Part I: The Risks
The sun is on its way up when we arrive at our destination. The eastern sky is a pale, serene gray, and the horizon glows a faint yellow. Being greeted off of the hovercraft by the morning mist soothes me, although the temporary peace is too good to be true. Ever since first defying the bloodthirsty Capitol in the seventy-fourth Hunger Games, I have not known the meaning of the word, not even when I sleep. And now, being the face of the rebellion, at the headquarters of the movement, in the supposedly-obliterated District 13? Needless to say that at this point, peace is laughable.
Even the calmness of the morning seems to wear off as the four of us trudge across the grassy field—a designated landing zone—toward the district. No one speaks, but it's better that way. Besides the fact that I don't have anything to say, there's no one I would talk to if I did. I presently glare at Haymitch's back. I don't think I can ever forgive him for how he's used me.
He betrayed my trust as a mentor and as a friend. Just thinking about how he's lied to me, misled me, manipulated me for his own ends infuriates me. I'm frustrated that this man who has had my life in his hands, not just twice for the Games, but constantly for the past year just let me go along blissfully unaware of what was actually happening—what was set to happen beneath the surface. I involuntary make a fist, though I'm not going to do anything with it.
"You okay, Catnip?" From my left, my best friend Gale senses me tensing up. He's got the instinct of a hunter. Almost no subtle movements ever make it by him.
"Fine." I reply almost coldly, trying to deflect conversation. Even though we've known each other for so long, there's really nothing that could be said between us right now. We haven't really spoken since he told me about District 12. Or, rather, about the destruction of District 12 at the hands of the Capitol's planes. I suppose I haven't said much to anyone since then.
But who could expect me to? I don't want to think about it, don't want to deal with it. I'm not letting myself think of anyone as dead until I see for myself who is in District 13. And, at the very least, I can console myself with the fact that my mother and Prim are still alive, thanks to Gale. I can't even allow myself to consider what it would be like if I had lost them, after all I've done to try to keep them safe—and all I've done to put them in greater danger.
The fourth person with us, Finnick Odair, suddenly stumbles, having accidentally put his foot in a pothole. I freeze momentarily, certain that we're under attack and he's just been hit, but he rights himself without comment. I continue to walk, but it's still hard for me to convince myself that there is no imminent danger. The Games have taken any sense of security I may have once had and replaced it with adrenaline and paranoia.
Gale shoots me querying look, his gray eyes asking, "Are you sure?" I give him an almost imperceptible nod. No, Gale, I think. I'm not sure. I'm not sure I'll ever be okay. Not even when all of this is over.
We reach the forty-foot wall that surrounds the city. I'm almost surprised the capitol never employed something like this to contain the districts—it seems more practical than the chain link fences, even if those were electrified. Two guards with guns are posted outside the gates, one male and one female, both seemingly in their mid-twenties. The male, slightly shorter than his counterpart, steps forward and addresses Haymitch.
"Forcefield?" he asks, although it seems like he already knows the answer. He has a very quiet voice, and even from four feet away I can hardly hear him. Haymitch just nods. The watchman pulls out a radio and murmurs into it in an even softer voice. A few words stick out, but they don't make any sense.
He gives us a smile in confirmation, as the gates to the district slowly are pulled open, accompanied by the mechanical clicking of gears. The female sentry insists on escorting us inside, where she motions for a sallow-faced man to take her replace. He soundlessly obeys, and the gates slam shut as he takes her place.
As I get a glimpse of District 13, it becomes clear that the people have put forth much time and effort to rebuild. If I didn't already know that this was the same location as seen on television, I wouldn't have recognized it. The dense buildings and gravel streets show no signs of ever being the ruins that the Capitol footage shows. The roads are mostly empty, aside from the pairs of sentries, who patrol up and down the narrow avenues intently.
The orderly feel of the guarded streets is suddenly disrupted as a stout, balding man with a thick black beard comes barreling around a corner. He appears as though he used to be athletic, though time robbed his body of this as it took his youth. Seeing the small cluster of us gathered at the gate, he relaxes and slows to a walk. Winded, he approaches Haymitch.
