Part One – The Mockingjay

The Mockingjay: Cold Reality – Katniss and Beck

Katniss –

She's in the Capitol.

The Capitol.

Capitol.

It's not real. It can't be real. This isn't happening.

The bruises on Peeta's knuckles, Haymitch's nose, it all makes sense. He left her.

I reinjure his nose.

"You son of a bitch, you were supposed to save her!"

There's a pinch of something sharp in my back and then everything blurs.

I hear a louder commotion as Annie yells and doctors rush towards her and it all fades in and out. Then I see Beck desperately walking away from his bed, struggling to hold onto anything to stand upright and fight against the doctors trying to stop him. He's watching me as he walks and he doesn't need to ask. I don't even know if he can.

I hear the words again, this time from Peeta's mouth, and somehow it hurts worse when he says it.

She's in the Capitol.

I wake in a different bed than before, this one located in a room that I have all to myself. The lights are dim and I don't even know how late or early it is. For a moment I close my eyes, willing Ivy to be there, willing for all of it to be untrue, for it all to be some kind of nightmare.

But I don't wake up and it doesn't go away. It's reality and there's no escaping it. I sit up in bed half expecting someone to be there to stop me, but there's no one here. A part of me is thankful for it. I can't talk to anyone now. I can't see anyone. I don't even know what I'm supposed to do or what I should be trying to accomplish. My only thought is on Ivy trapped in the Capitol and what they could be doing to her.

Are they hurting her? Are they killing her? Could I trade my life for hers or will Snow just hurt her more if I try? What kind of Hell is she in?

It smells too clean in here like all the chemicals designed to eliminate illness and injury. I have to get out of here. I can't breathe. I can't think. I have to get out.

I don't run. I don't draw attention to myself. I avoid anyone that can try to stop me. I almost expect to see Gale again but he never appears. I'm grateful that he doesn't.

That's another deep pit of endless thought that I don't want to travel down. He's a soldier for Thirteen and I've been the Capitol's portrait of a grateful Victor. Peeta and I have spent years under Snow's thumb. We've been threatened. We've had our children paraded in front of cameras only for our son to be killed and our daughter captured. And Gale has been living in Thirteen. He's been talking of revolution and war and freedom while hidden away from all of it, while his family had to survive without him.

I find a dark corner in some forgotten tunnel where pipes run overhead, the sound echoing all around me. I sit alone in the darkness while my thoughts travel back to the Capitol, back to Ivy. She was so scared and broken and the arena was going to destroy her. That's the last image I have of her. Her fear, her heartbreak, it's the first thing that emerges.

But she was brave too. She was so strong and brave and she fought so hard. That's the next image that comes to my mind. Her standing before the reaping, standing as tall as she could, trying to keep the attention on her, to make herself seem like the formidable threat.

And after that I remember a toddler with messy brown hair trying to walk. And she used to smile when she was a baby. She smiled all the time, even for the cameras. And that smile was real back then. She didn't know the difference yet.

Now the Capitol has her and I can't do a damn thing about it. And all that bravery won't mean a thing in Snow's hands.

I can't do anything. I can't help anyone. I'm not a savior. I'm not their hero. I'm nothing. I can't even protect my own family, how am I supposed to lead a rebellion? How am I supposed to be the spark that they want?

I'm pretty sure none of them even want me anymore. And if they still did, they won't once they learn how much the Capitol can hurt me, when they learn the Capitol can beat me. My son is dead, thrown into an arena just to make me suffer. My daughter is in their hands, her fate tied to my own and if I fight she could die. They won. They've already won and I haven't even decided what steps to take. And everyone who follows, they'll die. They'll fight and die and I can't do anything. I can't even move.

I can't save Ivy. I couldn't save Bas. Peeta's probably next. And then I'll be alone. Just like Snow wants.

I feel the tears burn as my throat constricts and my breathing comes in shallow, short bursts. The air is getting thinner or so it feels. I can't move. My hands curl into themselves as I back up against the metal pipe, hitting it hard. I still can't breathe.

And then I hear growling.

The mutts. No. They can't be here. I haven't heard them in years. They only come in nightmares. They don't haunt me when I'm awake.

But I see it anyway. I see it charging at me. I hear it screaming and its Ivy's screams. It's her cries. And it has Bas' eyes and it doesn't matter how much air I try to suck into my lungs, I can't breathe.

I can't do this. I can't fall apart. I have to save her. I have to. I can't let her die. I can't let her stay there. I can't let her become another ghost crawling and burying itself in my mind. I can't let her become another mutt.

I have to say it. I have to calm down. I have to breathe.

Start with something simple. Start with what you know. Get through the day. But Ivy was what I knew. And Bas what was I knew. What do I know now?

