Disclaimer: All Hunger Games characters and uses of the original sentences or paragraphs are the property of Suzanne Collins. I own nothing, nor do I plan on profiting from using her work. No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: Extra long in hopes of extra long reviews? Thank you to everyone who has alerted or favorited this story. I'm loving all the reviews you give me. I swear I read about each one twice. Thanks for reading. Sorry for typos. I think some Peeta fans will be liking this chapter.. quite a bit. (Again, tell me if you think Katniss is out of character. For this situation and the changes she's made since normal Katniss, hormonal Katniss, to pregnant and trapped Katniss, I think they're practical, as well as the conclusions she's met are realistic at this point. If you don't share!) -Taryn(:
Chapter Two
As if a weight tugs at the back of my neck, my head dips low the moment we step from the hovercraft onto the dark, dreary street behind the President's mansion. All around me rises the Capitol. Jagged skyscrapers competing with the bowl of mountains in the distance. The manicured grass at the edge of the lawn. Hedges of sweet smelling flowers. Night sky a hypnotic blue. All painted in moonlight.
There is a stillness about me. When last I was here, being blindly escorted from place to place, from hospital bed to other restraining means it seemed like a headquarters of bustle and business. Head Peacekeepers from every district stopping by. Other politicians or trusted advisers, Gamemakers, coming and going by hovercraft and car. Now, there is nothing but silence.
I'm used to stranger Peacekeepers when I am within the mansion's confinements, so when I feel Leon's warm hand on my lower back guiding me gently on my way, a surge of shock runs up the length of my spine. A series of threats and distant arena memories stick out in my thoughts and I think to flinch, strike him across the face with a blinding blow from my elbow, escape.
Then, we enter a door in the back of the President's mansion, shuffle quickly through a hall, fly down a flight of stairs, and I know that there's no escaping. I'll be met only with another Peacekeeper when this one falls, then the whole city would stand in my way. Whether I made it through that or not, I also know the mountains would pose their own barricade should I try to free myself.
My hearts sinks with every floor we pass. As far as I know they go deeper into the earth than District 12's mines. Despite my constant shifting and the urge to shove his touch away, Leon's hand remains against my back, and lifts away only when the gleam of an elevator at the end of the next hall appears. For the oddest reason, the lack of his touch makes me feel colder than I had before it. I'm so starved of friendly human contact that my body's reactions must be way off of practical.
"I'll be waiting here until you are released," Leon says. Again, it is almost as if he could sense whenever I'm in need of some reassurance. I'm horrified by how reassuring that one promise is to me. The way his eyes bore into my face, equal parts observant and concerned.
A twinge in my mind warns me he could be playing with me, and my hand raises to my throbbing head. He is just waiting for a chance to get my guard down and kill me. Guns are faster than arrows. I have no arrows. Yet, it's as if I've never left the arena. He's the ally I can't trust wholeheartedly but despite it, I dearly wish him to accompany me on the path ahead of myself; of life or death, of a perilous walk on a tight rope as thin as paper.
Leon draws against the nearest wall and repositions his hat over his forehead. I can't see his eyes underneath the shadow, and it seems like he's just an empty man once more, with nothing but orders to follow. Any comfort he gave me, swiftly slips away at the reminder.
Swallowing thickly, I step into the elevator and instantly my thoughts go to what matters. It's completely unavoidable. His name is on the tip of my tongue but tinted with vinegar and other unpleasant tastes. It is nagging me in the back of my mind, tinged with unnameable emotions, worries, and frustrations.
What has Peeta done to upset Snow?
I've been waiting for this day, when he'll act out and try to get me back. Even if four months have passed between my capture and now, I still feel as though the action has come far too soon. Too risky. President Snow has been nothing but patient with me the past few weeks, but if Leon's words are of any indication, I might not get to continue this safe in-between existence I've managed to cling onto.
Snow will be wanting a counter strike. Whatever Peeta's done, he will want me to do better. And what frightens me isn't the thought that I will have to do it. It's that I can't. Everyone knows I'm an awful actress. I can't lie to save my life, literally. And Peeta is the best actor in the world, how can I compete? How can Snow expect me to contend against him?
My legs are stiff with abject terror the lower the elevator drops and in response the more floors that drift by. I'm thinking of the mines and its own elevator. District 12's elevator may not be as shiny or the ride so smooth, but the more I think of the miles of rubble over my head, inescapable thoughts of my father surface in my mind. All those nightmares throughout my childhood rush in, swiping with them my strength. A pang in me cries out for drugs; only bringing on a new worry of substance abusing. All of it crashes onto me, while I'm stuck in a small box that doesn't seem to have enough air.
Don't faint, I think, the bite of my fingernails in my outer thigh commanding just that.
When the metal doors finally slide open, I stand for a minute, knees shaking, and two Peacekeepers that I don't know come in to drag me out. They lead me into a short hall with lights overhead that are far too bright. There are no windows, only a chill that wets the air with a scent of soil and mildew. There are multiple doors along the corridor, and a cheap, graying carpet spanning the length of the floor, but the door at the end of the hall is the only one the guards seem to notice.
The room is bitterly cold, the hallway almost pleasant in comparison. A rough, metal table stands in the middle of everything, surrounded by several chairs. One harsh bloom of light comes from a lamp in the corner and a phone is set on the table just below a large television hanging on the opposite wall. I don't know what to make of it; an office? Or a room of potential imprisonment? Torture chamber?
The concrete floors under my feet look to be stained here and there by dark splotches of either brown or black, and the rusty drain in the middle of the perfectly square-walled room makes me feel as though things that I can not even imagine have happened here.
To top it all off, President Snow stands waiting.