"Good to—see you in—person again—Haymitch," he puffs, tugging at his beard impatiently. It's obvious that there's some pressing matter on his mind, but he doesn't say anything on the subject. "Meant to greet—you in person."
Haymitch nods, dismissing this, one eyebrow raised, as though amused—and it is definitely amusing to look at this man doubled over, hands on his knees trying to catch his breath, as though he just ran a mile.
"Montello Sculpin," he says. "How are things running?"
"They're running. Although..." Montello Sculpin trails off with a quick glance at me, as if he's trying not to be suspicious. It seems he wants to discuss something important with Haymitch in private. I'm irritated that secrets are being kept from me even still, but I'm not going to interrupt.
"I will discuss this with you in the conference room," he concludes in a low voice, before turning to me. "Miss Everdeen! What an honor it is to meet the Mockingjay at last!"
It's hard for me to not resent my fame. I've been preconditioned to despise my stardom, given that everything I've associated with it has been immense hatred towards and pressure from the Capitol. Pressure to behave, pressure to do as I'm told, pressure to stay in love with Peeta.
Peeta. Just the name makes it feel as if my stomach is being constricted by an imaginary hand. It's not a pleasant feeling to be reminded of the boy—the man—with whom I defied the Capitol on several occasions, for whom I feigned affection—though I don't quite know what I feel for him now. I don't want to think of Peeta as being in the hands of the most evil souls in all of Panem, and I especially don't want to consider what they might be doing to him. Assuming they've left him alive, that is.
We've both caused them enough trouble, and they're not the type to hesitate when slitting anyone's throat. Although I feel guilty about it, I almost hope that they have offed him. He's being held captive by the same twisted minds that throw twenty-four half-starved kids into an arena and laugh while they fight to the death. It would be beyond foolish to put anything past the murderers who torched an entire district. Serious torture is a distinct possibility.
It's the sudden growling of the female guard's stomach that gives Montello and Haymitch an excuse to break away from the group. As she blushes, it occurs to me that she can't be more than a year older than me, much younger than I originally guessed. She apologizes to Montello. "Sorry, sir. I was about to grab breakfast. I haven't eaten in twelve hours."
"Perfect," he tells her. "Go ahead, you are dismissed. Katniss, are you hungry?"
"No, sir." Something about Sculpin makes me feel as though I should be calling him sir, which is unusual for me. I can't think of many other people who command that type of respect after the spectacle he made running.
"Good, good. Why don't you and this young man—" he jerks his head towards Gale "—go ahead with Latchkey and get something to eat. Mr. Odair, you should go along, too." I don't know what annoys me more: the fact that Montello Sculpin is clearly trying to get rid of us and doing a poor job of hiding it, that he completely ignored my response to his question, or that information continues to be concealed from me. My one consolation is that Finnick is being sent away, too, and that I'm not being considered unable to handle certain things because of my age. It's a small victory, though.
"Latchkey, would you escort them to the mess hall?" The girl stares me down as Montello makes his request, almost as if curious, though I can't quite get the meaning of it. Unsettled, I turn to watch Sculpin and Haymitch hurriedly make their way down one street, resentment burning in my eyes.
"Well, that's Captain Sculpin for you," she shakes her head in amusement. "I'm Latchkey, by the way, if you didn't pick up on that before. Uh—Cerise, that is. Latchkey. Cerise Latchkey. I'll answer to either name, so I guess it doesn't really matter what you call me." Cerise glances around almost nervously. To me, she seems restless and fidgety, though I'm not sure whether this is a personality thing or influenced by some pending event.
"So... I'll take you guys to the mess hall now?" Our lack of protest is understood as mutual agreement. The three of us follow Cerise down a series of near-empty streets until a long gray building sits in front of us. In contrast to the rest of the district so far, the mess hall is abuzz with people from all walks of life, presumably here for their morning meal.
