This is the story of Panem two decades after the revolution, as peace reigns and the country seems ripe for a rebirth after twenty-two years of reconstruction. Plutarch Heavensbee has risen as President of the country, leading with a fair and rational mind over the people. Panem's never forgotten the Hunger Games, nor Katniss and Peeta Mellark, still the lovers of the nation – and now parents to two children.
But the Mellarks' daughter, Iris, wants nothing more to emerge from the shadow of her famous parents and build her own destiny. With the rise of an old threat many have forgotten and a name unrivaled in fear in this hopeful but fragile country, she'll get the chance to rise as much more than just a child of the Mockingjay.
Told from multiple perspectives of heroes, villains, lovers, and victims, this is the account of Panem's breaking point – and the events and people that changed the country forever.
District 3 | 22 Years After the Rebellion
Beetee Latier was a good man. Of that Elora Vasquez was sure.
The young woman had looked after and cared for Beetee's home for the last two years. More and more she looked after Beetee, as well. The old victor's smarts were as sharp as ever, but he was going on seventy years old now Often times he'd forget his things, leave behind important possessions, and on rare occasions, forget events and people he'd recently met. Elora had needed to introduce herself three times to him before he'd come to remember her.
Elora had been just a young girl during the rebellion, but she'd remembered the terror that had gripped District 3 as the bombs had fallen and showered the town with ash and fire. She'd learned to keep her reservations and her wits about her. Yet the first time she'd walked into Beetee's home after the district's mayor hired her to take care of the aging victor, he'd opened all his doors to her without a single suspicion.
"Being alone focuses my concentration," he'd told Elora after she'd asked about visitors or guests stopping by. "I can work without interruptions. It's all about momentum, you see. Once you put your mind to a task, you can slip away from everything else. Plutarch likes that. He still calls on me to handle the little details he needs."
"The President?" Elora had said, shocked that the aging victor had kept up with Panem's leader years after the rebellion had come to a close. "He's…"
"A man of many faces, yes," Beetee had finished for her. "An interesting man. A man who remembers."
Elora had come to respect Beetee as a good friend. She didn't have a problem listening to him talk for an hour on end about the most minute of technical details. After all, she'd found out that he needed much more caretaking than his house. The old victor didn't keep many possessions. A digital clock on a sunlit windowsill, a paper map of the bright side of the moon Beetee had drawn himself above the fireplace, and an old, coiled ring of wire brought life to an otherwise spartan home.
Yet even Beetee must have gotten lonely from time to time, Elora figured. He'd brightened at their chats, and he'd always enjoyed speaking of his annual visits to the Capitol in celebration of Remembrance Day that marked the end of the rebellion.
Twenty-two years now, Elora thought as she pushed open his door. He'd be going back in just a couple weeks now.
She knocked on the door as she walked on. "Beetee?"
Silence answered her. Maybe he was asleep, or he'd remembered an occasion for once. Fair enough. She could attend to what needed attention on her own. As she stepped past the threshold and into the wood-paneled front hall, however, she noticed something off. Something smelled foul in the house. Elora crinkled her nose at the smell. Had Beetee left food sitting out too long?
"Beetee?" she called out again.
No response.
Elora frowned and climbed the stairs. Everything was in its place, but a queasy feeling in her gut told her something was off. The white blinds to a foot-to-ceiling window on the second floor swayed as Elora stepped off the stairs and poked her head into the master bedroom to her left.
She sighed. Beetee sat quietly on a wooden chair, facing away from her and as still as a statue. He must have fallen asleep some time earlier and hadn't heard her. Just to be safe, she walked around the chair and glanced down at the victor.
He stared back.
Elora screamed. A short, stubby knife stuck out from the victor's throat. Streams of fresh blood ran down his shoulders and chest, pooling into a crimson pond in his lap. Frosty glaze coated Beetee's dark eyes, and his mouth gaped open in a look of shock.
"Oh no," she said, scrambling back and falling on the victor's bed. "Oh God."
"No gods in today."
Elora didn't turn around at the thick, raspy voice behind her. She took off running, dashing out the bedroom door and leaping down the steps. She had one foot out the front door when something sharp smacked into her shoulder.
"Ah!" she screamed, falling into a face full of dirt and a whirl of her brown hair.
Piercing pain shot through her shoulder and spread like a bolt of lightning through her torso. Elora grit her teeth and reached behind her. Her fingers ran over something lodged in her shoulder – a handle? She whimpered and crawled forward, desperate to get away from the secluded house to where someone could find her.
She couldn't do anything more for Beetee.
Before Elora could get another inch, however, a rough grip dragged her back into the house. She struggled as a hand tossed her against the wall. Blood – her blood – trickled out in splotches and drips onto the floor.
Elora's breath caught in her chest as she looked up.
She saw the blade swinging at her neck. Then she saw nothing.
District 12
Iris Mellark
"Dahlia! Don't run off."
