our family‘s latest compartment. 2212. Identical to the last one, but with no window.
Buttercup has now been issued a daily food allowance and a pan of sand that‘s kept under the bathroom sink. As Prim tucks me into bed, he hops up on my pillow, vying for her attention. She cradles
him but stays focused on me. “Katniss, I know this whole thing with Peeta is terrible for you. But remember, Snow worked on him for weeks, and we‘ve only had him for a few days. There‘s a chance that
the old Peeta, the one who loves you, is still inside. Trying to get back to you. Don‘t give up on him.”
I look at my little sister and think how she has inherited the best qualities our family has to offer: my mother‘s healing hands, my father‘s level head, and my fight. There‘s something else there as well,
something entirely her own. An ability to look into the confusing mess of life and see things for what they are. Is it possible she could be right? That Peeta could return to me?
“I have to get back to the hospital,” Prim says, placing Buttercup on the bed beside me. “You two keep each other company, okay?”
Buttercup springs off the bed and follows her to the door, complaining loudly when he‘s left behind. We‘re about as much company for each other as dirt. After maybe thirty seconds, I know I can‘t stand
being confined in the subterranean cell, and leave Buttercup to his own devices. I get lost several times, but eventually I make my way down to Special Defense. Everyone I pass stares at the bruises, and I
can‘t help feeling self-conscious to the point that I tug my collar up to my ears.
Gale must have been released from the hospital this morning as well, because I find him in one of the research rooms with Beetee. They‘re immersed, heads bent over a drawing, taking a
measurement. Versions of the picture litter the table and floor. Tacked on the corkboard walls and occupying several computer screens are other designs of some sort. In the rough lines of one, I recognize
Gale‘s twitch-up snare. “What are these?” I ask hoarsely, pulling their attention from the sheet.
“Ah, Katniss, you‘ve found us out,” says Beetee cheerfully.
“What? Is this a secret?” I know Gale‘s been down here working with Beetee a lot, but I assumed they were messing around with bows and guns.
“Not really. But I‘ve felt a little guilty about it. Stealing Gale away from you so much,” Beetee admits.
Since I‘ve spent most of my time in 13 disoriented, worried, angry, being remade, or hospitalized, I can‘t say Gale‘s absences have inconvenienced me. Things haven‘t been exactly harmonious
between us, either. But I let Beetee think he owes me. “I hope you‘ve been putting his time to good use.”
“Come and see,” he says, waving me over to a computer screen.
This is what they‘ve been doing. Taking the fundamental ideas behind Gale‘s traps and adapting them into weapons against humans. Bombs mostly. It‘s less about the mechanics of the traps than the
psychology behind them. Booby-trapping an area that provides something essential to survival. A water or food supply. Frightening prey so that a large number flee into a greater destruction. Endangering
off-spring in order to draw in the actual desired target, the parent. Luring the victim into what appears to be a safe haven—where death awaits it. At some point, Gale and Beetee left the wilderness behind
and focused on more human impulses. Like compassion. A bomb explodes. Time is allowed for people to rush to the aid of the wounded. Then a second, more powerful bomb kills them as well.
“That seems to be crossing some kind of line,” I say. “So anything goes?” They both stare at me—Beetee with doubt, Gale with hostility. “I guess there isn‘t a rule book for what might be unacceptable
to do to another human being.”
“Sure there is. Beetee and I have been following the same rule book President Snow used when he hijacked Peeta,” says Gale.
Cruel, but to the point. I leave without further comment. I feel if I don‘t get outside immediately, I‘ll just go ballistic, but I‘m still in Special Defense when I‘m waylaid by Haymitch. “Come on,” he says. “We
need you back up at the hospital.”
“What for?” I ask.
“They‘re going to try something on Peeta,” he answers. “Send in the most innocuous person from Twelve they can come up with. Find someone Peeta might share childhood memories with, but
nothing too close to you. They‘re screening people now.”
I know this will be a difficult task, since anyone Peeta shares childhood memories with would most likely be from town, and almost none of those people escaped the flames. But when we reach the
hospital room that has been turned into a work space for Peeta‘s recovery team, there she sits chatting with Plutarch. Delly Cartwright. As always, she gives me a smile that suggests I‘m her best friend in
the world. She gives this smile to everyone. “Katniss!” she calls out.
“Hey, Delly,” I say. I‘d heard she and her younger brother had survived. Her parents, who ran the shoe shop in town, weren‘t as lucky. She looks older, wearing the drab 13 clothes that flatter no one,
with her long yellow hair in a practical braid instead of curls. Delly‘s a bit thinner than I remember, but she was one of the few kids in District 12 with a couple of pounds to spare. The diet here, the stress,
the grief of losing her parents have all, no doubt, contributed. “How are you doing?” I ask.
“Oh, it‘s been a lot of changes all at once.” Her eyes fill with tears. “But everyone‘s really nice here in Thirteen, don‘t you think?”
Delly means it. She genuinely likes people. All people, not just a select few she‘s spent years making up her mind about.
“They‘ve made an effort to make us feel welcome,” I say. I think that‘s a fair statement without going overboard. “Are you the one they‘ve picked to see Peeta?”
“I guess so. Poor Peeta. Poor you. I‘ll never understand the Capitol,” she says.
“Better not to, maybe,” I tell her.
“Delly‘s known Peeta for a long time,” says Plutarch.
“Oh, yes!” Delly‘s face brightens. “We played together from when we were little. I used to tell people he was my brother.”
“What do you think?” Haymitch asks me. “Anything that might trigger memories of you?”
“We were all in the same class. But we never overlapped much,” I say.
“Katniss was always so amazing, I never dreamed she would notice me,” says Delly. “The way she could hunt and go in the Hob and everything. Everyone admired her so.”
Haymitch and I both have to take a hard look at her face to double-check if she‘s joking. To hear Delly describe it, I had next to no friends because I intimidated people by being so exceptional. Not
true. I had next to no friends because I wasn‘t friendly. Leave it to Delly to spin me into something wonderful.
“Delly always thinks the best of everyone,” I explain. “I don‘t think Peeta could have bad memories associated with her.” Then I remember. “Wait. In the Capitol. When I lied about recognizing the Avox
girl. Peeta covered for me and said she looked like Delly.”
“I remember,” says Haymitch. “But I don‘t know. It wasn‘t true. Delly wasn‘t actually there. I don‘t think it can compete with years of childhood memories.”
“Especially with such a pleasant companion as Delly,” says Plutarch. “Let‘s give it a shot.”
Plutarch, Haymitch, and I go to the observation room next to where Peeta‘s confined. It‘s crowded with ten members of his recovery team armed with pens and clipboards. The one-way glass and
audio setup allow us to watch Peeta secretly. He lies on the bed, his arms strapped down. He doesn‘t fight the restraints, but his hands fidget continuously. His expression seems more lucid than when he
tried to strangle me, but it‘s still not one that belongs to him.
When the door quietly opens, his eyes widen in alarm, then become confused. Delly crosses the room tentatively, but as she nears him she naturally breaks into a smile. “Peeta? It‘s Delly. From
home.”
“Delly?” Some of the clouds seem to clear. “Delly. It‘s you.”
“Yes!” she says with obvious relief. “How do you feel?”
“Awful. Where are we? What‘s happened?” asks Peeta.
“Here we go,” says Haymitch.
“I told her to steer clear of any mention of Katniss or the Capitol,” says Plutarch. “Just see how much of home she could conjure up.”
“Well… we‘re in District Thirteen. We live here now,” says Delly.
“That‘s what those people have been saying. But it makes no sense. Why aren‘t we home?” asks Peeta.
Delly bites her lip. “There was… an accident. I miss home badly, too. I was only just thinking about those chalk drawings we used to do on the paving stones. Yours were so wonderful. Remember
when you made each one a different animal?”
“Yeah. Pigs and cats and things,” says Peeta. “You said… about an accident?”
I can see the sheen of sweat on Delly‘s forehead as she tries to work around the question. “It was bad. No one… could stay,” she says haltingly.
“Hang in there, girl,” says Haymitch.
“But I know you‘re going to like it here, Peeta. The people have been really nice to us. There‘s always food and clean clothes, and school‘s much more interesting,” says Delly.
“Why hasn‘t my family come to see me?” Peeta asks.
“They can‘t.” Delly‘s tearing up again. “A lot of people didn‘t get out of Twelve. So we‘ll need to make a new life here. I‘m sure they could use a good baker. Do you remember when your father used to
let us make dough girls and boys?”
“There was a fire,” Peeta says suddenly.
“Yes,” she whispers.
“Twelve burned down, didn‘t it? Because of her,” says Peeta angrily. “Because of Katniss!” He begins to pull on the restraints.
“Oh, no, Peeta. It wasn‘t her fault,” says Delly.
“Did she tell you that?” he hisses at her.
“Get her out of there,” says Plutarch. The door opens immediately and Delly begins to back toward it slowly.
“She didn‘t have to. I was—” Delly begins.
“Because she‘s lying! She‘s a liar! You can‘t believe anything she says! She‘s some kind of mutt the Capitol created to use against the rest of us!” Peeta shouts.
“No, Peeta. She‘s not a—” Delly tries again.
“Don‘t trust her, Delly,” says Peeta in a frantic voice. “I did, and she tried to kill me. She killed my friends. My family. Don‘t even go near her! She‘s a mutt!”
A hand reaches through the doorway, pulls Delly out, and the door swings shut. But Peeta keeps yelling. “A mutt! She‘s a stinking mutt!”
Not only does he hate me and want to kill me, he no longer believes I‘m human. It was less painful being strangled.
Around me the recovery team members scribble like crazy, taking down every word. Haymitch and Plutarch grab my arms and propel me out of the room. They lean me up against a wall in the silent
hallway. But I know Peeta continues to scream behind the door and the glass.
Prim was wrong. Peeta is irretrievable. “I can‘t stay here anymore,” I say numbly. “If you want me to be the Mockingjay, you‘ll have to send me away.”
“Where do you want to go?” asks Haymitch.
“The Capitol.” It‘s the only place I can think of where I have a job to do.
“Can‘t do it,” Plutarch says. “Not until all the districts are secure. Good news is, the fighting‘s almost over in all of them but Two. It‘s a tough nut to crack, though.”
That‘s right. First the districts. Next the Capitol. And then I hunt down Snow.
“Fine,” I say. “Send me to Two.”

