Arbor's quarters, as it turns out, are located in the massive sub-levels beneath the district. Given the nature of their chief industry—nuclear arms manufacturing—it's good that at least half of the city doubles as a fallout shelter. Cerise explained to us that the underground housing complex provides sleeping quarters for almost twenty thousand, though this space, spread out among eight floors, gets to be a bit crowded.
Arbor's room itself—on the fourth floor—is an atypical room in that it has reached its capacity limit. He shares it with five other roommates, according to Cerise, including one of her brothers. When she knocks, the door is answered by a lanky man with a mop of red hair.
"You know that Saxon isn't here," he bluntly informs her, denying her entry and returning to the room.
"I know that I know that. But I'm not here to see my brother, now am I?" she snaps, jamming her boot in between the door and the frame. "Is Fallon in?"
He seems to consider this for a moment, but decides to be difficult. "What's it to you?"
"Hutch Mandrel, you cannot be serious right now! You are not his personal bodyguard. Let us in!" With the magic word 'us,' this Hutch Mandrel notices Gale and me for the first time. He scratches his peach fuzz as he studies us, looking puzzled.
"Who're they?" It occurs to me that he is probably either not very intelligent or very uninformed. Cerise gives an exasperated sigh.
"It doesn't matter who they are, you dolt! They're here to see Arbor, and—"
"Looking for me?" The soft-spoken guard from outside the gate conveniently appears from behind us, in the act of pulling out a necklace of keys from under his black shirt. He looks at Mandrel before shutting his eyes, as if severely disappointed.
"Please tell me you're not being difficult again, Hutch," he says, voice as soft as before, though it's taken on a stern edge. "There's no reason to give people a hard time. Sometimes there are pressing matters at hand. You can't hold people up like that whenever you feel like it, and especially not in these days."
Hutch blushes, looking sheepish, before retreating to their dormitory. Arbor follows, inviting us in. For housing six people, the room does not look as cluttered as would be expected. In both of the corners farthest from the door sits both beds—well, all six beds, really. Rather than one bed, there is a large, rectangular structure that holds three mattresses rather than one, each suspended several feet above the one below it. Each of these small mattresses is perfectly made up with a scratchy-looking beige blanket, one deflated pillow at each head. Perhaps it isn't quite comfortable, but it is a practical design, especially when so many need a place to sleep.
Arbor pulls some assorted clothes from a drawer in a wardrobe and tosses them onto the middle bunk of the bed nearest to him, while Hutch Mandrel sits at a small table in the corner, polishing his boots. Not looking up, Arbor asks us, "So, you were looking for me?"
I'm caught off guard by the question, having forgotten why we came to see him in all the trouble with Hutch. Gale, on the other hand, answers without hesitating. "Cerise mentioned that you would know how we would sign up to take part in a recovery mission to District 12. Can you help us with that?"
"You came at a good time," he tells us, neatly packing his clothes into a duffel bag. "I'm just packing up to leave. Our roster isn't even close to full, but I am only second-in-command, so I don't have the power to approve or bar you from joining us. You two are more than welcome to accompany me and speak with Lieutenant Whetstone, but we have to hurry; our company is leaving very shortly."
As he says this, I think of something. "Would there be time for me to speak with my sister and mother?" I blurt out. "We haven't seen each other since I left for the Quarter Quell."
"Do you know what room they're staying in?"
I shake my head, feeling very guilty for not letting them know I'm okay before running off again. It's not my fault that I don't know which is their room, of course, but I feel like I've been detached from them for a long time. Back before the 74th Hunger Games, everything was family first, everything else after that. It feels like everything's changed since then, even though I know they will need me more than ever through the coming months.
Or maybe they won't. I don't know what this rebellion holds for me, but there is no doubt in my mind that my mother and sister will be invaluable as healers. My gut says that we won't be seeing much of each other, though this has an effect opposite of what I would have anticipated—rather than worrying me, I feel relieved.
"I'm sorry," Arbor says, not unkindly, "but we don't have the time." He starts to lift the bag he just packed, but pauses, as if stricken by a thought. "You'll need supplies if you're going to come. Standard issue clothes, boots, a survival kit. The kits I can loan you, and perhaps the boots, but as for clothes..."
He trails off, studying Gale, who is a good head taller than him. It's disappointing to think that our thrilling mission to District 12 will come to a screeching halt because of clothes, or the lack thereof. Help presents itself suddenly.
"He can have some of mine." Since the whole door incident, I had largely forgotten about Hutch Mandrel, who is now digging through one drawer. From it he removes two wrinkled black shirts; one pair of balled up pants—somewhere between beige and brown, with a seemingly infinite amount of pockets along the sides—a wad of socks, black like the shirts; a belt with slots to hang things from; one large jacket, dark green, with several pockets sewn on in case those on the pants were all miraculously filled; and finally, a bag identical to the one now on Arbor's shoulder. He stuffs the articles into the duffel and, assuring him that all the clothes are clean, hands it to Gale, who quietly thanks him.