My name is Katniss Mellark. It was Katniss Everdeen. My home is District Twelve. Right now I'm in District Thirteen. I'm married to Peeta Mellark. We have, had, two children. Bas is dead. Ivy is…Ivy is…she's in the Capitol.

"Mrs. Mellark, you have to come with me now," a woman's voice says in the darkness. "Take her back to her room."

Someone grabs my shoulders and I'm screaming and struggling against them. They get me to my room again and put me back to sleep.

When I wake up Peeta is there. He looks tired. He has deep bags under his eyes, his wrinkles forming crevasses around them. He looks like he's aged ten years in two days.

"You look terrible," I croak out as I sit up in my bed. He looks down, the hint of a smile on his face. Twenty years we've done this, knowing how to bring each other back even when it's all gone to Hell or worse. It was always about survival. Even when there was no arena to fight and die in, it was always about surviving the next thing. We did that together. We'll do this together too.

"Can't all look as good as you," he returns. He slides his chair closer to me, his hand reaching but falling on the bed instead, "We should probably talk about what's going on, right?"

I nod, "There's a lot."

"I saw Gale."

I let out a puff of air through my nostrils, that's a wound that hasn't started to fade yet. I don't think it will. Peeta quickly counters, "We won't start there."

"I can't talk about her or what they're doing…I can't…every time I think about…" The shortness of breath comes back again and I close my eyes as the panic rises. Peeta's hand falls onto mine and squeezes, rooting me to the spot and stopping it before it starts.

"I can't either." And when I look at him I can see the hard lines getting deeper and the lost look in his eyes. I turn my hand over and knot my fingers in his, squeezing back.

"We need to get her back." He nods at my words and I know the way. I know what I have to do. I know what Panem needs. We need to win a war for her and I'll do it.

And Peeta knows what I mean even when I don't say what's beneath the words, "Katniss, it's going to be a war. And the Mockingjay…I've heard Plutarch talking and I met President Coin. All of this is going to get worse."

"It's already worse," I swallow, "What about Haymitch?"

Peeta's fist clenches involuntarily before he relaxes it, "They threw him into some room somewhere to dry out. Apparently they don't like that kind of thing here."

"Good." I imagine him suffering in some dark hole, crying for relief with no one there to give it. And I don't feel better at the thought but still my anger burns.

We both fall silent, our hands entwined.

"Effie's here," he says, breaking the quiet of the room. "I don't know how but she got here or they got her here."

"Did she bring her outfits?"

"I hope so. Because the clothes here…I can't imagine her being happy about it."

And even in this pit of whatever mix of despair and hopelessness we're both feeling we manage to laugh. It's small, it's barely even there, but it's enough to get us through this one second of existence and push us onto the next second.

It's enough for us to survive.

Beck –

I taste cotton in my mouth as the haze of the world falls onto me. I don't open my eyes, burying my face into the soft pillow instead. I breathe in, smelling salt air and the hint of something else, something familiar and foreign at the same time. It's like spice and ash and oak, the scent of woods and earth. It's all encompassing, pure in my mind, as my eyes remain closed. But it begins to fade with each passing second. And I can't remember the smell exactly, it's a mixture of all the smallest memories I have of it where nothing is clear, except for the person it belongs to.

I finally open my eyes to see her lying there beside me. The blankets are pulled up to her waist as sunlight streams into her hair from the small window. And I can't believe it. I can't believe she's here and I'm here and Hell, I can't believe we both survived. How did we survive? How did we get here?

I realize I don't care.

The cotton taste sticks to my tongue. I hope it'll fade the more I wake but it only seems to be getting stronger. I push it away. I push every thought away. It doesn't matter how we got here. We're here, that's what counts.

I glance around and I realize we're on a boat. I can hear the waves gently slapping against the bottom, rocking it up and down. I have a boat?

Okay, maybe I want to know how I got her to stay on a boat, and how I finally got my boat. I'll ask later. I'll ask when the shock wears off. And maybe that's what I was left with after it all ended, a bunch of fogged up memories that aren't clear, or maybe I'm dying and this is my last moment. Or maybe we're both dead and the afterlife is real. And if it is, well then screw it, I'll be happy with dying.

My eyes fall back onto her. She's fast asleep, one arm draped across my chest, the other on her pillow. Her mouth is half open in her slumber and for a moment I forget to breathe.

I feel warm. I feel like crying. I feel…I'm overwhelmed. It just keeps rushing over me the longer I stare at her. At her dark hair and closed eyes that I know hide the brightest blue's I've ever seen. I want her to wake up. I want to talk to her, to see her, to feel her closer to me.

I turn my whole body towards her and let one hand fall onto her hair, brushing it back, threading my fingers through it. She stirs. I should feel guilty for trying to wake her, but I can't bring myself to feel it. I'll apologize later. Maybe I could make her breakfast or something. I'll make her a thousand breakfasts if it meant spending every morning like this.

