My name is Callan Odair. I am seventeen years old. My father died in the Mockingjay rebellion, and the war still wages on yet.

Yes, seventeen years of war, well, not so much war, rather the subsequent fall out. Seventeen years of weakened groups, the Mockingjay rebellion groups, and Panem supporters, still had small fights. Any time anything resembling a stable government started to solidify, the other party would fight furiously, and the structure would collapse.

Many people blamed the Mockingjay herself, Katniss Everdeen. Callan didn't, though. He knew it wasn't her fault, she hadn't planned it. She had befriended Callan's father, Mother, and Godmother, Johanna. If her revolution hadn't stopped the 76th games, and all after that, 391 children would have been murdered, and Callan persistently reminded critisicers of Katniss of that fact.

Sure, more than that have been killed in the revolution, members of both parties, but they were soldiers. They volunteered to die for their belief's, they weren't drawn out of a bowl.

Callan was a rebel, a Mockingjay. Panem was the reason for his father's death, and the reason for his mother's mental instability, and the reason for his godmother's horrific terror flashbacks. He knew they needed a new system of government, but he didn't know what it took to get that.

Johanna had become sort of a second mother. She was rough around the edges, but truly, one of the most selfless, loving people Callan knew. She moved to district four with his mother to help raise him since his mother was not entirely capable. That enough was more than anyone else had done, but it does not factor Johanna's terror of water. The woman had been tortured by the capital by being soaked in water, and electrocuted. The change at first, was terrifying, with the victor's village right by the sea, but she adjusted.

The boy now sat in my small canoe a few hundred yards off shore, watching the sun begin to set, enjoying the peace of the sea before returning home. He knew he had work to do when he got back, like helping his mother and Johanna prepare dinner, and making up the guest room for Katniss, Peeta, and their children, who were visiting. Their son had been partially named for my father, and partially for Katniss' stylist. The name was Cinnick, and their first daughter, the eldest, was Primrose, for Katniss' sister. Callan stretched his long arms and arched his back in, loosening the tight muscles before paddling back, relishing the salty breeze in his hair.

His frame was similar to his fathers, apparently. Tall, long limbed, and slender. His jaw and cheeks were defined in the same hard, square shape with slightly hollowed cheeks. The same straight, narrow nose, straight brow, small, slightly full mouth, and large, sea green eyes. Callan even had the same dimples when he smiled (which was not often). The only physical trait of his father he lacked was his golden hair, instead he had dark brown hair tinged with red, coming from his mother. He also had his mother's quiet, reserved demeanor. He hated violence and killing, making his position as a rebel more of a passive, moral position. He couldn't stand the violence and was afraid that the Mockingjay's would draft him for any wars that were too come.

He had arrived on shore and hauled the canoe into his family's boat shed, jaw clenched as the thought of battle seared its way through his mind once again. He pushed the back door of his open and stepped into the kitchen.

"CALLAN DECLAN ODAIR I KNOW YOU ARE NOT WALKING INTO THIS HOUSE WITH SANDY FEET." His mother yelled. Callan backed up slowly and stepped out on to the patio, using the metal pump to rinse his feet, before walking back in.

"For Christ's sake." Callan swore under his breath as he stepped in the sand he'd just tracked in.

"That's what you get for tracking it in the first time!" Johanna teased as Callan took the broom from the kitchen and swept the sand out. He entered the kitchen for the third time and kissed his mother and Johanna on the cheek.

"Okay, honey, go set up the guest rooms and then clean up."

"Rooms?" Callan asked his mother in surprise.

"Yes, rooms. Prim is seven now and Cinnick is six, too big to sleep with their parents," his mother informed him. Callan nodded and walked up stairs, hastily making the beds with fresh sheets and fluffing the pillows. He stretched the quilts to make them even and perfectly neat. He entered his bathroom and stripped down, turning on a stream of hot water and letting it soothe his sore muscles from training for the rebellion.

He struggled for breath as he was overwhelmed by the terror of fighting. Of being killed, of watching his mother and Johanna being killed. Of killing. He remembered the bloody scene of terror far inland within the district when he was fourteen. He had fought then. He had been so full of vile hatred and bitterness he fought. He speared someone, a girl, barely older than he was, with a trident and felt the blood splatter on his face, and she collapsed onto him. His clothing became soaked with her blood and he watched the life fade from her. He had used his father's weapon of choice, and was the same age Finnick was when he had won the games.

Callan was suddenly aware that he was sobbing on the shower floor and forced himself up. He quickly washed down with soap, focusing only on each movement of showering and washing. He got out and dried off, hearing additional voices down stairs, he knew the guests had arrived. He rushed out of his room after he changed, almost crashing into Johanna, who was also coming down stairs.

"ah there you are. I was wondering if you'd gotten…distracted," she said cautiously. Callan stared into her brown eyes and it was clear she had heard him crying. "You can talk to me, Callan. I'm not as vulnerable as your m-"

"My mother isn't vulnerable. And neither am I," Callan snapped, edging around her. She grabbed him and forced her back.

"You have a weakness, and your weakness happens to be a heart. But people are dying, Callan, and you're more likely to save your mother than I am, and save those who you love than I am so you're going to have to adjust to the idea of killing for a good cause because that's what this is. Your father was forced to kill merely to survive. He didn't want to do it. It's normal and human you don't want to kill. But you can be a hero."

"I am not my father! I will never be able to fill his shoes, Johanna, and you can clearly see that. I will never be a hero." Callan spat. Johanna stared at him furiously and sighed.

"We'll talk about this later. In the meantime, I'm going to offer you some advice, Callan. Find something worth fighting for. That's the only thing that kept your father fighting until he couldn't do it any more, that's what's kept your mother sane, and that's why I was able to cope and not kill myself. And YOU, Callan, were the reason for all of that." Johanna hissed at him, before descending the stairs.

Callan struggled to regain composure before turning and following the older woman down the stairs to the parlor.

Katniss turned and smiled at him, and Primrose hugged his legs.

"Hello, Katniss," he said, forcing a smile. She stepped forward and hugged him slightly.

"Gosh, you look more like your father everyday." She said, looking into his eyes. Callan had to force his smile even bigger at the intended compliment. The more he got compared to Finnick, the worse he felt fore being so weak.

"Hey all, we uh…we have a surprise for you." Peeta's voice came from behind them.