"Good," notes Arbor. "Now—"
"You can borrow my clothes," says Cerise, looking at me. "My dormitory is on the level above this, not too far from here. It won't take more than five minutes."
He nods. "Perfect. The company is to assemble at the main gate. Shall we meet up there?"
"Of course." Cerise grabs me by the wrist and half drags me out of the room, then leads me through the hallways and up the stairs until we reach her room. She, like Arbor, wears her room key around her neck on a leather cord, and finally releases her grip on my wrist to pull the necklace over her head and unlock the door.
Her room is identical to Arbor's in every way, although it seems to have an air of organization that the other dormitory lacked. Perhaps it's the absence of people aside from the two of us, but it just feels more orderly and tidy. She hurries over to the metal wardrobe that corresponds to the one in Arbor's quarters and fishes for the supplies she promised me.
It takes Cerise very little time to pack, and within three minutes, two bags sit packed at her feet.
"What's with the second pack?" I ask, although the answer is clear.
"I decided that accompanying you might be a worthwhile experience," she says without missing a beat, though her formal tone leads me to believe that she might have other motives. I wonder how far back she and Arbor go, whether or not there is any depth to their relationship, or if they're just friends.
"Great," I say, taking the bag that she hands to me. It's lighter than I had expected, which is a good thing, I suppose, if I have to be carrying it. I hoist it over my shoulder and follow Cerise out the door.
Back above ground, the morning is now in full swing. People hurry from place to place, hauling everything from daily necessities like grain and cloth to rolls of blueprints and sheets of metal. A team of three younger boys—barely Reaping age—even pass by carrying a chopped down tree. What they could be doing with it, I can't even begin to imagine.
There isn't a single person just standing around, it seems. Everyone has a task, a duty, a place they need to be, something to deliver. It's like a colony of ants working almost voraciously, as though preparing for the lack of food source that accompanies the winter, even though it's still as hot and humid as it has been since mid-May. And they are preparing for the same purpose as an ant hill. The people of District 13 are preparing themselves for their survival. The months to come will be brutal, and it would be a mistake to not acknowledge that.
As we pass by one particularly narrow alleyway, Cerise tells me she has to make a quick stop in one of the buildings attached and she will be right out. Before I can say anything in response, she bolts, leaving me temporarily stranded in midst of all the district's activity. I lean up against the wall next to the alley, dropping my gear at my feet. As I wait, I massage my shoulder area, as the canvas straps bite in to them uncomfortably, despite their light weight.
Though Cerise hasn't been gone for more than two minutes, I entertain my eternally restless mind by observing conspicuous people in the crowd. Many of them are wearing clothing similar to those that Hutch and Cerise loaned to Gale and myself, though there are some that have variations on this and some completely different outfits entirely. Several people pass by with a brown leather strap over their right shoulder. Their arrogant gait and general aura of authority leads me to believe that these are the authority figures of the movement. I grimace at the thought of Haymitch getting a strap like that to remind everyone else that he is right and they are stupid.
Every face almost looks the same to me. Everyone just a nameless, focused being. I don't recognize a single person, and I doubt that I will ever speak with most of them. To me, each of them are the same person: the anonymous citizen, the generic soldier. It's overwhelming to be see so many that almost look familiar, but to be unable to place any names to faces.
But amongst the crowd of strangers hobbles a battered version of a familiar figure. Hair unkempt and singed, the worn-looking man is by far the most disheveled he's ever appeared to be. But despite the scruffy growth of hair on his chin and the puffiness of his eyes, the figure propped up against a crutch still resembles the Mayor Undersee I remember from District 12.
He doesn't notice me as he limps down the street clutching a folder under the arm that's not busy keeping him upright. I feel compelled to speak with him, to ask him about home—because if there is a man who would know about District 12, it would be the man who was formerly at its head—but Cerise reemerges from the alley as I straighten up to do so.
"Sorry about that," she tells me, adjusting the bag on her shoulder. There's a distracted look about her, as though she's not completely here. She silently leads me through the busy streets back to the main gate.
I don't quite know what I was expecting of the company that Gale and I will be traveling to District 12 with, but it certainly was not the motley crew that is gathered by a small, open building off to the left of the gate. Aside from Gale and Arbor, who appear to have arrived just moments before us, there are seven present in the company, looking as unusual next to each other as residents of the Capitol look compared to people of the districts.
