A/N: I didn't hate the ending of The Hunger Games like so many did; I didn't even really dislike it. But I'll admit that it was a little too clean of an ending for my tastes.
I felt that the final chapters of the third book changed Katniss' character. She was different than she had seemed throughout the rest of the books, and those last few pages changed the way I saw her character and had looked at her throughout the series.
When it was all over, I was left thinking that if I were Suzanne Collins, I would have done it a little differently. I wouldn't have made so many decisions for Katniss. I wouldn't have made the judgments about her, her character, the other characters that the final book made. It seemed to me that the romance side of the story was never the focal point of the story, and it struck me as odd to wrap it up so sweetly at the end as if it were the whole point of the book: choosing, marriage, kids. Instead, I wanted it to be less pat and more open-ended so Katniss—and the reader—could chose the right ending.
So I decided to give it a go and rewrite the final chapter. Here's my attempt at re-ending the trilogy.
The first section of this rewrite is taken verbatim from the book to get the reader up to speed with where the story leaves off and where my new ending begins. No plagiarism is intended, and I've italicized the original text.
Hand-in-Hand-in-Hand: A Re-imagining of The Final Chapter of the Hunger Games Trilogy
. . . . .
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 shop windows. 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 turning to haul him inside now. "Go!" I hear him yell.
I start to turn—to run—but my anger wells up in my chest. I refuse to let them take Gale from me. I know what they did to Peeta; I've seen what they do to people like us. I will not let them do that to Gale.
I spin back on my heel, aim my gun and fire at one of the Peacekeepers dragging Gale away from me. The back of his white uniform is instantly peppered in red, and he loses his footing and falls backward. Gale kicks at him, and his gloved hands grab at nothing as he falls into the black of the pit.
The remaining Peacekeeper looks directly at me, then screams into the building for backup. But no one comes. I steady my aim and motion to Gale while there's still time. He grabs at the metal doorway with his free hand to anchor himself and simultaneously nods in my direction.
I squeeze the trigger and the Peacekeeper falls to his knees. I fire again, and his helmet shatters. He's still got Gale by the arm, but Gale makes a sharp jerking motion and pulls the body down and back, into the gaping mouth of the pit.
He lithely swings his leg around the metal gate, feeling with his boot for the solid stone ledge. He pulls himself around the barrier in one swift movement and is on the move before I can catch my breath. Shimmying along the side of the gate, he moves past shocked Capitol citizens with ease and races toward me.
We've caught the attention of everyone on the street, and we know it won't be long before more Peacekeepers arrive.
I can already hear the crowds murmuring our names and the word Mockingjay over and over. Louder and louder.
I tuck my head under the hood of my cloak and we grab for each other's hands, running from the scene as quickly as we can. Gale takes the lead, pushing his way through the slow-moving crowds to put some distance between us and those who saw what had happened.
Gasping for breath, we slide into an alleyway and press our bodies flush against the cold stone wall.
"What now?" I pant, looking up into Gale's sweat-soaked face.
"Make it to the City Center. Assassinate Snow. Isn't that what you want?"
"Yes." I'm convinced and ready to do my job. It will mean my death, and probably Gale's, but we've made the decision to do it, and do it we will. Together.
Racing toward the President's mansion, we dodge in and out of alley ways and yards. We run through empty houses and climb over fences.
We pause to catch our breaths and regroup in a small park area, shaded and hidden in a cluster of well-manicured pines.
A hand reaches out from under a bush and grabs my calf so quickly that I fall forward with a shriek, grabbing for Gale. Gale aims his gun, but it's Peeta's voice that rings out.
"Wait!"
I'm stunned into silence, and Gale reaches down with one arm and drags our friend from out of the evergreen branches.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I can't tell if Gale is simply surprised to see him again or frustrated at the intrusion.
"I had nowhere else to go. I couldn't go back to Tigris' store with all of the refugees flooding in, and I knew my chances of hitting a Pod were less if I could get off of the main thoroughfare." Peeta's eyes flicker over toward me, and I instinctively smile at him. I'm just glad to see him alive. "I heard people coming and hid, but when I saw it was you, I thought maybe you could use my help."
"Your help?" Gale sounds irritated, and I push my elbow lightly into his side to get his attention. I know what he means, though. Peeta has no weapon and we still aren't sure how stable he is mentally, but just his presence makes me feel better.
We discuss the plan—get to the President's mansion and kill Snow in any way possible. It's simple and direct. We make no plans past that; we make no mention of getting out alive.
Then the three of us move forward, one goal in mind.
We manage to stay out of sight of the Peacekeepers, and Capitol citizens recognize us and move out of the way so we can pass.