After waiting in a long but fast moving line and receiving several stares combined with murmurs, the four of us each receive a bowl of oatmeal and a small roll. My heart twinges as I remember Peeta describing to me how each bread reflects the 'flavor' of the district from which it came. These rolls in particular, though similar to those of District 12, seem to be made of a coarser grain, in a quality that suggests that whoever made them had more important things than to spend decades perfecting the roll.
There isn't too much open in terms of seating, but we manage to find three seats together. Finnick, gentleman that he is, abandons the table and lets Gale, Cerise, and I take the three we located. I set my bowl down next to Gale's; our new companion sits across from us.
As she takes a seat, it catches my attention that there's something familiar about Cerise's features, about the way she holds herself, although I can't quite put my finger on it. I'm positive I've never met her before, and she doesn't quite remind me of any one person I've ever know. Her long, chocolate-colored hair, presently kept in two disorderly braids—one on either side of her head—matches the irises of her eyes. It's her olive skin, though, that almost gives her the look of a typical resident of the Seam and makes me ask, "Where are you from originally?"
With a quizzical look, Cerise points to her chest with her thumb, to verify that I'm talking to her and not someone else. When I nod, she tells me. "I'm from here. A good number of us are, actually. I'd say there are about eleven thousand indigenous District Thirteeners, but then we've got a whole lot of fellow instigators and refugees. I couldn't take a guess at how many of them we've got."
I'm astounded that the population of this district—which doesn't seem to be physically bigger than District 12—is so large. I had always assumed that there would be maybe two thousand, tops. But eleven thousand? Perhaps the rebellion has somewhat better odds for victory of than I'd originally thought.
"How did you get to be so big?" Gale asks, pushing his empty bowl towards the center of the table slightly.
"The elders, they say it was tough at the beginning," explains Cerise, "but once we got going, we must have started breeding like rabbits. I mean, there's not a whole lot of reason to not have kids. Sure, it can be a bit tougher to feed so many mouths during the winter, but we don't have the Hunger Games. Not like you guys."
It's all very true. I've been opposed to having children virtually my whole life, just so I wouldn't have to face the chance that they'd be selected as a Tribute. So I wouldn't have to feel what I felt when Effie Trinket read Prim's name off that slip of paper, way before all this started. It's a lifetime ago, but it's as vivid as yesterday. Or, more accurately, several days ago—the final day of the Quarter Quell stands out much better than the half-drugged blur of the hovercraft ride.
"So do you have a lot of siblings, then?"
"'A lot' is open to interpretation, of course, but I do have several. I'm the second youngest of five. Well, four, if you don't count Vigil. I don't know if I should count Vigil. Do you count dead siblings to the total? That always confuses me." I feel bad for asking now, but Cerise doesn't seem to be too bothered by the mention of her dead sibling. I'm almost envious; I know that if I ever lost Prim, the topic would be nearly unbearable for life.
"I would," Gale says quietly. I can tell that the same thoughts are going through his head. He's the oldest of four and fiercely protective of his younger siblings.
"If you don't mind me asking," I know I'm way overstepping here, but I am curious as to what might make a person not consider one of their siblings when counting their family members, "how did Vigil die?"
Cerise doesn't seem to mind me asking at all. "He was stringing up powerlines several years ago, and didn't think testing them to make sure they supplied power was an issue. They did, alright, a few thousand watts right up his arm. He never was the brightest in the bunch of us, that's for sure. But that was a long time ago. What about you, do you have siblings?"
"I have three. At least, I think I still do..." There's something very wrong with the tone of Gale's voice. It takes me a few seconds to piece everything together, and when I do, I feel immediately guilty. I realize that I neglected to ask him if his family was okay, if they made it out of District 12. I was so consumed by everything that was going on with my life that I'd forgotten about Gale entirely. I didn't even think about Hazelle and the kids when he told me about the Capitol planes setting fire to the whole place. I must have assumed that since he'd gotten my family out, his was already safe. I feel so rotten and selfish, and know that I must be the worst friend in the world.