Mockingjay Chapter 12

2012-03-01T18:37:00.000-08:00

Mockingjay Part 2: The Assault

Chapter 12

Today I might lose both of them.
I try to imagine a world where both Gale‘s and Peeta‘s voices have ceased. Hands stilled. Eyes unblinking. I‘m standing over their bodies, having a last look, leaving the room where they lie. But when I
open the door to step out into the world, there‘s only a tremendous void. A pale gray nothingness that is all my future holds.
“Do you want me to have them sedate you until it‘s over?” asks Haymitch. He‘s not joking. This is a man who spent his adult life at the bottom of a bottle, trying to anesthetize himself against the
Capitol‘s crimes. The sixteen-year-old boy who won the second Quarter Quell must have had people he loved—family, friends, a sweetheart maybe—that he fought to get back to. Where are they now?
How is it that until Peeta and I were thrust upon him, there was no one at all in his life? What did Snow do to them?
“No,” I say. “I want to go to the Capitol. I want to be part of the rescue mission.”
“They‘re gone,” says Haymitch.
“How long ago did they leave? I could catch up. I could—” What? What could I do?
Haymitch shakes his head. “It‘ll never happen. You‘re too valuable and too vulnerable. There was talk of sending you to another district to divert the Capitol‘s attention while the rescue takes place. But
no one felt you could handle it.”
“Please, Haymitch!” I‘m begging now. “I have to do something. I can‘t just sit here waiting to hear if they died. There must be something I can do!”
“All right. Let me talk to Plutarch. You stay put.” But I can‘t. Haymitch‘s footsteps are still echoing in the outer hall when I fumble my way through the slit in the dividing curtain to find Finnick sprawled out
on his stomach, his hands twisted in his pillowcase. Although it‘s cowardly—cruel even—to rouse him from the shadowy, muted drug land to stark reality, I go ahead and do it because I can‘t stand to face
this by myself.
As I explain our situation, his initial agitation mysteriously ebbs. “Don‘t you see, Katniss, this will decide things. One way or the other. By the end of the day, they‘ll either be dead or with us. It‘s… it‘s
more than we could hope for!”
Well, that‘s a sunny view of our situation. And yet there‘s something calming about the idea that this torment could come to an end.
The curtain yanks back and there‘s Haymitch. He has a job for us, if we can pull it together. They still need post-bombing footage of 13. “If we can get it in the next few hours, Beetee can air it leading
up to the rescue, and maybe keep the Capitol‘s attention elsewhere.”
“Yes, a distraction,” says Finnick. “A decoy of sorts.”
“What we really need is something so riveting that even President Snow won‘t be able to tear himself away. Got anything like that?” asks Haymitch.
Having a job that might help the mission snaps me into focus. While I knock down breakfast and get prepped, I try to think of what I might say. President Snow must be wondering how that bloodsplattered
floor and his roses are affecting me. If he wants me broken, then I will have to be whole. But I don‘t think I will convince him of anything by shouting a couple of defiant lines at the camera.
Besides, that won‘t buy the rescue team any time. Outbursts are short. It‘s stories that take time.
I don‘t know if it will work, but when the television crew‘s all assembled aboveground, I ask Cressida if she could start out by asking me about Peeta. I take a seat on the fallen marble pillar where I had
my breakdown, wait for the red light and Cressida‘s question.
“How did you meet Peeta?” she asks.
And then I do the thing that Haymitch has wanted since my first interview. I open up. “When I met Peeta, I was eleven years old, and I was almost dead.” I talk about that awful day when I tried to sell the
baby clothes in the rain, how Peeta‘s mother chased me from the bakery door, and how he took a beating to bring me the loaves of bread that saved our lives. “We had never even spoken. The first time I
ever talked to Peeta was on the train to the Games.”
“But he was already in love with you,” says Cressida.
“I guess so.” I allow myself a small smile.
“How are you doing with the separation?” she asks.
“Not well. I know at any moment Snow could kill him. Especially since he warned Thirteen about the bombing. It‘s a terrible thing to live with,” I say. “But because of what they‘re putting him through, I
don‘t have any reservations anymore. About doing whatever it takes to destroy the Capitol. I‘m finally free.” I turn my gaze skyward and watch the flight of a hawk across the sky. “President Snow once
admitted to me that the Capitol was fragile. At the time, I didn‘t know what he meant. It was hard to see clearly because I was so afraid. Now I‘m not. The Capitol‘s fragile because it depends on the
districts for everything. Food, energy, even the Peacekeepers that police us. If we declare our freedom, the Capitol collapses. President Snow, thanks to you, I‘m officially declaring mine today.”
I‘ve been sufficient, if not dazzling. Everyone loves the bread story. But it‘s my message to President Snow that gets the wheels spinning in Plutarch‘s brain. He hastily calls Finnick and Haymitch over
and they have a brief but intense conversation that I can see Haymitch isn‘t happy with. Plutarch seems to win—Finnick‘s pale but nodding his head by the end of it.
As Finnick moves to take my seat before the camera, Haymitch tells him, “You don‘t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do. If it will help her.” Finnick balls up his rope in his hand. “I‘m ready.”
I don‘t know what to expect. A love story about Annie? An account of the abuses in District 4? But Finnick Odair takes a completely different tack.
“President Snow used to… sell me… my body, that is,” Finnick begins in a flat, removed tone. “I wasn‘t the only one. If a victor is considered desirable, the president gives them as a reward or allows
people to buy them for an exorbitant amount of money. If you refuse, he kills someone you love. So you do it.”
That explains it, then. Finnick‘s parade of lovers in the Capitol. They were never real lovers. Just people like our old Head Peacekeeper, Cray, who bought desperate girls to devour and discard
because he could. I want to interrupt the taping and beg Finnick‘s forgiveness for every false thought I‘ve ever had about him. But we have a job to do, and I sense Finnick‘s role will be far more effective
than mine.
“I wasn‘t the only one, but I was the most popular,” he says. “And perhaps the most defenseless, because the people I loved were so defenseless. To make themselves feel better, my patrons would
make presents of money or jewelry, but I found a much more valuable form of payment.”
Secrets, I think. That‘s what Finnick told me his lovers paid him in, only I thought the whole arrangement was by his choice.
“Secrets,” he says, echoing my thoughts. “And this is where you‘re going to want to stay tuned, President Snow, because so very many of them were about you. But let‘s begin with some of the others.”
Finnick begins to weave a tapestry so rich in detail that you can‘t doubt its authenticity. Tales of strange sexual appetites, betrayals of the heart, bottomless greed, and bloody power plays. Drunken
secrets whispered over damp pillow-cases in the dead of night. Finnick was someone bought and sold. A district slave. A handsome one, certainly, but in reality, harmless. Who would he tell? And who
would believe him if he did? But some secrets are too delicious not to share. I don‘t know the people Finnick names—all seem to be prominent Capitol citizens—but I know, from listening to the chatter of
my prep team, the attention the most mild slip in judgment can draw. If a bad haircut can lead to hours of gossip, what will charges of incest, back-stabbing, blackmail, and arson produce? Even as the
waves of shock and recrimination roll over the Capitol, the people there will be waiting, as I am now, to hear about the president.
“And now, on to our good President Coriolanus Snow,” says Finnick. “Such a young man when he rose to power. Such a clever one to keep it. How, you must ask yourself, did he do it? One word.
That‘s all you really need to know. Poison.” Finnick goes back to Snow‘s political ascension, which I know nothing of, and works his way up to the present, pointing out case after case of the mysterious
deaths of Snow‘s adversaries or, even worse, his allies who had the potential to become threats. People dropping dead at a feast or slowly, inexplicably declining into shadows over a period of months.
Blamed on bad shellfish, elusive viruses, or an overlooked weakness in the aorta. Snow drinking from the poisoned cup himself to deflect suspicion. But antidotes don‘t always work. They say that‘s why
he wears the roses that reek of perfume. They say it‘s to cover the scent of blood from the mouth sores that will never heal. They say, they say, they say… Snow has a list and no one knows who will be
next.
Poison. The perfect weapon for a snake.
Since my opinion of the Capitol and its noble president are already so low, I can‘t say Finnick‘s allegations shock me. They seem to have far more effect on the displaced Capitol rebels like my crew
and Fulvia—even Plutarch occasionally reacts in surprise, maybe wondering how a specific tidbit passed him by. When Finnick finishes, they just keep the cameras rolling until finally he has to be the one
to say “Cut.”
The crew hurries inside to edit the material, and Plutarch leads Finnick off for a chat, probably to see if he has any more stories. I‘m left with Haymitch in the rubble, wondering if Finnick‘s fate would
have one day been mine. Why not? Snow could have gotten a really good price for the girl on fire.
“Is that what happened to you?” I ask Haymitch.
“No. My mother and younger brother. My girl. They were all dead two weeks after I was crowned victor. Because of that stunt I pulled with the force field,” he answers. “Snow had no one to use against
me.”
“I‘m surprised he didn‘t just kill you,” I say.
“Oh, no. I was the example. The person to hold up to the young Finnicks and Johannas and Cashmeres. Of what could happen to a victor who caused problems,” says Haymitch. “But he knew he had
no leverage against me.”
“Until Peeta and I came along,” I say softly. I don‘t even get a shrug in return.
With our job done, there‘s nothing left for Finnick and me to do but wait. We try to fill the dragging minutes in Special Defense. Tie knots. Push our lunch around our bowls. Blow things up on the
shooting range. Because of the danger of detection, no communication comes from the rescue team. At 15:00, the designated hour, we stand tense and silent in the back of a room full of screens and
computers and watch Beetee and his team try to dominate the airwaves. His usual fidgety distraction is replaced with a determination I have never seen. Most of my interview doesn‘t make the cut, just
enough to show I am alive and still defiant. It is Finnick‘s salacious and gory account of the Capitol that takes the day. Is Beetee‘s skill improving? Or are his counterparts in the Capitol a little too
fascinated to want to tune Finnick out? For the next sixty minutes, the Capitol feed alternates between the standard afternoon newscast, Finnick, and attempts to black it all out. But the rebel techno team
manages to override even the latter and, in a real coup, keeps control for almost the entire attack on Snow.
“Let it go!” says Beetee, throwing up his hands, relinquishing the broadcast back to the Capitol. He mops his face with a cloth. “If they‘re not out of there by now, they‘re all dead.” He spins in his chair to see Finnick and me reacting to his words. “It was a good plan, though. Did Plutarch show it to you?”
Of course not. Beetee takes us to another room and shows us how the team, with the help of rebel insiders, will attempt—has attempted—to free the victors from an underground prison. It seems to
have involved knockout gas distributed by the ventilation system, a power failure, the detonation of a bomb in a government building several miles from the prison, and now the disruption of the broadcast.
Beetee‘s glad we find the plan hard to follow, because then our enemies will, too.
“Like your electricity trap in the arena?” I ask.
“Exactly. And see how well that worked out?” says Beetee.
Well… not really, I think.
Finnick and I try to station ourselves in Command, where surely first word of the rescue will come, but we are barred because serious war business is being carried out. We refuse to leave Special
Defense and end up waiting in the hummingbird room for news.
Making knots. Making knots. No word. Making knots. Tick-tock. This is a clock. Do not think of Gale. Do not think of Peeta. Making knots. We do not want dinner. Fingers raw and bleeding. Finnick
finally gives up and assumes the hunched position he took in the arena when the jabberjays attacked. I perfect my miniature noose. The words of “The Hanging Tree” replay in my head. Gale and Peeta.
Peeta and Gale.
“Did you love Annie right away, Finnick?” I ask.
“No.” A long time passes before he adds, “She crept up on me.”
I search my heart, but at the moment the only person I can feel creeping up on me is Snow.
It must be midnight, it must be tomorrow when Haymitch pushes open the door. “They‘re back. We‘re wanted in the hospital.” My mouth opens with a flood of questions that he cuts off with “That‘s all I
know.”
I want to run, but Finnick‘s acting so strange, as if he‘s lost the ability to move, so I take his hand and lead him like a small child. Through Special Defense, into the elevator that goes this way and that,
and on to the hospital wing. The place is in an uproar, with doctors shouting orders and the wounded being wheeled through the halls in their beds.
We‘re sideswiped by a gurney bearing an unconscious, emaciated young woman with a shaved head. Her flesh shows bruises and oozing scabs. Johanna Mason. Who actually knew rebel secrets. At
least the one about me. And this is how she has paid for it.
Through a doorway, I catch a glimpse of Gale, stripped to the waist, perspiration streaming down his face as a doctor removes something from under his shoulder blade with a long pair of tweezers.
Wounded, but alive. I call his name, start toward him until a nurse pushes me back and shuts me out.
“Finnick!” Something between a shriek and a cry of joy. A lovely if somewhat bedraggled young woman—dark tangled hair, sea green eyes—runs toward us in nothing but a sheet. “Finnick!” And
suddenly, it‘s as if there‘s no one in the world but these two, crashing through space to reach each other. They collide, enfold, lose their balance, and slam against a wall, where they stay. Clinging into one
being. Indivisible.
A pang of jealousy hits me. Not for either Finnick or Annie but for their certainty. No one seeing them could doubt their love.
Boggs, looking a little worse for wear but uninjured, finds Haymitch and me. “We got them all out. Except Enobaria. But since she‘s from Two, we doubt she‘s being held anyway. Peeta‘s at the end of
the hall. The effects of the gas are just wearing off. You should be there when he wakes.”
Peeta.
Alive and well—maybe not well but alive and here. Away from Snow. Safe. Here. With me. In a minute I can touch him. See his smile. Hear his laugh.
Haymitch‘s grinning at me. “Come on, then,” he says.
I‘m light-headed with giddiness. What will I say? Oh, who cares what I say? Peeta will be ecstatic no matter what I do. He‘ll probably be kissing me anyway. I wonder if it will feel like those last kisses
on the beach in the arena, the ones I haven‘t dared let myself consider until this moment.
Peeta‘s awake already, sitting on the side of the bed, looking bewildered as a trio of doctors reassure him, flash lights in his eyes, check his pulse. I‘m disappointed that mine was not the first face he
saw when he woke, but he sees it now. His features register disbelief and something more intense that I can‘t quite place. Desire? Desperation? Surely both, for he sweeps the doctors aside, leaps to his
feet, and moves toward me. I run to meet him, my arms extended to embrace him. His hands are reaching for me, too, to caress my face, I think.
My lips are just forming his name when his fingers lock around my throat.