Dodging through the busy streets, we hear the planes first. Droning in from the left, then screaming overhead. First just one, then in pairs.
We're confused by their sudden appearance and by the fact that they're clearly not Capitol planes.
We duck into an alleyway just as a team of Peacekeepers races past us in the direction of the planes. The direction of the City Center.
The sound of roaring engines is so loud that I clamp my hands over my ears. Gale is yelling something and wildly motioning, but I can't understand him. Peeta get it, though, and nods. I'm shaking my head and trying to get him to repeat himself when we hear the gunfire erupt.
It sounds like someone—someones—are shooting at the planes. Are the Peacekeepers fighting back? That must mean the planes belong to the resistance. The rumbling and gunfire grows louder and I strain to see something, anything from my low vantage point.
With the first bomb blast, Gale grabs hold of a fire ladder and pulls himself up on the building. He holds out his hand to me and easily pulls me up beside him, giving me a boost and a head start climbing before he follows me up. I feel the vibrations as Peeta follows behind us.
I poke my head over the top of the building to check for Peacekeepers or rebels, but it is empty. I clear the roofline and hunch down until Gale and Peeta climb up and over the short ledge.
A new fleet of planes and drones screams overhead and we run to the edge of the building facing the President's mansion just in time to see the second bomb fall.
It drops toward the ground with a sharp, low whistle and lands in the open space to the immediate left of the huge building. Dirt, flames and shrapnel shoot hundreds of feet in the air and come back to earth with thunder and banging.
People scream, run, cry, cheer.
The planes are coming in droves now, in sets of five and six. They circle overhead, dipping in formation back and forth around the City Center. Obviously making a show of their arrival. Of their presence.
A third bomb goes off to the right side of the mansion, collapsing a section of the building with an echoing thud that sends vibrations through my body.
The Peacekeepers on the ground have reversed direction and are now running toward the City Circle, shooting and trampling anyone unlucky enough to be in the street. Citizens scramble to get out of their way, many now running away from the Capitol center, back in the direction they'd come.
People are starting to stream out from the President's mansion, but their escape is cut off by a cluster of smaller bombs exploding in front of the square.
Pandemonium breaks out as smoke and flames began to eat into the mansion.
A large contingent of planes—too many to count—thunder overhead to join the circling mass already above the City Center, and Peeta, Gale and I raise our heads as they fly directly over us. The updraft pulls my hair and my cloak swirls around me. We can clearly see that all of the planes have the seal of District 13 and we smile in unison.
The center plane is bigger and strapped to its underside is a huge, obvious bomb with the Mockingjay symbol painted across its belly. My symbol. The symbol of the resistance.
The cluster of planes races toward the President's mansion, announced by dozens of small explosions to the left, right, front, back of the compound.
People scream, run, cry, cheer. I hear them echoing 'Mockingjay' until it becomes a chant.
As the grouping flies directly over the mansion, the planes release their bombs—hundreds of small ones and the Mockingjay.
For an instant, I'm struck deaf. The bombs seem to drop in slow motion. I wonder if I'm going to die from the impact even though we're dozens of blocks away.
Then I feel Gale's warm hand wrap around my right hand. Peeta grabs hold of my left at the same instant. Standing as one, we breathe in with one breath and hold it until the bombs explode.
We watch as the presidents' mansion implodes in a split-second of light and sound and flame before it's obscured by a thick fog of smoke and ash.
The shockwave shakes the earth and creates a wind strong enough to lean into. Buildings shudder and some begin to disintegrate. The screaming of citizens is whirled away by the wind. So is the need for action. Everything we've dreamed of has just happened, and we witness it all together.
When the smoke clears enough to see the damage, there is nothing left of the President's mansion. A huge crater glows and spits fire, and residual bombs randomly explode.
We are frozen, the three of us. A united force, an unstoppable trio. Hand-in-hand-in-hand, we watch the old crumble around us and the new begin.
Again, now, at the juncture of my old life and the new world, I am left to decide what is true and what is false. Left to consider the series of events that led me to stand here on the precipice of forever, looking at the ruins of the Capitol. The ruins of the world evil had created.
For the thousandth time, I ground myself by listing those things I know to be true.
My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. My home was District 12. I was in the Hunger Games. I escaped—twice. I am alive. Gale is alive. Peeta is alive. The Capitol has been destroyed. I was the Girl Who Was on Fire. I provided the spark that grew to an inferno from which Panem—a better version of Panem—would be reborn. The world begins again now.
Some walks you have to take alone. And some you have to take together.
I squeeze both of the hands I hold; I hold on for dear life.
. . . . .
The end.