"Full name?" Amaelia looks me up and down.

"Eleanor Ruby Paylor." I study my gun. Elle is a name for friends. For family. For famous people that for some reason want to act like they're on that basis with me.

"Position?"

"Commander of District Eight." I lead the district. I will lead Thirteen if what's-her-name the president there gets killed. I'm not quite sure why but apparently I'm a good leader.

"Reason for coming to this hospital?"

"I want to see my wounded and meet with the Mo – with Katniss Everdeen when she arrives."

Amaelia sighs and says in her normal, unofficial voice, "Sorry, Elle. New procedure for anyone going in."

"It's all right," I say. "But may I?"

"Go for it." Amaelia moves to the side and makes a small mark on her clipboard. She tucks a green ringlet behind one ear. "You're not looking so good, Elle."

"Occupational hazard," I say, annoyed suddenly by her concern about looks. I walk as briskly as I can with a slightly twisted ankle past her. I catch a glimpse of myself in a cracked and dusty mirror as I pass by. I'm not nearly presentable enough to be seen with the Mockingjay. Who cares? Only those big shots back in Thirteen and camera people like Amaelia's funny sister, Cressida. I doubt even the actual Mockingjay cares.

I push a curtain aside.

The smells hit me first – horrible, horrible smells. The tang of blood, the rancid odor of decaying flesh. Some other smells – vomit, dead bodies, waste matter – that are so strong I can taste them. And none are good, but for the faint perfumed flowery undertone that only the people that have been here forever can appreciate. The aroma is a last-ditch attempt to make the place smell okay, at least, but it failed.

My eyes don't seem to want to penetrate the haze of sickness in this place, an orangey cloud not helped by the lack of sunlight. The beams of light that do come through pierce holes through it, highlighting beds. A few nurses carry lights that they keep on, slicing the haze. Gradually, my eyes get used to the lighting and I fervently wish they would go back to being unseeing.

The dying and the suffering cry out. It twists my heart to hear the plaintive voice of my second-in-command, Weft Johansson. I make my way around to his bed, see his pale face contorted in anguish. I quickly turn and leave. Johansson and I have been through a lot together. I'm not watching him die of whatever wretched disease or wound he's gotten.

I do try and locate other wounded. My brother, Aaron, where is he? Alone on a bed, a festering side wound threatening to take him any moment. I don't let the tears escape. His wife, Emma? She's a nurse. And she's taking care of him. Relieved that at least Aaron has someone he loves helping him, I look for more people from my district, more of my people. Ellison. Wender. Han. Baylie. Numbes. Some are wounded, some are hobbling around with the help of crutches. Chivaky has her life draining out of a hopeless leg wound. I let the tears go over her. She smiles wanly at me and whispers something before she goes. I don't catch it.

The vast majority of these fighters, though, are in my condition – beat-up, ready to fall over and pass out, but still on their feet. Ready enough to fight. At least we have the ability to fire a gun without collapsing.

I just wander around, eyes scanning the wounded. So many. So many of them are here. I know most of the people on the beds. And the nurses and helpers too.

We're all fighting. Fighting hard. But for what? To end the Hunger Games and the Capitol's reign? Is that really such a cause to fight for? We'd have lost far fewer people if we'd just –

Why am I thinking this? I'm fighting for Tania, my little niece, lost to the Games when she was thirteen. I'm fighting for her mother, my sister, Varice. I'm fighting for every last noble man and woman lost to the Capitol, every last fierce, brave man and woman lost to Snow.

That girl…she could be the key to defeating him. I need to talk to her. Soon.

I continue my wandering, talking briefly with a few others in command, and trying to reassure the wounded.

Finally, I hear a commotion couple of beds over, maybe a few aisles. Hushed whispers at first, screams of agony silenced to whimpers to hear what others are saying. Slowly, slowly, the volume rises and I hear the name I knew I was going to hear soon.

Katniss Everdeen is here.