Mockingjay Chapter 11

2012-03-01T18:33:00.000-08:00

Mockingjay Part 2: The Assault

Chapter 11

What will break me?
This is the question that consumes me over the next three days as we wait to be released from our prison of safety. What will break me into a million pieces so that I am beyond repair, beyond
usefulness? I mention it to no one, but it devours my waking hours and weaves itself throughout my nightmares.
Four more bunker missiles fall over this period, all massive, all very damaging, but there‘s no urgency to the attack. The bombs are spread out over the long hours so that just when you think the raid is
over, another blast sends shock waves through your guts. It feels more designed to keep us in lockdown than to decimate 13. Cripple the district, yes. Give the people plenty to do to get the place running
again. But destroy it? No. Coin was right on that point. You don‘t destroy what you want to acquire in the future. I assume what they really want, in the short term, is to stop the Airtime Assaults and keep me
off the televisions of Panem.
We receive next to no information about what is happening. Our screens never come on, and we get only brief audio updates from Coin about the nature of the bombs. Certainly, the war is still being
waged, but as to its status, we‘re in the dark.
Inside the bunker, cooperation is the order of the day. We adhere to a strict schedule for meals and bathing, exercise and sleep. Small periods of socialization are granted to alleviate the tedium. Our
space becomes very popular because both children and adults have a fascination with Buttercup. He attains celebrity status with his evening game of Crazy Cat. I created this by accident a few years ago,
during a winter blackout. You simply wiggle a flashlight beam around on the floor, and Buttercup tries to catch it. I‘m petty enough to enjoy it because I think it makes him look stupid. Inexplicably, everyone
here thinks he‘s clever and delightful. I‘m even issued a special set of batteries—an enormous waste—to be used for this purpose. The citizens of 13 are truly starved for entertainment.
It‘s on the third night, during our game, that I answer the question eating away at me. Crazy Cat becomes a metaphor for my situation. I am Buttercup. Peeta, the thing I want so badly to secure, is the
light. As long as Buttercup feels he has the chance of catching the elusive light under his paws, he‘s bristling with aggression. (That‘s how I‘ve been since I left the arena, with Peeta alive.) When the light
goes out completely, Buttercup‘s temporarily distraught and confused, but he recovers and moves on to other things. (That‘s what would happen if Peeta died.) But the one thing that sends Buttercup into a
tailspin is when I leave the light on but put it hopelessly out of his reach, high on the wall, beyond even his jumping skills. He paces below the wall, wails, and can‘t be comforted or distracted. He‘s useless
until I shut the light off. (That‘s what Snow is trying to do to me now, only I don‘t know what form his game takes.)
Maybe this realization on my part is all Snow needs. Thinking that Peeta was in his possession and being tortured for rebel information was bad. But thinking that he‘s being tortured specifically to
incapacitate me is unendurable. And it‘s under the weight of this revelation that I truly begin to break.
After Crazy Cat, we‘re directed to bed. The power‘s been coming and going; sometimes the lamps burn at full brightness, other times we squint at one another in the brownouts. At bedtime they turn
the lamps to near darkness and activate safety lights in each space. Prim, who‘s decided the walls will hold up, snuggles with Buttercup on the lower bunk. My mother‘s on the upper. I offer to take a bunk,
but they make me keep to the floor mattress since I flail around so much when I‘m sleeping.
I‘m not flailing now, as my muscles are rigid with the tension of holding myself together. The pain over my heart returns, and from it I imagine tiny fissures spreading out into my body. Through my torso,
down my arms and legs, over my face, leaving it crisscrossed with cracks. One good jolt of a bunker missile and I could shatter into strange, razor-sharp shards.
When the restless, wiggling majority has settled into sleep, I carefully extricate myself from my blanket and tiptoe through the cavern until I find Finnick, feeling for some unspecified reason that he will
understand. He sits under the safety light in his space, knotting his rope, not even pretending to rest. As I whisper my discovery of Snow‘s plan to break me, it dawns on me. This strategy is very old news
to Finnick. It‘s what broke him.
“This is what they‘re doing to you with Annie, isn‘t it?” I ask.
“Well, they didn‘t arrest her because they thought she‘d be a wealth of rebel information,” he says. “They know I‘d never have risked telling her anything like that. For her own protection.”
“Oh, Finnick. I‘m so sorry,” I say.
“No, I‘m sorry. That I didn‘t warn you somehow,” he tells me.
Suddenly, a memory surfaces. I‘m strapped to my bed, mad with rage and grief after the rescue. Finnick is trying to console me about Peeta. “They‘ll figure out he doesn‘t know anything pretty fast.
And they won‘t kill him if they think they can use him against you.”
“You did warn me, though. On the hovercraft. Only when you said they‘d use Peeta against me, I thought you meant like bait. To lure me into the Capitol somehow,” I say.
“I shouldn‘t have said even that. It was too late for it to be of any help to you. Since I hadn‘t warned you before the Quarter Quell, I should‘ve shut up about how Snow operates.” Finnick yanks on the end
of his rope, and an intricate knot becomes a straight line again. “It‘s just that I didn‘t understand when I met you. After your first Games, I thought the whole romance was an act on your part. We all expected
you‘d continue that strategy. But it wasn‘t until Peeta hit the force field and nearly died that I—” Finnick hesitates.
I think back to the arena. How I sobbed when Finnick revived Peeta. The quizzical look on Finnick‘s face. The way he excused my behavior, blaming it on my pretend pregnancy. “That you what?”
“That I knew I‘d misjudged you. That you do love him. I‘m not saying in what way. Maybe you don‘t know yourself. But anyone paying attention could see how much you care about him,” he says gently.
Anyone? On Snow‘s visit before the Victory Tour, he challenged me to erase any doubts of my love for Peeta. “Convince me,” Snow said. It seems, under that hot pink sky with Peeta‘s life in limbo, I
finally did. And in doing so, I gave him the weapon he needed to break me.
Finnick and I sit for a long time in silence, watching the knots bloom and vanish, before I can ask, “How do you bear it?”
Finnick looks at me in disbelief. “I don‘t, Katniss! Obviously, I don‘t. I drag myself out of nightmares each morning and find there‘s no relief in waking.” Something in my expression stops him. “Better
not to give in to it. It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart.”
Well, he must know. I take a deep breath, forcing myself back into one piece.
“The more you can distract yourself, the better,” he says. “First thing tomorrow, we‘ll get you your own rope. Until then, take mine.”
I spend the rest of the night on my mattress obsessively making knots, holding them up for Buttercup‘s inspection. If one looks suspicious, he swipes it out of the air and bites it a few times to make
sure it‘s dead. By morning, my fingers are sore, but I‘m still holding on.
With twenty-four hours of quiet behind us, Coin finally announces we can leave the bunker. Our old quarters have been destroyed by the bombings. Everyone must follow exact directions to their new
compartments. We clean our spaces, as directed, and file obediently toward the door.
Before I‘m halfway there, Boggs appears and pulls me from the line. He signals for Gale and Finnick to join us. People move aside to let us by. Some even smile at me since the Crazy Cat game
seems to have made me more lovable. Out the door, up the stairs, down the hall to one of those multidirectional elevators, and finally we arrive at Special Defense. Nothing along our route has been
damaged, but we are still very deep.
Boggs ushers us into a room virtually identical to Command. Coin, Plutarch, Haymitch, Cressida, and everybody else around the table looks exhausted. Someone has finally broken out the coffee—
although I‘m sure it‘s viewed only as an emergency stimulant—and Plutarch has both hands wrapped tightly around his cup as if at any moment it might be taken away.
There‘s no small talk. “We need all four of you suited up and aboveground,” says the president. “You have two hours to get footage showing the damage from the bombing, establish that Thirteen‘s
military unit remains not only functional but dominant, and, most important, that the Mockingjay is still alive. Any questions?”
“Can we have a coffee?” asks Finnick.
Steaming cups are handed out. I stare distastefully at the shiny black liquid, never having been much of a fan of the stuff, but thinking it might help me stay on my feet. Finnick sloshes some cream in
my cup and reaches into the sugar bowl. “Want a sugar cube?” he asks in his old seductive voice. That‘s how we met, with Finnick offering me sugar. Surrounded by horses and chariots, costumed and
painted for the crowds, before we were allies. Before I had any idea what made him tick. The memory actually coaxes a smile out of me. “Here, it improves the taste,” he says in his real voice, plunking
three cubes in my cup.
As I turn to go suit up as the Mockingjay, I catch Gale watching me and Finnick unhappily. What now? Does he actually think something‘s going on between us? Maybe he saw me go to Finnick‘s last
night. I would‘ve passed the Hawthornes‘ space to get there. I guess that probably rubbed him the wrong way. Me seeking out Finnick‘s company instead of his. Well, fine. I‘ve got rope burn on my fingers, I
can barely hold my eyes open, and a camera crew‘s waiting for me to do something brilliant. And Snow‘s got Peeta. Gale can think whatever he wants.
In my new Remake Room in Special Defense, my prep team slaps me into my Mockingjay suit, arranges my hair, and applies minimal makeup before my coffee‘s even cooled. In ten minutes, the cast
and crew of the next propos are making the circuitous trek to the outside. I slurp my coffee as we travel, finding that the cream and sugar greatly enhance its flavor. As I knock back the dregs that have
settled to the bottom of the cup, I feel a slight buzz start to run through my veins.
After climbing a final ladder, Boggs hits a lever that opens a trapdoor. Fresh air rushes in. I take big gulps and for the first time allow myself to feel how much I hated the bunker. We emerge into the
woods, and my hands run through the leaves overhead. Some are just starting to turn. “What day is it?” I ask no one in particular. Boggs tells me September begins next week.
September. That means Snow has had Peeta in his clutches for five, maybe six weeks. I examine a leaf on my palm and see I‘m shaking. I can‘t will myself to stop. I blame the coffee and try to focus
on slowing my breathing, which is far too rapid for my pace.
Debris begins to litter the forest floor. We come to our first crater, thirty yards wide and I can‘t tell how deep. Very. Boggs says anyone on the first ten levels would likely have been killed. We skirt the
pit and continue on.
“Can you rebuild it?” Gale asks.
“Not anytime soon. That one didn‘t get much. A few backup generators and a poultry farm,” says Boggs. “We‘ll just seal it off.”
The trees disappear as we enter the area inside the fence. The craters are ringed with a mixture of old and new rubble. Before the bombing, very little of the current 13 was aboveground. A few guard
stations. The training area. About a foot of the top floor of our building—where Buttercup‘s window jutted out—with several feet of steel on top of it. Even that was never meant to withstand more than a
superficial attack.
“How much of an edge did the boy‘s warning give you?” asks Haymitch.
“About ten minutes before our own systems would‘ve detected the missiles,” says Boggs.
“But it did help, right?” I ask. I can‘t bear it if he says no.
“Absolutely,” Boggs replies. “Civilian evacuation was completed. Seconds count when you‘re under attack. Ten minutes meant lives saved.”
Prim, I think. And Gale. They were in the bunker only a couple of minutes before the first missile hit. Peeta might have saved them. Add their names to the list of things I can never stop owing him for.
Cressida has the idea to film me in front of the ruins of the old Justice Building, which is something of a joke since the Capitol‘s been using it as a backdrop for fake news broadcasts for years, to
show that the district no longer existed. Now, with the recent attack, the Justice Building sits about ten yards away from the edge of a new crater.
As we approach what used to be the grand entrance, Gale points out something and the whole party slows down. I don‘t know what the problem is at first and then I see the ground strewn with fresh
pink and red roses. “Don‘t touch them!” I yell. “They‘re for me!”
The sickeningly sweet smell hits my nose, and my heart begins to hammer against my chest. So I didn‘t imagine it. The rose on my dresser. Before me lies Snow‘s second delivery. Long-stemmed
pink and red beauties, the very flowers that decorated the set where Peeta and I performed our post-victory interview. Flowers not meant for one, but for a pair of lovers.
I explain to the others as best I can. Upon inspection, they appear to be harmless, if genetically enhanced, flowers. Two dozen roses. Slightly wilted. Most likely dropped after the last bombing. A crew
in special suits collects them and carts them away. I feel certain they will find nothing extraordinary in them, though. Snow knows exactly what he‘s doing to me. It‘s like having Cinna beaten to a pulp while I
watch from my tribute tube. Designed to unhinge me.
Like then, I try to rally and fight back. But as Cressida gets Castor and Pollux in place, I feel my anxiety building. I‘m so tired, so wired, and so unable to keep my mind on anything but Peeta since I‘ve
seen the roses. The coffee was a huge mistake. What I didn‘t need was a stimulant. My body visibly shakes and I can‘t seem to catch my breath. After days in the bunker, I‘m squinting no matter what
direction I turn, and the light hurts. Even in the cool breeze, sweat trickles down my face.
“So, what exactly do you need from me again?” I ask.
“Just a few quick lines that show you‘re alive and still fighting,” says Cressida.
“Okay.” I take my position and then I‘m staring into the red light. Staring. Staring. “I‘m sorry, I‘ve got nothing.”
Cressida walks up to me. “You feeling okay?” I nod. She pulls a small cloth from her pocket and blots my face. “How about we do the old Q-and-A thing?”
“Yeah. That would help, I think.” I cross my arms to hide the shaking. Glance at Finnick, who gives me a thumbs-up. But he‘s looking pretty shaky himself.
Cressida‘s back in position now. “So, Katniss. You‘ve survived the Capitol bombing of Thirteen. How did it compare with what you experienced on the ground in Eight?”
“We were so far underground this time, there was no real danger. Thirteen‘s alive and well and so am—” My voice cuts off in a dry, squeaking sound.
“Try the line again,” says Cressida. “’Thirteen‘s alive and well and so am I.‘”
I take a breath, trying to force air down into my diaphragm. “Thirteen‘s alive and so—” No, that‘s wrong.
I swear I can still smell those roses.
“Katniss, just this one line and you‘re done today. I promise,” says Cressida. “’Thirteen‘s alive and well and so am I.‘”
I swing my arms to loosen myself up. Place my fists on my hips. Then drop them to my sides. Saliva‘s filling my mouth at a ridiculous rate and I feel vomit at the back of my throat. I swallow hard and
open my lips so I can get the stupid line out and go hide in the woods and—that‘s when I start crying.
It‘s impossible to be the Mockingjay. Impossible to complete even this one sentence. Because now I know that everything I say will be directly taken out on Peeta. Result in his torture. But not his death,
no, nothing so merciful as that. Snow will ensure that his life is much worse than death.
“Cut,” I hear Cressida say quietly.
“What‘s wrong with her?” Plutarch says under his breath.
“She‘s figured out how Snow‘s using Peeta,” says Finnick.
There‘s something like a collective sigh of regret from the semicircle of people spread out before me. Because I know this now. Because there will never be a way for me to not know this again.
Because, beyond the military disadvantage losing a Mockingjay entails, I am broken.
Several sets of arms would embrace me. But in the end, the only person I truly want to comfort me is Haymitch, because he loves Peeta, too. I reach out for him and say something like his name and
he‘s there, holding me and patting my back. “It‘s okay. It‘ll be okay, sweetheart.” He sits me on a length of broken marble pillar and keeps an arm around me while I sob.
“I can‘t do this anymore,” I say.
“I know,” he says.
“All I can think of is—what he‘s going to do to Peeta—because I‘m the Mockingjay!” I get out.
“I know.” Haymitch‘s arm tightens around me.
“Did you see? How weird he acted? What are they—doing to him?” I‘m gasping for air between sobs, but I manage one last phrase. “It‘s my fault!” And then I cross some line into hysteria and there‘s a
needle in my arm and the world slips away.
It must be strong, whatever they shot into me, because it‘s a full day before I come to. My sleep wasn‘t peaceful, though. I have the sense of emerging from a world of dark, haunted places where I traveled alone. Haymitch sits in the chair by my bed, his skin waxen, his eyes bloodshot. I remember about Peeta and start to tremble again.
Haymitch reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. “It‘s all right. We‘re going to try to get Peeta out.”
“What?” That makes no sense.
“Plutarch‘s sending in a rescue team. He has people on the inside. He thinks we can get Peeta back alive,” he says.
“Why didn‘t we before?” I say.
“Because it‘s costly. But everyone agrees this is the thing to do. It‘s the same choice we made in the arena. To do whatever it takes to keep you going. We can‘t lose the Mockingjay now. And you
can‘t perform unless you know Snow can‘t take it out on Peeta.” Haymitch offers me a cup. “Here, drink something.”
I slowly sit up and take a sip of water. “What do you mean, costly?”
He shrugs. “Covers will be blown. People may die. But keep in mind that they‘re dying every day. And it‘s not just Peeta; we‘re getting Annie out for Finnick, too.”
“Where is he?” I ask.
“Behind that screen, sleeping his sedative off. He lost it right after we knocked you out,” says Haymitch. I smile a little, feel a bit less weak. “Yeah, it was a really excellent shoot. You two cracked up and
Boggs left to arrange the mission to get Peeta. We‘re officially in reruns.”
“Well, if Boggs is leading it, that‘s a plus,” I say.
“Oh, he‘s on top of it. It was volunteer only, but he pretended not to notice me waving my hand in the air,” says Haymitch. “See? He‘s already demonstrated good judgment.”
Something‘s wrong. Haymitch‘s trying a little too hard to cheer me up. It‘s not really his style. “So who else volunteered?”
“I think there were seven altogether,” he says evasively.
I get a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Who else, Haymitch?” I insist.
Haymitch finally drops the good-natured act. “You know who else, Katniss. You know who stepped up first.”
Of course I do.
Gale.