I can only really cook one thing. And by cook I mean fry it. It's fish. That's the only thing I can make. Does she like fish? Would she eat it for breakfast? I should find out what she likes. I can learn to make that. I'll make it every day.

I watch her eye lids open and my throat almost closes up. She blinks before opening and closing her mouth as she wakes. And I don't think I've ever seen her sleep like this, so calm and at peace. I don't think I've ever seen her not trying to stay alive and keep it together.

I feel a flash of pain but I fight it off. It's just a memory. This is real. This is what matters. This is where I want to be.

But where else am I supposed to be?

No. It doesn't matter.

Stay in the moment. Stay right here.

Stay with her.

"Hi," she says, her voice thick with sleep. She moves closer to me, fighting to stay awake as a small smile crosses her features. I feel my own smile in return.

"Hi," I tell her, my hand resting on her cheek. My eyes run over every inch of her, looking for any scars, any signs of what we've been through, but I see nothing.

She closes her eyes again, drifting off. I gently shake her. "Hey, stake awake."

Her eyes find mine and her smile is gone so mine disappears too.

"This isn't real," she whispers.

I nod. I know it isn't. It can't be. How could it? I know the truth buried in a vague memory of a crying mother and the news that tore a hole in my chest the size of the arena.

"But I want it to be." I swallow the cotton taste down, "I don't want you to be…I don't want to wake up and you're not there."

"I don't think your parents would be too happy with you sleeping the whole revolution away."

"I think they'd prefer that to me being anywhere near it."

Her smile returns and I feel my heart break all over again. What are they doing to her? Are they taking that smile? Are they burning away the best parts of her? Is she even still alive?

"You have to wake up," she tells me in a forceful tone. "You can't fall apart. That's what he wants."

"We're going to get you back. I'll get you back."

"You can't do that if you stay in here."

I let out a breath.

"You know I'm right," she chimes and I feel the warmth again. And I want this for real. I want the lazy mornings, late night talks, even the arguments that end in making up and everything in between. I want a life with her. A life where we don't have to worry about Games or the Capitol threatening to destroy us. I just want to be happy. And I want it with her.

"Five more minutes," I whisper.

Her fingers splay out across my chest as she tucks her head underneath mine. My chin falls on top of her hair and I breathe her in, my arms wrapping around her, holding her close to me.

I close my eyes and wake to a bright light above my bed and pain across my stomach. But it's nothing compared to the ache in my head and chest that just won't go away. And it doesn't matter how much morphling they give me, there's no curing this pain.

I hear the heart monitor and my throat swells and my eyes glass over. I choke back a sob as the tears start to fall and it just won't stop hurting.

"It's okay," my mother says gently, her hand running through my hair, another holding onto my wrist while each sob gets worse and worse as it goes on. And I can't breathe. I can't feel anything but the pain.

And there's no sunlight here. There's no promise of tomorrow down here. There's no hope or happiness and Ivy's in the Capitol and God knows what they're doing to her.

And a part of me wishes I was dead so that I didn't have to feel this. But I know better, I know that's not the answer. I'm alive and I have to keep going.

They won't kill her. They can't. It would be stupid to kill her. Katniss will fight to get her back, so will Peeta. And I'll help too. We can get her back.

But until that happens it's going to hurt. I have to get used to it. And I will. But right now I can't even think about what getting used to this is going to feel like.

"What are they doing to her, mom?" My voice cracks and breaks as I repeat the question.

"I don't know." She pulls me closer, holding my head and all I can do is cry.

When it ends, when I'm drained and no more tears come, I stare at the ceiling. My bandages scratch at my skin and I hear my father walk into the room.

"How's…" My mother starts.

"Peeta's with her," my father answers. "Is he…"

"I'm awake. You don't need to whisper," I say, my voice flat and toneless.

My father takes a seat next to me. "I'm sorry."

I turn to look at him and he's barely keeping himself awake. I've seen this a few times before, when he would come back from the Games, when he was sent to the Capitol. He's worked himself tirelessly for something.

"Have you slept?" I ask and my father smiles before shaking his head.

"Had to wait for you to wake up, Captain." He smirks and I let out a sigh. When I was little and we would go out on the boat, there was a time when I insisted on being the Captain of the vessel. I thought I had to make the commands even though I was in no position to be running any kind of ship. He played along, called me Captain for years, until I got too old for it.

"Don't…we're not even on a boat."

He shrugs, "I like the nickname." His smirk fades and he's serious when he tells me, "You did good in there. You did."

"I did good? I didn't save Grover. I killed people. How is that good? I couldn't help when Bas…"

And then it's my mother's turn to speak, "Hey," she says, her voice harsh and serious and I turn to her.