"Oh, no... Gale, I'm so sorry," I tell him. I am. I love Gale's little siblings like he loves Prim, and something happening to them... I realize that if something happened to one of them, it would be just one of the many small tragedies at the hands of the Capitol, just one of the many to be murdered in the firestorm.
He stares at his empty bowl and elaborates without prompting. "It's so clear in my mind," he begins in a hollow voice. "Haymitch called your house as soon as he'd been informed. I was visiting your mother and Prim when he did, and he said that he could get a hovercraft to pick us up somewhere outside the woods. I suggested by the lake, since that would be more easily spotted by air.
"His warning gave us about twenty minutes, but that was certainly not enough time. I ran back to my house, shouting for people to get out and spread the word. It was Sunday evening, and my whole family was home. I was going to get them out of the district, then worry about getting them to the lake. But by the time we got out of the house, it seemed like the whole district knew. It was chaos. The peacekeepers had to have been told in advance—there were none to be found, though I'm sure that would've added to the madness.
"We had to fight our way through the crowd to get to the fence. Rory got separated from us when the first plane arrived and the fire started." His voice is choked as he says this. "And what's the worst thing is that I didn't even realize he was gone until we made it to the fence, when I asked him for help tossing a cinder block at it, to knock it down. And when I noticed, there was no time to find him. I had to get my mother and Vick and Posy out...
"I didn't go back for my own brother," he says bitterly, leaning forward and resting his head on his hands. Gale is obviously so torn up about this, I can't do anything besides put my arm around him. I don't know how much comfort this could be to him, though, given that he's had to watch me and Peeta put on another show for the Capitol. Except this time, I don't know if I was acting.
"He might still be alive, you know." Cerise's voice is quite, almost to the point of being inaudible above the mess hall's din. "They've been sending people to recover those that are left outside District 12. There's a chance that your brother will turn up."
I immediately want to take part in one of those recovery missions, not just out of a sense of duty to Gale, to whom I owe so much, but to find the survivors, my friends from home. And I know the woods so well! I jump up from my seat. "Cerise?"
"Hmm?"
"If, hypothetically, one were to sign up for one of those recovery trips, where would they go?" I don't know why I'm talking like I'm not about to dash off, but it seems like certain people—and I'm thinking of Haymitch here—would not be too happy if I were to run off and potentially get myself killed. And that's what ultimately makes up my mind: I want to defy Haymitch. I am going to go without telling anyone. A quick glance at Gale informs me that he is coming with me, no questions asked.
Cerise scratches her head. "Well... Captain Sculpin would know. He's in second-in-command of the military efforts." I consider the portly man that pulled Haymitch away to speak with him in private, and decide that he wouldn't be the best person to speak to if others are available.
She must see my intentions on my face and realize that I would rather not go through any friend of Haymitch's. "Arbor was saying that he signed up to leave on a mission there today, actually. He's the guy you spoke with at the gate this morning, and he should be getting off his shift soon. I'm pretty sure he would be willing to help you out, if you wanted to go. I'll take you to his quarters if you want, they're in the complex down the hall from mine. He'll probably be headed there for a nap."
"Thank you," I murmur, picking up my roll to scarf down on the way. I'm in no mood to eat anything at all, though I figure I should have at least a little something to go on, especially since I don't know the next time I will be eating. I look at the bowl of oatmeal guiltily, knowing that it would keep a starving person alive for another few days. Squandering a good meal is next to hitting a small child in my book—it simply isn't done.
"Don't worry," Cerise tells me, standing up. "Somebody will come by and eat it if you leave it there. There are plenty of people that aren't satisfied with the one serving of food, and people who just aren't hungry that will leave things for them. It's an imperfect system, but it keeps the food from going to waste."
She and Gale walk their empty bowls over to a counter designated for dirty dishes, and the three of us exit the crowded mess hall. Though the sun has fully risen, the sky is still a dull gray, forecasting a day of on-and-off showers. I love days like these—they always seem to be so full of mystery and adventure. Today is promising to live up to these expectations. Feeling slightly more energized, I notice a spring in my step that I have not been aware of in far too long. It's nice to be doing things again.