Mockingjay Chapter 10

2012-03-01T18:31:00.000-08:00

Mockingjay Part 2: The Assault

Chapter 10

The scream begins in my lower back and works its way up through my body only to jam in my throat. I am Avox mute, choking on my grief. Even if I could release the muscles in my neck, let the sound tear
into space, would anyone notice it? The room‘s in an uproar. Questions and demands ring out as they try to decipher Peeta‘s words. “And you… in Thirteen… dead by morning!” Yet no one is asking
about the messenger whose blood has been replaced by static.
A voice calls the others to attention. “Shut up!” Every pair of eyes falls on Haymitch. “It‘s not some big mystery! The boy‘s telling us we‘re about to be attacked. Here. In Thirteen.”
“How would he have that information?”
“Why should we trust him?”
“How do you know?”
Haymitch gives a growl of frustration. “They‘re beating him bloody while we speak. What more do you need? Katniss, help me out here!”
I have to give myself a shake to free my words. “Haymitch‘s right. I don‘t know where Peeta got the information. Or if it‘s true. But he believes it is. And they‘re—” I can‘t say aloud what Snow‘s doing to
him.
“You don‘t know him,” Haymitch says to Coin. “We do. Get your people ready.”
The president doesn‘t seem alarmed, only somewhat perplexed, by this turn in events. She mulls over the words, tapping one finger lightly on the rim of the control board in front of her. When she
speaks, she addresses Haymitch in an even voice. “Of course, we have prepared for such a scenario. Although we have decades of support for the assumption that further direct attacks on Thirteen would
be counterproductive to the Capitol‘s cause. Nuclear missiles would release radiation into the atmosphere, with incalculable environmental results. Even routine bombing could badly damage our military
compound, which we know they hope to regain. And, of course, they invite a counterstrike. It is conceivable that, given our current alliance with the rebels, those would be viewed as acceptable risks.”
“You think so?” says Haymitch. It‘s a shade too sincere, but the subtleties of irony are often wasted in 13.
“I do. At any rate, we‘re overdue for a Level Five security drill,” says Coin. “Let‘s proceed with the lockdown.” She begins to type rapidly on her keyboard, authorizing her decision. The moment she
raises her head, it begins.
There have been two low-level drills since I arrived in 13. I don‘t remember much about the first. I was in intensive care in the hospital and I think the patients were exempted, as the complications of
removing us for a practice drill outweighed the benefits. I was vaguely aware of a mechanical voice instructing people to congregate in yellow zones. During the second, a Level Two drill meant for minor
crises—such as a temporary quarantine while citizens were tested for contagion during a flu outbreak—we were supposed to return to our living quarters. I stayed behind a pipe in the laundry room,
ignored the pulsating beeps coming over the audio system, and watched a spider construct a web. Neither experience has prepared me for the wordless, eardrum-piercing, fear-inducing sirens that now
permeate 13. There would be no disregarding this sound, which seems designed to throw the whole population into a frenzy. But this is 13 and that doesn‘t happen.
Boggs guides Finnick and me out of Command, along the hall to a doorway, and onto a wide stairway. Streams of people are converging to form a river that flows only downward. No one shrieks or
tries to push ahead. Even the children don‘t resist. We descend, flight after flight, speechless, because no word could be heard above this sound. I look for my mother and Prim, but it‘s impossible to see
anyone but those immediately around me. They‘re both working in the hospital tonight, though, so there‘s no way they can miss the drill.
My ears pop and my eyes feel heavy. We are coal-mine deep. The only plus is that the farther we retreat into the earth, the less shrill the sirens become. It‘s as if they were meant to physically drive us
away from the surface, which I suppose they are. Groups of people begin to peel off into marked doorways and still Boggs directs me downward, until finally the stairs end at the edge of an enormous
cavern. I start to walk straight in and Boggs stops me, shows me that I must wave my schedule in front of a scanner so that I‘m accounted for. No doubt the information‘s going to some computer
somewhere to make sure no one‘s gone astray.
The place seems unable to decide if it‘s natural or man-made. Certain areas of the walls are stone, while steel beams and concrete heavily reinforce others. Sleeping bunks are hewn right into the
rock walls. There‘s a kitchen, bathrooms, a first-aid station. This place was designed for an extended stay.
White signs with letters or numbers are placed at intervals around the cavern. As Boggs tells Finnick and me to report to the area that matches our assigned quarters—in my case E for Compartment
E—Plutarch strolls up. “Ah, here you are,” he says. Recent events have had little effect on Plutarch‘s mood. He still has a happy glow from Beetee‘s success on the Airtime Assault. Eyes on the forest, not
on the trees. Not on Peeta‘s punishment or 13‘s imminent blasting. “Katniss, obviously this is a bad moment for you, what with Peeta‘s setback, but you need to be aware that others will be watching you.”
“What?” I say. I can‘t believe he actually just downgraded Peeta‘s dire circumstances to a setback.
“The other people in the bunker, they‘ll be taking their cue on how to react from you. If you‘re calm and brave, others will try to be as well. If you panic, it could spread like wildfire,” explains Plutarch. I
just stare at him. “Fire is catching, so to speak,” he continues, as if I‘m being slow on the uptake.
“Why don‘t I just pretend I‘m on camera, Plutarch?” I say.
“Yes! Perfect. One is always much braver with an audience,” he says. “Look at the courage Peeta just displayed!”
It‘s all I can do not to slap him.
“I‘ve got to get back to Coin before lockdown. You keep up the good work!” he says, and then heads off.
I cross to the big letter E posted on the wall. Our space consists of a twelve-by-twelve-foot square of stone floor delineated by painted lines. Carved into the wall are two bunks—one of us will be
sleeping on the floor—and a ground-level cube space for storage. A piece of white paper, coated in clear plastic, reads BUNKER PROTOCOL. I stare fixedly at the little black specks on the sheet. For a while,
they‘re obscured by the residual blood droplets that I can‘t seem to wipe from my vision. Slowly, the words come into focus. The first section is entitled “On Arrival.”
1. Make sure all members of your Compartment are accounted for.
My mother and Prim haven‘t arrived, but I was one of the first people to reach the bunker. Both of them are probably helping to relocate hospital patients.
2. Go to the Supply Station and secure one pack for each member of your Compartment. Ready your Living Area. Return pack(s).
I scan the cavern until I locate the Supply Station, a deep room set off by a counter. People wait behind it, but there‘s not a lot of activity there yet. I walk over, give our compartment letter, and request
three packs. A man checks a sheet, pulls the specified packs from shelving, and swings them up onto the counter. After sliding one on my back and getting a grip on the other two with my hands, I turn to
find a group rapidly forming behind me. “Excuse me,” I say as I carry my supplies through the others. Is it a matter of timing? Or is Plutarch right? Are these people modeling their behavior on mine?
Back at our space, I open one of the packs to find a thin mattress, bedding, two sets of gray clothing, a toothbrush, a comb, and a flashlight. On examining the contents of the other packs, I find the only
discernible difference is that they contain both gray and white outfits. The latter will be for my mother and Prim, in case they have medical duties. After I make up the beds, store the clothes, and return the
backpacks, I‘ve got nothing to do but observe the last rule.
3. Await further instructions.
I sit cross-legged on the floor to await. A steady flow of people begins to fill the room, claiming spaces, collecting supplies. It won‘t take long until the place is full up. I wonder if my mother and Prim are
going to stay the night at wherever the hospital patients have been taken. But, no, I don‘t think so. They were on the list here. I‘m starting to get anxious, when my mother appears. I look behind her into a
sea of strangers. “Where‘s Prim?” I ask.
“Isn‘t she here?” she replies. “She was supposed to come straight down from the hospital. She left ten minutes before I did. Where is she? Where could she have gone?”
I squeeze my lids shut tight for a moment, to track her as I would prey on a hunt. See her react to the sirens, rush to help the patients, nod as they gesture for her to descend to the bunker, and then
hesitate with her on the stairs. Torn for a moment. But why?
My eyes fly open. “The cat! She went back for him!”
“Oh, no,” my mother says. We both know I‘m right. We‘re pushing against the incoming tide, trying to get out of the bunker. Up ahead, I can see them preparing to shut the thick metal doors. Slowly
rotating the metal wheels on either side inward. Somehow I know that once they have been sealed, nothing in the world will convince the soldiers to open them. Perhaps it will even be beyond their control.
I‘m indiscriminately shoving people aside as I shout for them to wait. The space between the doors shrinks to a yard, a foot; there are only a few inches left when I jam my hand through the crack.
“Open it! Let me out!” I cry.
Consternation shows on the soldiers‘ faces as they reverse the wheels a bit. Not enough to let me pass, but enough to avoid crushing my fingers. I take the opportunity to wedge my shoulder into the
opening. “Prim!” I holler up the stairs. My mother pleads with the guards as I try to wriggle my way out. “Prim!”
Then I hear it. The faint sound of footsteps on the stairs. “We‘re coming!” I hear my sister call.
“Hold the door!” That was Gale.
“They‘re coming!” I tell the guards, and they slide the doors open about a foot. But I don‘t dare move—afraid they‘ll lock us all out—until Prim appears, her cheeks flushed with running, hauling
Buttercup. I pull her inside and Gale follows, twisting an armload of baggage sideways to get it into the bunker. The doors are closed with a loud and final clank.