I don't know why I told her that. Maybe it was because the first snow of winter had fallen the night before, and my thirteen year-old cousin Dahlia's blonde hair blended in like camouflage with the frosty landscape of District 12. With her white coat, small stature, and pale skin, she could have fallen into the snow and I might never have found her. That's what she got for being my aunt Prim's daughter, I guess.
Of course, she wasn't a Mellark, like me. She was Dahlia Everdeen. No one but my aunt knew who her father had been, and I wagered that dark secret would never get out.
My younger brother, Forest, snorted. "When was the last time Dahlia ran off anywhere?"
"Just being responsible," I said. "Since you're not going to be."
"I was responsible enough to go out here in the freezing wilderness with you and her."
"It's not freezing."
"Uh, the snow?"
"It's not the wilderness either."
Forest shrugged and glanced around the cobblestone buildings of the marketplace. "Got me there."
I rolled my eyes. My fifteen year-old brother might have gotten my father's blonde hair and round face, but the similarities ended there. Forest had a knack for getting on my nerves. Worse, he'd grown too big for me to do much about it. I was two years older and my parents expected me to watch out for him, but that was a job easier assigned than done.
I twirled the end of my dark ponytail in the fingers of my left hand and clutched a deerskin sack in my right. Tempting aromas from a loaf of wheat bread inside wafted out, but I shrugged it off. It probably wasn't as good as my dad's baking, anyway, but he didn't have time for that today. My parents had bigger obligations on their agendas for the day, something that hadn't gone away all my life.
"Dad said they'd be meeting with Plutarch for an hour," I said. "Let's go stop by Haymitch's first. I can drop off this bottle."
"We could just sit here and drink it instead," Forest said.
I feigned a smile. "That's a great idea. Dahlia, wanna get drunk?"
My little cousin furrowed her brow and shoved her hands in her coat's pockets. From the look in her blue eyes, I guessed she wasn't entirely sure I was joking.
"The nays win," I said to Forest. "C'mon."
Dahlia trudged through the snow next to me as we left the merchant square. She looked away and slumped her shoulders. Something about her posture made a knot tighten up in my stomach.
"You okay?" I said, putting a hand on her shoulder.
She nodded and scrunched up the corner of her mouth. After a pause she said, "Mom's just been quiet the last week."
That didn't surprise me. For as long as I'd known my aunt Prim, I'd always found her short on words. My mom had said she'd never been one to speak loudly, but I figured there was something else that haunted her. Maybe it was something from the past and the rebellion that my mom had fought through, or maybe whatever had brought Dahlia into this world was behind it.
"Have you tried talking with her?" I said. She shook her head, and I suggested, "Why don't you go spend more time with that friend of yours, then?"
"He's busy," she said.
"Too busy to talk?"
"Rain's…behind in school."
"Y'know," Forest cut in, kicking a clump of snow out of his way as we walked towards the outskirts of town. "You could offer to help him with that. Two things done at once."
Dahlia shrugged. I didn't know what she saw in Rain Hawthorne, the oldest son of my mom's friends Madge and Gale. Gale had always seemed like a control freak to me, as if he teetered on the edge of yelling at someone every time a sensitive topic came up. Rain not only seemed like he'd follow in his father's footsteps, but also was two years older than Dahlia. His younger brother, Lake, seemed like a better friend and was Dahlia's age, but he'd never taken the initiative to talk much with my cousin.
I brushed my hand over snow-covered tree branches as we walked. Forest complained about the winter, but I liked this season. The white blanket of snow turned everything soft. I felt as if I could lie down and float away. The cold had never bothered me, anyway. It felt familiar.
"At least it's pretty out," I said as we walked up to the old Victor's Village. It wasn't much of a victors' home now, as the only victor who lived here was Haymitch. Snow lined the iron gate at the front of the avenue. A skinny, dirty cat hissed and scampered off behind the nearest house.
"Freezing," Forest said.
"Baby."
I didn't tell him my fingers had gone numb as we walked up to Haymitch's door. As nice as winter was, remembering my gloves would have helped.
When I went to knock on the old oaken door of the house, however, it flew open in my face. A grizzled, gray-bearded man wearing a brown shirt with a black stain on its stomach narrowed an eye and coughed.
"What're you doing out?" Haymitch said.
"We brought a –" I started.
"It's freezing out, sweetheart."
Forest beamed in his victory as I frowned and held up my bag. Haymitch shrugged and turned away from the door, letting me into the warm inside of his house. A fire crackled and spit in his hearth, casting yellow light and dancing shadows around his barren den. A half-empty bottle of gold liquid sat on a low table as the only decoration of note.
"What's in that? Bread?" Haymitch grunted as I set the bag down.
"Refills," Forest said.
"Oh, fantastic," Haymitch said as Dahlia shut the door behind us. "Now I'll get Peeta lecturing to me about alcoholism again. What a delight."
"Mom sent us out," I said. "She's talking to Plutarch again."
Haymitch snorted and rooted around my bag. "Who let her make the decisions?"