She swallows, "Don't stay in that arena." She stares into me and I know where those words come from, I know the nightmares and the memories and the years she spent on her own ghosts. "Promise me. You don't live in that arena."

I nod. "I'll try."

"That's all I need," she says giving me a kiss on the forehead. My father watches her, a light and fire in his eyes that I haven't seen in years. And maybe it's the fact that they're away from the eyes of the Capitol or that I'm safe, but there's something more, there's a freedom in this.

Sometime after that both of my parents fall asleep in chairs beside each other, my father's head falling onto my mother's shoulder. I don't sleep. I've slept too much in the past however many days it's been. I think three.

I'm quiet as I get out of my bed, my hand falling to the bandage at my side as a twinge of pain reminds me why I was lying there in the first place. I push past it and walk out the door of my room.

I find myself walking down hallway after hallway until I'm out of the medical wing. I'm surprised no one stops me. Security must be pretty lax around here if I can just walk out. How did this place survive destruction if they can't even be bothered to watch their patients?

I'm not complaining. I'm glad to be out of there, even as another wave of pain radiates out of my midsection. It serves to make me walk slower. It must be the middle of the day. People walk past me with what looks like schedules tattooed on their arms. They all wear the same outfits, grey work uniforms, everyone moving like they all know exactly what they're supposed to be doing even as throes of more citizens join them.

I stop in the middle of a large open space that breaks off into more corridors with elevators and what I can only imagine are apartments rising up all along the walls. There are grated metal catwalks with each level and my eyes travel up towards where I can't see. How high does it all go? It's like a whole city beneath the ground.

Crowds of people pass by me, none of them paying me much mind, all of them focused on their schedules or somewhere they should be running too. A few of them do actually run.

A woman with grey hair and deep wrinkles walks by with Plutarch Heavensbee. There are two others with them, both wearing black. I'm sheltered by a group of men all talking about some filtration issue, my lack of uniform going unnoticed.

I don't know what makes me want to follow them but I do. It's something more interesting to do than to walk around. Maybe they have a plan to get Ivy back, maybe they have something more to say than what's been told to me.

Either way I want to know.

"It's too dangerous and we don't even know if she's capable of talking to these people," The woman says in a stern voice.

"President Coin, she needs to see that others are fighting, that her district is fighting and winning. It'll be even more motivation for her to want to be the Mockingjay," Plutarch argues. He shaved his beard since I last saw him. He almost looks normal, human, not like the head Gamemaker that almost killed me.

"And what makes you think that after Twenty Five years she's interested now. That they'll want to follow her."

"Her daughter's in the Capitol. Look what happened when her son died, that speech she made. She can make another speech. Something about fighting for her children, that she won't stop and they shouldn't stop until their children are safe. We can film it even, broadcast it to the districts."

I keep a reasonable distance, close enough to hear but not close enough to be seen. I can't help but think I shouldn't be doing this. I should probably go somewhere else. I don't need to hear about the war, right?

No. I'm pretty certain I do. And I'm even more certain Ivy would be doing the same thing that I am right now. She would want to know if she had the opportunity to.

"It's not enough." President Coin stops in front of a room. I stop at the corner where I can listen. A few other people in Thirteen pass by me, these ones spare me a glance. I guess they're not used to seeing others without a schedule or place to be, or walking around in their hospital garb.

"She has to visit the rebels in her district. She has to see what's at stake and they have to know that she's still out there."

I scoff just as President Coin does. "I think she knows better than anyone what's at stake and I think she's known it for years, she just didn't care enough to face it. Mr. Heavensbee, we and the rest of Panem are done waiting for a savior. The rescue of the tributes of the 100th Games as well as the death of Basil Mellark and the incarceration of Ivy Mellark has provided us with an opportunity for others to join our cause. Hopefully it will be enough to change the tide."

Plutarch is quick to interject, his voice quick and charismatic, full of intelligence and an air of superiority. "Madam President with all due respect, hopefully is not a guarantee, it's a shit maybe. And when you don't get enough to change the tide, you'll all drown. If she goes to Twelve and makes a speech for those rebels and we broadcast it, we have a spark again. If we provide a line for them to attach onto and we let the other districts know that Twelve of all places is willing to stand with the Mockingjay again, then I assure you we will have the revolution we should have had twenty five years ago."

There's a silence that follows before Coin's flat voice sighs in agreement. And I can't see it but I know Plutarch is smiling, or at least, his eyes are mimicking whatever he can call gratefulness. He's won whatever negotiation this was, if you can even call it that.

"Fine. Send her. And make it count."

"This hole is deeper by the hour
My hands are bleeding I spin around, you're nowhere
I'll throw away my ugly plans
They're too tired to push me anywhere but down

So who am I to fool now if you're gone, you're gone
If I am found below the ground
I'm searching, desperate"

First Floor People – Barcelona