“What were you thinking?” I give Prim an angry shake and then hug her, squashing Buttercup between us.
Prim‘s explanation is already on her lips. “I couldn‘t leave him behind, Katniss. Not twice. You should have seen him pacing the room and howling. He‘d come back to protect us.”
“Okay. Okay.” I take a few breaths to calm myself, step back, and lift Buttercup by the scruff of the neck. “I should‘ve drowned you when I had the chance.” His ears flatten and he raises a paw. I hiss
before he gets a chance, which seems to annoy him a little, since he considers hissing his own personal sound of contempt. In retaliation, he gives a helpless kitten mew that brings my sister immediately
to his defense.
“Oh, Katniss, don‘t tease him,” she says, folding him back in her arms. “He‘s already so upset.”
The idea that I‘ve wounded the brute‘s tiny cat feelings just invites further taunting. But Prim‘s genuinely distressed for him. So instead, I visualize Buttercup‘s fur lining a pair of gloves, an image that
has helped me deal with him over the years. “Okay, sorry. We‘re under the big E on the wall. Better get him settled in before he loses it.” Prim hurries off, and I find myself face-to-face with Gale. He‘s
holding the box of medical supplies from our kitchen in 12. Site of our last conversation, kiss, fallout, whatever. My game bag‘s slung across his shoulder.
“If Peeta‘s right, these didn‘t stand a chance,” he says.
Peeta. Blood like raindrops on the window. Like wet mud on boots.
“Thanks for… everything.” I take our stuff. “What were you doing up in our rooms?”
“Just double-checking,” he says. “We‘re in Forty-Seven if you need me.”
Practically everyone withdrew to their spaces when the doors shut, so I get to cross to our new home with at least five hundred people watching me. I try to appear extra calm to make up for my frantic
crashing through the crowd. Like that‘s fooling anyone. So much for setting an example. Oh, who cares? They all think I‘m nuts anyway. One man, who I think I knocked to the floor, catches my eye and rubs
his elbow resentfully. I almost hiss at him, too.
Prim has Buttercup installed on the lower bunk, draped in a blanket so that only his face pokes out. This is how he likes to be when there‘s thunder, the one thing that actually frightens him. My mother
puts her box carefully in the cube. I crouch, my back supported by the wall, to check what Gale managed to rescue in my hunting bag. The plant book, the hunting jacket, my parents‘ wedding photo, and the
personal contents of my drawer. My mockingjay pin now lives with Cinna‘s outfit, but there‘s the gold locket and the silver parachute with the spile and Peeta‘s pearl. I knot the pearl into the corner of the
parachute, bury it deep in the recesses of the bag, as if it‘s Peeta‘s life and no one can take it away as long as I guard it.
The faint sound of the sirens cuts off sharply. Coin‘s voice comes over the district audio system, thanking us all for an exemplary evacuation of the upper levels. She stresses that this is not a drill, as
Peeta Mellark, the District 12 victor, has possibly made a televised reference to an attack on 13 tonight.
That‘s when the first bomb hits. There‘s an initial sense of impact followed by an explosion that resonates in my innermost parts, the lining of my intestines, the marrow of my bones, the roots of my
teeth. We‘re all going to die, I think. My eyes turn upward, expecting to see giant cracks race across the ceiling, massive chunks of stone raining down on us, but the bunker itself gives only a slight
shudder. The lights go out and I experience the disorientation of total darkness. Speechless human sounds—spontaneous shrieks, ragged breaths, baby whimpers, one musical bit of insane laughter—
dance around in the charged air. Then there‘s a hum of a generator, and a dim wavering glow replaces the stark lighting that is the norm in 13. It‘s closer to what we had in our homes in 12, when the
candles and fire burned low on a winter‘s night.
I reach for Prim in the twilight, clamp my hand on her leg, and pull myself over to her. Her voice remains steady as she croons to Buttercup. “It‘s all right, baby, it‘s all right. We‘ll be okay down here.”
My mother wraps her arms around us. I allow myself to feel young for a moment and rest my head on her shoulder. “That was nothing like the bombs in Eight,” I say.
“Probably a bunker missile,” says Prim, keeping her voice soothing for the cat‘s sake. “We learned about them during the orientation for new citizens. They‘re designed to penetrate deep in the ground
before they go off. Because there‘s no point in bombing Thirteen on the surface anymore.”
“Nuclear?” I ask, feeling a chill run through me.
“Not necessarily,” says Prim. “Some just have a lot of explosives in them. But… it could be either kind, I guess.”
The gloom makes it hard to see the heavy metal doors at the end of the bunker. Would they be any protection against a nuclear attack? And even if they were one hundred percent effective at sealing
out the radiation, which is really unlikely, would we ever be able to leave this place? The thought of spending whatever remains of my life in this stone vault horrifies me. I want to run madly for the door and
demand to be released into whatever lies above. It‘s pointless. They would never let me out, and I might start some kind of stampede.
“We‘re so far down, I‘m sure we‘re safe,” says my mother wanly. Is she thinking of my father‘s being blown to nothingness in the mines? “It was a close call, though. Thank goodness Peeta had the
wherewithal to warn us.”
The wherewithal. A general term that somehow includes everything that was needed for him to sound the alarm. The knowledge, the opportunity, the courage. And something else I can‘t define. Peeta
seemed to have been waging a sort of battle in his mind, fighting to get the message out. Why? The ease with which he manipulates words is his greatest talent. Was his difficulty a result of his torture?
Something more? Like madness?
Coin‘s voice, perhaps a shade grimmer, fills the bunker, the volume level flickering with the lights. “Apparently, Peeta Mellark‘s information was sound and we owe him a great debt of gratitude.
Sensors indicate the first missile was not nuclear, but very powerful. We expect more will follow. For the duration of the attack, citizens are to stay in their assigned areas unless otherwise notified.”
A soldier alerts my mother that she‘s needed in the first-aid station. She‘s reluctant to leave us, even though she‘ll only be thirty yards away.
“We‘ll be fine, really,” I tell her. “Do you think anything could get past him?” I point to Buttercup, who gives me such a halfhearted hiss, we all have to laugh a little. Even I feel sorry for him. After my
mother goes, I suggest, “Why don‘t you climb in with him, Prim?”
“I know it‘s silly… but I‘m afraid the bunk might collapse on us during the attack,” she says.
If the bunks collapse, the whole bunker will have given way and buried us, but I decide this kind of logic won‘t actually be helpful. Instead, I clean out the storage cube and make Buttercup a bed inside.
Then I pull a mattress in front of it for my sister and me to share.
We‘re given clearance in small groups to use the bathroom and brush our teeth, although showering has been canceled for the day. I curl up with Prim on the mattress, double layering the blankets
because the cavern emits a dank chill. Buttercup, miserable even with Prim‘s constant attention, huddles in the cube and exhales cat breath in my face.
Despite the disagreeable conditions, I‘m glad to have time with my sister. My extreme preoccupation since I came here—no, since the first Games, really—has left little attention for her. I haven‘t been
watching over her the way I should, the way I used to. After all, it was Gale who checked our compartment, not me. Something to make up for.
I realize I‘ve never even bothered to ask her about how she‘s handling the shock of coming here. “So, how are you liking Thirteen, Prim?” I offer.
“Right now?” she asks. We both laugh. “I miss home badly sometimes. But then I remember there‘s nothing left to miss anymore. I feel safer here. We don‘t have to worry about you. Well, not the same
way.” She pauses, and then a shy smile crosses her lips. “I think they‘re going to train me to be a doctor.”
It‘s the first I‘ve heard of it. “Well, of course, they are. They‘d be stupid not to.”
“They‘ve been watching me when I help out in the hospital. I‘m already taking the medic courses. It‘s just beginner‘s stuff. I know a lot of it from home. Still, there‘s plenty to learn,” she tells me.
“That‘s great,” I say. Prim a doctor. She couldn‘t even dream of it in 12. Something small and quiet, like a match being struck, lights up the gloom inside me. This is the sort of future a rebellion could
bring.
“What about you, Katniss? How are you managing?” Her fingertip moves in short, gentle strokes between Buttercup‘s eyes. “And don‘t say you‘re fine.”
It‘s true. Whatever the opposite of fine is, that‘s what I am. So I go ahead and tell her about Peeta, his deterioration on-screen, and how I think they must be killing him at this very moment. Buttercup
has to rely on himself for a while, because now Prim turns her attention to me. Pulling me closer, brushing the hair back behind my ears with her fingers. I‘ve stopped talking because there‘s really nothing
left to say and there‘s this piercing sort of pain where my heart is. Maybe I‘m even having a heart attack, but it doesn‘t seem worth mentioning.
“Katniss, I don‘t think President Snow will kill Peeta,” she says. Of course, she says this; it‘s what she thinks will calm me. But her next words come as a surprise. “If he does, he won‘t have anyone left
you want. He won‘t have any way to hurt you.”
Suddenly, I am reminded of another girl, one who had seen all the evil the Capitol had to offer. Johanna Mason, the tribute from District 7, in the last arena. I was trying to prevent her from going into the
jungle where the jabberjays mimicked the voices of loved ones being tortured, but she brushed me off, saying, “They can‘t hurt me. I‘m not like the rest of you. There‘s no one left I love.”
Then I know Prim is right, that Snow cannot afford to waste Peeta‘s life, especially now, while the Mockingjay causes so much havoc. He‘s killed Cinna already. Destroyed my home. My family, Gale,
and even Haymitch are out of his reach. Peeta‘s all he has left.
“So, what do you think they‘ll do to him?” I ask.
Prim sounds about a thousand years old when she speaks.
“Whatever it takes to break you.”