He pulled out the bottle of whiskey we'd bought for him at one of the stores in town, pulled off its top, and took a deep sniff. "Besides," Haymitch said, swirling around the contents. "I already talked to the guy. You might not wanna go home soon."
"Why's that?"
"Well, stop standing around and gaping like fish and I'll tell you."
He grabbed Dahlia's hand as Forest and I took a seat on his couch. "Got somethin' for you," he said to me cousin. "Hold on."
Haymitch hurried into his kitchen and returned with a wicker basket in his hand. A pile of oranges reached up over the sides, a flash of color in the house full of neutral colors.
"Know you like 'em," he told Dahlia, giving her a pat on the shoulder. "Tell your mom I said hi when you go home."
Dahlia took the basket and smiled. I don't know how two people so different got along, but Haymitch and my cousin understood each other on some level beyond me. Maybe it was her quiet demeanor and his solitude that clicked so well, but it was a connection that flew over my head.
"So," I said as Dahlia squished onto the couch between Forest and I. "Why am I not supposed to go home?"
"Stress relief. For me," Forest said.
"Mm. 'Preciate that," I said.
Haymitch settled down on a leather couch and took a swig from his new bottle. He stared into the fire, sighed, and said, "Bit of a stressful time."
"Why?" I said.
"Well, we all got the holiday coming up –"
"Yeah, great. Fun."
"You know, you honestly disturb me with all that sarcasm," Haymitch said, pointing at me and taking another drink. "You sound like me."
"Could be worse."
"Could be. What's so bad about a free trip to the Capitol? It's not like everyone's watching you. Just Katniss and Peeta."
I frowned and looked away out the window. "They do," I said. "They're always asking about my parents, though. It's like I'm just their agent or something. Like who gives a damn about Iris Mellark, huh?"
Forest snorted. "Free food and celebrations to me. I'm not gonna whine about it."
Haymitch shook his head and set down his bottle on the table. "Think your parents don't like the attention, honestly."
"They handle it fine."
"I didn't say nothin' about handling. I said they don't like it."
"Why, it's…" I pause and wave a hand in the air. "People know their names, at least. Everyone does."
"Not all for good reasons," Haymitch said, a shadow from the fire trotting across his face. In that instant, the wrinkled lines across his forehead turned into fault lines and aged him ten years.
We sat in silence for a few moments until a honk broke it up. One of Haymitch's geese wandered into the room from the kitchen, investigating the noise.
"Get out," Haymitch said, throwing a cushion at the goose.
Dahlia looked offended. "It can stay," she pleaded.
"It'll poop on you," he said.
That shut her down. Dahlia froze in mid-stand and reclined back into the couch as the goose waddled off.
"You didn't answer why we're not supposed to go home," I said, stealing an orange from Dahlia's basket and peeling the fruit.
Haymitch picked up his bottle again and eyed its contents. "You're persistent, huh? Tell your mom she needs to parent better."
"Coming from you?" Forest said with a smirk.
"I parent geese. I'm an expert, boy."
"Not if they're crapping in the house," my brother said.
Haymitch feigned a look of indignation. "Manners! Ah, you won't get that one."
"Why's Plutarch even here?" I said. I wanted to get to the bottom of things before Haymitch veered off into a drunken rant about geese droppings.
"What, you don't like our glorious leader stopping by?" he said, taking another drink. "Wasn't such a glorious conversation, and it wasn't about the holiday. Old friend died."
"Who?"
"Way to pry, sweetheart. Don't know if you know him. Old victor from District 3, Beetee. He was in his seventies."
I scratched my neck and looked away. "So…was it just like old age?"
"Nope," Haymitch said, slamming his bottle down on the table. Dahlia reeled back as drops of alcohol sprayed on her. "Murder."
None of us spoke for a moment. Murder? Who'd want to kill an old victor? I'd only met Beetee once, but he hadn't made much of an impression. What made someone want to get rid of him?
Forest spoke for me on that thought. "Why?"
"Why? Ask the guy with a calling card," Haymitch said, folding his arms and looking out the window. His eyes closed halfway. "Whoever killed him left one, at least."
"What was on it?" I said.
Haymitch chuckled. "Just one thing. Guy said who he wants to hurt next."
"Who?"
"Victors. Plutarch. Anyone associated with the rebellion, and I guess that includes me," Haymitch said. "He made a point of singling out one person, though. I guess whoever's behind it, he really doesn't like your mom."
Author's Note: Thanks for reading! This story is slightly altered from the end of Mockingjay: Some characters who died in the books are still alive here for plot purposes, including (but not limited to) Finnick, Madge, and Prim. Several other details, such as when Katniss and Peeta had children, have also been altered for content.
I'm always open to suggestions, questions, critiques, reviews, and anything else that can help me write and tell the story, so chime in if you have any comments! Story's rated T for violence, mature language, physical and psychological horror, and occasional references to adult themes. All established Hunger Games content, including but not limited to Panem, the Capitol, Katniss, Peeta, Haymitch, Prim, Finnick, Annie, and other material, is the property of Suzanne Collins. Enjoy!