Among the group is an extremely tall, well-built man whose dark skin and stature reminds me for a second of Thresh, the male District 11 tribute from the first time I was in the Games. He is talking to an older-looking man who appears to be half of the first man's height. To their right probably stands a girl who is mostly obscured by her mane of curly black hair. Facing away from her is a slight man with a mousy appearance, actively miming some event to a pair of twins who are struggling to contain their laughter.
The least unusual of the bunch is the serious-looking woman who appears to be roughly the same age as Johanna Mason. She wears the leather strap over her shoulder, and I reason that this is Lieutenant Whetstone.
From over by the bizarre-looking company, Arbor approaches us, Gale just behind. Arbor nods his head at Cerise's bag, eyebrows raised in mild surprise, but says nothing wordlessly leading us over to the commanding officer.
"Lieutenant Whetstone," Arbor addresses her, saluting. She just waves it off, as though the formality of it is a waste of time and nothing more. His respect is implied and does not to be displayed outright. He eases up.
"Major." A nod of the lieutenant's head in greeting subtly prompts him to go ahead and speak his piece.
"Lieutenant, there are several who have expressed interest in joining the company for this mission."
"Very well. I will consider them. Who, these three?" She shifts her attention to Gale, Cerise, and myself, studying us. It's Cerise she addresses first, which is unsurprising, as she is the one of us dressed in standard District 13 military dress. "Who are you, soldier?"
"Sergeant Cerise Latchkey, sir!"
Lieutenant Whetstone seems to consider her for a moment. She takes a quick and uneasy glance at the rest of the company, before telling Cerise, "Alright, then."
Whetstone addresses both Gale and me at the same time, one skeptical eyebrow raised. "You have no military training." It's not a question, but rather an observation. A true one, at that. The Capitol may have generally turned a blind eye to those of us who would hunt in the woods, but had we been honing our skills for an uprising? Certainly they would have stepped in somewhere.
"And neither of you are in ideal physical condition." Another true statement. I glance at Gale, with his various burns, scrapes, and bruises, his arm still resting in a sling. Not quite optimum health, but seventy-five years of Hunger Games have given numerous examples that plenty of others have dealt with worse. I'm in a much better state that him, but still a bit beat up from the Quarter Quell. It seems like ages ago.
"We will be no hindrance to the company," says Gale, voice even and measured, as though he rehearsed the line a dozen times. "And we both know the area surrounding District 12 very well."
The lieutenant nods, unconvinced. "Aren't you supposed to be pregnant?" she asks me.
Oh. I knew there was something I was forgetting. I can sense Gale shifting his weight uncomfortably to my right. My cheeks burn as I respond. "Supposed to be, but I'm not. It was a ploy. We—Peeta—we were trying to shake the Capitol citizens' support of the Quell. I'm—I'm not."
Whetstone raises her eyebrows as though she had been suspicious of the fact as it was, but otherwise shows no emotion. Another glance at the mismatched group, and Lieutenant Whetstone admits us into the company, whom she calls to attention to introduce us.
"Company, this is Everdeen, Hawthorne, and Latchkey. They will be joining us for this mission." She names each member of the group quickly, checks the watch on her wrist, and paces for a few minutes. I learn that the tall man who resembles Thresh is Strake Fulcrum, the small man's name is Cypress Bowline, the frizzy-haired woman goes by her last name, Julin, the mousy man is just called Toggle, and the twins are Rex and Rio Flintlock, though no one can ever tell them apart.
"Lieutenant Whetstone sure seems uptight to me," I remark to Gale, watching the commander pace back and forth, look around, check her watch, and repeat the process. He nods, but doesn't respond. I feel as though my false pregnancy with Peeta—even though it was just a strategy in which I had no hand in forming—might have upset him to a degree I wouldn't have thought. Between me in the Quell, the burning of District 12, and the loss of Rory, he has had a lot to deal with, and I can't blame him for being stressed out. Everything has been tough, and it's just going to get worse.
Whetstone, it seems, gives up waiting for whatever she is waiting for and pulls a radio from her pocket. She hisses angrily into the device before jamming it back into her pocket, looking frustrated.
"What was that about?" I ask Cerise.
"I'm not sure, but I have a feeling we'll find out eventually."
We do. Within two minutes, a man in his mid-thirties appears, an genuine look of apology smeared across his face. This does not, however, prevent Lieutenant Whetstone from chewing him out. As I watch her rant at the poor man, I resolve to never get on her bad side if possible. She finishes up, shakes the man's hand and pulls out her radio once more, this time speaking into it in a significantly calmer fashion. The gate grinds open in response.
The man—Cerise and Arbor reason that he is our pilot—leads us back through the field we crossed mere hours ago, but this time towards the air field rather than away from it. The crossing marks official start of our mission back to District 12, perhaps for the final time.