Mockingjay Chapter 9

2012-02-27T07:42:00.001-08:00

Mockingjay Part 1: The Ashes

Chapter 9

I stop trying to sleep after my first few attempts are interrupted by unspeakable nightmares. After that, I just lie still and do fake breathing whenever someone checks on me. In the morning, I‘m released from the hospital and instructed to take it easy. Cressida asks me to record a few lines for a new Mockingjay propo. At lunch, I keep waiting for people to bring up Peeta‘s appearance, but no one does. Someone must have seen it besides Finnick and me.

I have training, but Gale‘s scheduled to work with Beetee on weapons or something, so I get permission to take Finnick to the woods. We wander around awhile and then ditch our communicators under a bush. When we‘re a safe distance away, we sit and discuss Peeta‘s broadcast.

“I haven‘t heard one word about it. No one‘s told you anything?” Finnick says. I shake my head. He pauses before he asks, “Not even Gale?” I‘m clinging to a shred of hope that Gale honestly knows nothing about Peeta‘s message. But I have a bad feeling he does. “Maybe he‘s trying to find a time to tell you privately.”

“Maybe,” I say.

We stay silent so long that a buck wanders into range. I take it down with an arrow. Finnick hauls it back to the fence.

For dinner, there‘s minced venison in the stew. Gale walks me back to Compartment E after we eat. When I ask him what‘s been going on, again there‘s no mention of Peeta. As soon as my mother and sister are asleep, I slip the pearl from the drawer and spend a second sleepless night clutching it in my hand, replaying Peeta‘s words in my head. “Ask yourself, do you really trust the people you‘re working with? Do you really know what‘s going on? And if you don‘t… find out.” Find out. What? From who? And how can Peeta know anything except what the Capitol tells him? It‘s just a Capitol propo.

More noise. But if Plutarch thinks it‘s just the Capitol line, why didn‘t he tell me about it? Why hasn‘t anyone let me or Finnick know?

Under this debate lies the real source of my distress: Peeta. What have they done to him? And what are they doing to him right now? Clearly, Snow did not buy the story that Peeta and I knew nothing about the rebellion. And his suspicions have been reinforced, now that I have come out as the Mockingjay. Peeta can only guess about the rebel tactics or make up things to tell his torturers. Lies, once discovered, would be severely punished. How abandoned by me he must feel. In his first interview, he tried to protect me from the Capitol and rebels alike, and not only have I failed to protect him, I‘ve brought down more horrors upon him.

Come morning, I stick my forearm in the wall and stare groggily at the day‘s schedule. Immediately after breakfast, I am slated for Production. In the dining hall, as I down my hot grain and milk and mushy beets, I spot a communicuff on Gale‘s wrist. “When did you get that back, Soldier Hawthorne?” I ask.

“Yesterday. They thought if I‘m going to be in the field with you, it could be a backup system of communication,” says Gale.

No one has ever offered me a communicuff. I wonder, if I asked for one, would I get it? “Well, I guess one of us has to be accessible,” I say with an edge to my voice.

“What‘s that mean?” he says.

“Nothing. Just repeating what you said,” I tell him. “And I totally agree that the accessible one should be you. I just hope I still have access to you as well.”

Our eyes lock, and I realize how furious I am with Gale. That I don‘t believe for a second that he didn‘t see Peeta‘s propo. That I feel completely betrayed that he didn‘t tell me about it. We know each other too well for him not to read my mood and guess what has caused it.

“Katniss—” he begins. Already the admission of guilt is in his tone. I grab my tray, cross to the deposit area, and slam the dishes onto the rack. By the time I‘m in the hallway, he‘s caught up with me.

“Why didn‘t you say something?” he asks, taking my arm.

“Why didn‘t I?” I jerk my arm free. “Why didn‘t you, Gale? And I did, by the way, when I asked you last night about what had been going on!”

“I‘m sorry. All right? I didn‘t know what to do. I wanted to tell you, but everyone was afraid that seeing Peeta‘s propo would make you sick,” he says.

“They were right. It did. But not quite as sick as you lying to me for Coin.” At that moment, his communicuff starts beeping. “There she is. Better run. You have things to tell her.”

For a moment, real hurt registers on his face. Then cold anger replaces it. He turns on his heel and goes. Maybe I have been too spiteful, not given him enough time to explain. Maybe everyone is just trying to protect me by lying to me. I don‘t care. I‘m sick of people lying to me for my own good. Because really it‘s mostly for their own good. Lie to Katniss about the rebellion so she doesn‘t do anything crazy. Send her into the arena without a clue so we can fish her out. Don‘t tell her about Peeta‘s propo because it might make her sick, and it‘s hard enough to get a decent performance out of her as it is.

I do feel sick. Heartsick. And too tired for a day of production. But I‘m already at Remake, so I go in. Today, I discover, we will be returning to District 12. Cressida wants to do unscripted interviews with Gale and me throwing light on our demolished city.

“If you‘re both up for that,” says Cressida, looking closely at my face.

“Count me in,” I say. I stand, uncommunicative and stiff, a mannequin, as my prep team dresses me, does my hair, and dabs makeup on my face. Not enough to show, only enough to take the edge off the circles under my sleepless eyes.

Boggs escorts me down to the Hangar, but we don‘t talk beyond a preliminary greeting. I‘m grateful to be spared another exchange about my disobedience in 8, especially since his mask looks so
uncomfortable.

At the last moment, I remember to send a message to my mother about my leaving 13, and stress that it won‘t be dangerous. We board a hovercraft for the short ride to 12 and I‘m directed to a seat at a table where Plutarch, Gale, and Cressida are poring over a map. Plutarch‘s brimming with satisfaction as he shows me the before/after effects of the first couple of propos. The rebels, who were barely maintaining a foothold in several districts, have rallied. They have actually taken 3 and 11—the latter so crucial since it‘s Panem‘s main food supplier—and have made inroads in several other districts as well.

“Hopeful. Very hopeful indeed,” says Plutarch. “Fulvia‘s going to have the first round of We Remember spots ready tonight, so we can target the individual districts with their dead. Finnick‘s absolutely marvelous.”

“It‘s painful to watch, actually,” says Cressida. “He knew so many of them personally.”

“That‘s what makes it so effective,” says Plutarch. “Straight from the heart. You‘re all doing beautifully. Coin could not be more pleased.”

Gale didn‘t tell them, then. About my pretending not to see Peeta and my anger at their cover-up. But I guess it‘s too little, too late, because I still can‘t let it go. It doesn‘t matter. He‘s not speaking to me, either.

It‘s not until we land in the Meadow that I realize Haymitch isn‘t among our company. When I ask Plutarch about his absence, he just shakes his head and says, “He couldn‘t face it.”

“Haymitch? Not able to face something? Wanted a day off, more likely,” I say.

“I think his actual words were ’I couldn‘t face it without a bottle,‘” says Plutarch.

I roll my eyes, long out of patience with my mentor, his weakness for drink, and what he can or can‘t confront. But about five minutes after my return to 12, I‘m wishing I had a bottle myself. I thought I‘d come to terms with 12‘s demise—heard of it, seen it from the air, and wandered through its ashes. So why does everything bring on a fresh pang of grief? Was I simply too out of it before to fully register the loss of my world? Or is it the look on Gale‘s face as he takes in the destruction on foot that makes the atrocity feel brand-new?

Cressida directs the team to start with me at my old house. I ask her what she wants me to do. “Whatever you feel like,” she says. Standing back in my kitchen, I don‘t feel like doing anything. In fact, I find myself focusing up at the sky—the only roof left—because too many memories are drowning me. After a while, Cressida says, “That‘s fine, Katniss. Let‘s move on.”

Gale doesn‘t get off so easily at his old address. Cressida films him in silence for a few minutes, but just as he pulls the one remnant of his previous life from the ashes—a twisted metal poker—she starts to question him about his family, his job, life in the Seam. She makes him go back to the night of the firebombing and reenact it, starting at his house, working his way down across the Meadow and through the woods to the lake. I straggle behind the film crew and the bodyguards, feeling their presence to be a violation of my beloved woods. This is a private place, a sanctuary, already corrupted by the Capitol‘s evil. Even after we‘ve left behind the charred stumps near the fence, we‘re still tripping over decomposing bodies. Do we have to record it for everyone to see?

By the time we reach the lake, Gale seems to have lost his ability to speak. Everyone‘s dripping in sweat—especially Castor and Pollux in their insect shells—and Cressida calls for a break. I scoop up handfuls of water from the lake, wishing I could dive in and surface alone and naked and unobserved. I wander around the perimeter for a while. When I come back around to the little concrete house beside the lake, I pause in the doorway and see Gale propping the crooked poker he salvaged against the wall by the hearth. For a moment I have an image of a lone stranger, sometime far in the future, wandering lost in the wilderness and coming upon this small place of refuge, with the pile of split logs, the hearth, the poker. Wondering how it came to be. Gale turns and meets my eyes and I know he‘s thinking about our last meeting here. When we fought over whether or not to run away. If we had, would District 12 still be there? I think it would. But the Capitol would still be in control of Panem as well.

Cheese sandwiches are passed around and we eat them in the shade of the trees. I intentionally sit at the far edge of the group, next to Pollux, so I don‘t have to talk. No one‘s talking much, really. In the relative quiet, the birds take back the woods. I nudge Pollux with my elbow and point out a small black bird with a crown. It hops to a new branch, momentarily opening its wings, showing off its white patches. Pollux gestures to my pin and raises his eyebrows questioningly. I nod, confirming it‘s a mockingjay. I hold up one finger to say Wait, I‘ll show you, and whistle a birdcall. The mockingjay cocks its head and whistles the call right back at me. Then, to my surprise, Pollux whistles a few notes of his own. The bird answers him immediately. Pollux‘s face breaks into an expression of delight and he has a series of melodic exchanges with the mockingjay. My guess is it‘s the first conversation he‘s had in years. Music draws mockingjays like blossoms do bees, and in a short while he‘s got half a dozen of them perched in the branches over our heads. He taps me on the arm and uses a twig to write a word in the dirt. SING?

Usually, I‘d decline, but it‘s kind of impossible to say no to Pollux, given the circumstances. Besides, the mockingjays‘ song voices are different from their whistles, and I‘d like him to hear them. So, before I actually think about what I‘m doing, I sing Rue‘s four notes, the ones she used to signal the end of the workday in 11. The notes that ended up as the background music to her murder. The birds don‘t know that. They pick up the simple phrase and bounce it back and forth between them in sweet harmony. Just as they did in the Hunger Games before the muttations broke through the trees, chased us onto the Cornucopia, and slowly gnawed Cato to a bloody pulp—

“Want to hear them do a real song?” I burst out. Anything to stop those memories. I‘m on my feet, moving back into the trees, resting my hand on the rough trunk of a maple where the birds perch. I have not sung “The Hanging Tree” out loud for ten years, because it‘s forbidden, but I remember every word. I begin softly, sweetly, as my father did.

“Are you, are you
Coming to the tree
Where they strung up a man they say murdered three.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.”

The mockingjays begin to alter their songs as they become aware of my new offering.

“Are you, are you
Coming to the tree
Where the dead man called out for his love to flee.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.”

I have the birds‘ attention now. In one more verse, surely they will have captured the melody, as it‘s simple and repeats four times with little variation.

“Are you, are you
Coming to the tree
Where I told you to run, so we‘d both be free.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.”

A hush in the trees. Just the rustle of leaves in the breeze. But no birds, mockingjay or other. Peeta‘s right. They do fall silent when I sing. Just as they did for my father.

“Are you, are you
Coming to the tree
Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.”

The birds are waiting for me to continue. But that‘s it. Last verse. In the stillness I remember the scene. I was home from a day in the woods with my father. Sitting on the floor with Prim, who was just a toddler, singing “The Hanging Tree.” Making us necklaces out of scraps of old rope like it said in the song, not knowing the real meaning of the words. The tune was simple and easy to harmonize to, though, and back then I could memorize almost anything set to music after a round or two. Suddenly, my mother snatched the rope necklaces away and was yelling at my father. I started to cry because my mother never yelled, and then Prim was wailing and I ran outside to hide. As I had exactly one hiding spot—in the Meadow under a honeysuckle bush—my father found me immediately. He calmed me down and told me everything was fine, only we‘d better not sing that song anymore. My mother just wanted me to forget it. So, of course, every word was immediately, irrevocably branded into my brain.

We didn‘t sing it anymore, my father and I, or even speak of it. After he died, it used to come back to me a lot. Being older, I began to understand the lyrics. At the beginning, it sounds like a guy is trying to get his girlfriend to secretly meet up with him at midnight. But it‘s an odd place for a tryst, a hanging tree, where a man was hung for murder. The murderer‘s lover must have had something to do with the killing, or maybe they were just going to punish her anyway, because his corpse called out for her to flee. That‘s weird obviously, the talking-corpse bit, but it‘s not until the third verse that “The Hanging Tree” begins to get unnerving. You realize the singer of the song is the dead murderer. He‘s still in the hanging tree. And even though he told his lover to flee, he keeps asking if she‘s coming to meet him. The phrase Where I told you to run, so we‘d both be free is the most troubling because at first you think he‘s talking about when he told her to flee, presumably to safety. But then you wonder if he meant for her to run to him. To death. In the final stanza, it‘s clear that that‘s what he‘s waiting for. His lover, with her rope necklace, hanging dead next to him in the tree.

I used to think the murderer was the creepiest guy imaginable. Now, with a couple of trips to the Hunger Games under my belt, I decide not to judge him without knowing more details. Maybe his lover was already sentenced to death and he was trying to make it easier. To let her know he‘d be waiting. Or maybe he thought the place he was leaving her was really worse than death. Didn‘t I want to kill Peeta with that syringe to save him from the Capitol? Was that really my only option? Probably not, but I couldn‘t think of another at the time.

I guess my mother thought the whole thing was too twisted for a seven-year-old, though. Especially one who made her own rope necklaces. It wasn‘t like hanging was something that only happened in a story. Plenty of people were executed that way in 12. You can bet she didn‘t want me singing it in front of my music class. She probably wouldn‘t like me doing it here for Pollux even, but at least I‘m not—wait, no, I‘m wrong. As I glance sideways, I see Castor has been taping me. Everyone is watching me intently. And Pollux has tears running down his cheeks because no doubt my freaky song has dredged up some terrible incident in his life. Great. I sigh and lean back against the trunk. That‘s when the mockingjays begin their rendition of “The Hanging Tree.” In their mouths, it‘s quite beautiful.

Conscious of being filmed, I stand quietly until I hear Cressida call, “Cut!”

Plutarch crosses to me, laughing. “Where do you come up with this stuff? No one would believe it if we made it up!” He throws an arm around me and kisses me on the top of my head with a loud smack. “You‘re golden!”

“I wasn‘t doing it for the cameras,” I say.

“Lucky they were on, then,” he says. “Come on, everybody, back to town!”

As we trudge back through the woods, we reach a boulder, and both Gale and I turn our heads in the same direction, like a pair of dogs catching a scent on the wind. Cressida notices and asks what lies that way. We admit, without acknowledging each other, it‘s our old hunting rendezvous place. She wants to see it, even after we tell her it‘s nothing really. Nothing but a place where I was happy, I think.

Our rock ledge overlooking the valley. Perhaps a little less green than usual, but the blackberry bushes hang heavy with fruit. Here began countless days of hunting and snaring, fishing and gathering, roaming together through the woods, unloading our thoughts while we filled our game bags. This was the doorway to both sustenance and sanity. And we were each other‘s key.

There‘s no District 12 to escape from now, no Peacekeepers to trick, no hungry mouths to feed. The Capitol took away all of that, and I‘m on the verge of losing Gale as well. The glue of mutual need that bonded us so tightly together for all those years is melting away. Dark patches, not light, show in the spaces between us. How can it be that today, in the face of 12‘s horrible demise, we are too angry to even speak to each other?

Gale as good as lied to me. That was unacceptable, even if he was concerned about my well-being. His apology seemed genuine, though. And I threw it back in his face with an insult to make sure it stung. What is happening to us? Why are we always at odds now? It‘s all a muddle, but I somehow feel that if I went back to the root of our troubles, my actions would be at the heart of it. Do I really want to
drive him away?

My fingers encircle a blackberry and pluck it from its stem. I roll it gently between my thumb and forefinger. Suddenly, I turn to him and toss it in his direction. “And may the odds—” I say. I throw it high
so he has plenty of time to decide whether to knock it aside or accept it.

Gale‘s eyes train on me, not the berry, but at the last moment, he opens his mouth and catches it. He chews, swallows, and there‘s a long pause before he says “—be ever in your favor.” But he does
say it.

Cressida has us sit in the nook in the rocks, where it‘s impossible not to be touching, and coaxes us into talking about hunting. What drove us out into the woods, how we met, favorite moments. We
thaw, begin to laugh a little, as we relate mishaps with bees and wild dogs and skunks. When the conversation turns to how it felt to translate our skill with weapons to the bombing in 8, I stop talking. Gale
just says, “Long overdue.”

By the time we reach the town square, afternoon‘s sinking into evening. I take Cressida to the rubble of the bakery and ask her to film something. The only emotion I can muster is exhaustion. “Peeta, this is your home. None of your family has been heard of since the bombing. Twelve is gone. And you‘re calling for a cease-fire?” I look across the emptiness. “There‘s no one left to hear you.”

As we stand before the lump of metal that was the gallows, Cressida asks if either of us has ever been tortured. In answer, Gale pulls off his shirt and turns his back to the camera. I stare at the lash marks, and again hear the whistling of the whip, see his bloody figure hanging unconscious by his wrists.

“I‘m done,” I announce. “I‘ll meet you at the Victor‘s Village. Something for… my mother.”

I guess I walked here, but the next thing I‘m conscious of is sitting on the floor in front of the kitchen cabinets of our house in the Victor‘s Village. Meticulously lining ceramic jars and glass bottles into a box. Placing clean cotton bandages between them to prevent breaking. Wrapping bunches of dried flowers.

Suddenly, I remember the rose on my dresser. Was it real? If so, is it still up there? I have to resist the temptation to check. If it‘s there, it will only frighten me all over again. I hurry with my packing. When the cabinets are empty, I rise to find that Gale has materialized in my kitchen. It‘s disturbing how soundlessly he can appear. He‘s leaning on the table, his fingers spread wide against the wood grain. I set the box between us. “Remember?” he asks. “This is where you kissed me.”

So the heavy dose of morphling administered after the whipping wasn‘t enough to erase that from his consciousness. “I didn‘t think you‘d remember that,” I say.

“Have to be dead to forget. Maybe even not then,” he tells me. “Maybe I‘ll be like that man in ’The Hanging Tree.‘ Still waiting for an answer.” Gale, who I have never seen cry, has tears in his eyes. To keep them from spilling over, I reach forward and press my lips against his. We taste of heat, ashes, and misery. It‘s a surprising flavor for such a gentle kiss. He pulls away first and gives me a wry smile. “I knew you‘d kiss me.”

“How?” I say. Because I didn‘t know myself.

“Because I‘m in pain,” he says. “That‘s the only way I get your attention.” He picks up the box. “Don‘t worry, Katniss. It‘ll pass.” He leaves before I can answer.

I‘m too weary to work through his latest charge. I spend the short ride back to 13 curled up in a seat, trying to ignore Plutarch going on about one of his favorite subjects—weapons mankind no longer has at its disposal. High-flying planes, military satellites, cell disintegrators, drones, biological weapons with expiration dates. Brought down by the destruction of the atmosphere or lack of resources or moral squeamishness. You can hear the regret of a Head Gamemaker who can only dream of such toys, who must make do with hovercraft and land-to-land missiles and plain old guns.

After dropping off my Mockingjay suit, I go straight to bed without eating. Even so, Prim has to shake me to get me up in the morning. After breakfast, I ignore my schedule and take a nap in the supply closet. When I come to, crawling out from between the boxes of chalk and pencils, it‘s dinnertime again. I get an extra-large portion of pea soup and am headed back to Compartment E when Boggs intercepts me.

“There‘s a meeting in Command. Disregard your current schedule,” he says.

“Done,” I say.

“Did you follow it at all today?” he asks in exasperation.

“Who knows? I‘m mentally disoriented.” I hold up my wrist to show my medical bracelet and realize it‘s gone. “See? I can‘t even remember they took my bracelet. Why do they want me in Command? Did I miss something?”

“I think Cressida wanted to show you the Twelve propos. But I guess you‘ll see them when they air,” he says.

“That‘s what I need a schedule of. When the propos air,” I say. He shoots me a look but doesn‘t comment further.

People have crowded into Command, but they‘ve saved me a seat between Finnick and Plutarch. The screens are already up on the table, showing the regular Capitol feed.

“What‘s going on? Aren‘t we seeing the Twelve propos?” I ask.

“Oh, no,” says Plutarch. “I mean, possibly. I don‘t know exactly what footage Beetee plans to use.”

“Beetee thinks he‘s found a way to break into the feed nationwide,” says Finnick. “So that our propos will air in the Capitol, too. He‘s down working on it in Special Defense now. There‘s live programming tonight. Snow‘s making an appearance or something. I think it‘s starting.”

The Capitol seal appears, underscored by the anthem. Then I‘m staring directly into President Snow‘s snake eyes as he greets the nation. He seems barricaded behind his podium, but the white rose in his lapel is in full view. The camera pulls back to include Peeta, off to one side in front of a projected map of Panem. He‘s sitting in an elevated chair, his shoes supported by a metal rung. The foot of his prosthetic leg taps out a strange irregular beat. Beads of sweat have broken through the layer of powder on his upper lip and forehead. But it‘s the look in his eyes—angry yet unfocused—that frightens me the most.

“He‘s worse,” I whisper. Finnick grasps my hand, to give me an anchor, and I try to hang on.

Peeta begins to speak in a frustrated tone about the need for the cease-fire. He highlights the damage done to key infrastructure in various districts, and as he speaks, parts of the map light up, showing images of the destruction. A broken dam in 7. A derailed train with a pool of toxic waste spilling from the tank cars. A granary collapsing after a fire. All of these he attributes to rebel action.

Bam! Without warning, I‘m suddenly on television, standing in the rubble of the bakery.

Plutarch jumps to his feet. “He did it! Beetee broke in!”

The room‘s buzzing with reaction when Peeta‘s back, distracted. He has seen me on the monitor. He tries to pick up his speech by moving on to the bombing of a water purification plant, when a clip of Finnick talking about Rue replaces him. And then the whole thing breaks down into a broadcast battle, as the Capitol tech masters try to fend off Beetee‘s attack. But they are unprepared, and Beetee, apparently anticipating he would not hold on to control, has an arsenal of five- to ten-second clips to work with. We watch the official presentation deteriorate as it‘s peppered with choice shots from the propos.

Plutarch‘s in spasms of delight and most everybody is cheering Beetee on, but Finnick remains still and speechless beside me. I meet Haymitch‘s eyes from across the room and see my own dread mirrored back. The recognition that with every cheer, Peeta slips even farther from our grasp.

The Capitol seal‘s back up, accompanied by a flat audio tone. This lasts about twenty seconds before Snow and Peeta return. The set is in turmoil. We‘re hearing frantic exchanges from their booth.

Snow plows forward, saying that clearly the rebels are now attempting to disrupt the dissemination of information they find incriminating, but both truth and justice will reign. The full broadcast will resume when security has been reinstated. He asks Peeta if, given tonight‘s demonstration, he has any parting thoughts for Katniss Everdeen.

At the mention of my name, Peeta‘s face contorts in effort. “Katniss… how do you think this will end? What will be left? No one is safe. Not in the Capitol. Not in the districts. And you… in Thirteen…”

He inhales sharply, as if fighting for air; his eyes look insane. “Dead by morning!”

Off camera, Snow orders, “End it!” Beetee throws the whole thing into chaos by flashing a still shot of me standing in front of the hospital at three-second intervals. But between the images, we are privy to the real-life action being played out on the set. Peeta‘s attempt to continue speaking. The camera knocked down to record the white tiled floor. The scuffle of boots. The impact of the blow that‘s inseparable from Peeta‘s cry of pain.

And his blood as it splatters the tiles.