"Do you want me to tie her?" asks one of the Peacekeepers.
"Please," Snow says, a hard look flitting across his expression.
I hiss when two rough hands behind me quickly cross my wrists and tie them together. It takes all my pride not to squirm, or spit. A strand of hair falls loose from my braid. When I toss my head to flip the lock out of my eyes, it only slides forward again along my opposite cheek.
With all the kindness of a butcher the two Peacekeepers deposit me into a chair at the back of the table, thankfully far from Snow. Why tie me? I wondered. Has Peeta done something to cause me to grow violent? It's possible, but with my condition, very unlikely. I'll probably, embarrassingly, be too focused on his safety than to do anything that matters.
Snow turns and stares at me for a fraction of a second, then looks to the guards. "Leave us."
The men promptly depart, closing the door after them. In the ensuing silence, my heart beats so heavily in my chest I'm afraid he can hear it. Yet, I recall Leon's words. He won't kill me. Only break me. I can't let him break me. All the terror, all my fears and uncertainties I lock tightly on the inside. Outside, I straighten my shoulders high, or as much as my tied hands and pregnancy allows them to be. I refuse to break the connection of our eyes; not allowing him to win. I can tell there's something different. Which only brings me back to the question that's gnawing at my mind. What did Peeta and the District 13 do?
"I've been a very polite and patient man with you, Miss Everdeen."
He expects a reply, and I don't have one. Sure, I'm glad he has been that way, but I never asked for it. Far as I'm concerned I don't owe him a thing. Though he seems convinced I owe him my life ten times over. While he plays his games, pacing around the edge of the table, I twist my wrists to test just how tightly the ropes are bound and I bite into the side of my cheek when the coarse fabric grate against my skin.
"I have given you many chances. All of which you have turned down," Snow continues to say. He stands right in front of me now and I suddenly wish all my hair was loose, so I could hide my face behind a curtain. His dark eyes shift over my expression studying me with thoughtful, unnerving precision. "Since I'm a generous person, I will give you one last chance before jumping to the less pleasant means of your cooperation."
To stand up for my beliefs or to save my child? Is what he's asking me. Torn, is one word for how I feel, but one thing makes me weaker than anything and it is the last remaining questions that taunt my choices at each cross road.
How can I abandon the last person who stands with me? What kind of human being would give away their own child for their obstinance? Who was I to take the life of this little being inside me? Wouldn't I just be as monstrous as the Capitol itself if I murdered the innocent child? How could I justify something like that?
The answer is simple.
I can't.
I have no choice. With all my strength and remaining determination not to let him break me, all my stubbornness and loyalty, I just simply can't. He knows I have no choice and I say, very unenthusiastically, "What do you want me to do?"
His lips stretch into a disturbing smile. "Good choice, but I will get to the specifics later. We have time yet." Snow takes the seat at the opposite side of the table to me, hands folding into each other on top of the rough silver surface. "For now, how was your trip?" he asks. "Everything you imagined it to be, I hope."
I'm sure he doesn't miss the flash of grief that slithers across my face. Maybe he saw more than I wanted. All those people and even, possibly, my family lost. Gone. Never to be found again. And it's all my fault, which makes it all the more painful. I refuse to answer him.
I break eye contact and stare at the floor. Defeated momentarily. He asks twice more. I don't answer.
A daring thing, and I realize even more so when he roughly pushes himself back up. Every sharp step of his foot around the edge of the table coils my muscles tighter. And when his hand reaches for the hem of my shirt, it is like a pair of claws, greedily grasping at me. I jerk away, my back tight against the back of the chair, but it doesn't stop Snow from ripping the fabric of my shirt aside.
My hands instantly itch to retaliate, with a few stronger, swifter blows to the face, but like he's obviously predicted this would happen, my wrists are bound too tight to so much as push myself into a more comfortable position. I had to sit, unable to retch myself away from the hateful, monstrous man touching me.
Soft, luminous blue lines of my veins spread across the paler skin of my abdomen like a twisting labyrinth. Snow's fingers trace every last one, making it seem more like a spiderweb, the gooseflesh on my arms and legs prickling every one of my hairs in displeasure. In reaction to my rapid heart rate, the child begins to grow restless, and kicks. Snow lifts his chin, eyes steady on my face as he places three fingers right over the spot it last hit. I wince at the second spasm of the child, its movement nearly painful.
"Very strong," Snow says, approvingly.
Strong and stubborn, I thought. His words break a carefully bordering dam in my mind, reaching into my troubled motherhood side. One minute I'm disgusted by his touch that I have no chance to repel and the next I have images of him taking my strong child and throwing it carelessly into the arena. Just to see how strong it would really be.
I know I'm not far off mark when he comments, lightly, "An even stronger spirit, no doubt. Like its mother. Something to test... or crush, don't you think?"
My eyes shut unbearably. "No."
"What was that?"
"No," I say, louder and reopening my eyes.
"What will you do to keep it from happening, Katniss?"
The fists behind my back are so tight that I'm sure the lack of blood circulation is turning my fingers blue. "Whatever you want me to." The words like venom on my tongue.
He does not answer immediately, but continues to stare at me with hard eyes, his hand now very heavy on my stomach. Something in me is nudging loose. A thing I grapple to hold close. A piece of my sanity. Something Prim does to me, too. The true need for me to protect the child. A leaking desperation seeping into my voice. "Anything," I say. "I'll be the Mockingjay. Your Mockingjay."
It's what he wanted to hear. "Good, your fiance has been very troublesome lately and I think if you get out there, show him what's really at stake, this whole thing might be over quicker than we both anticipated."
There's a tinge of expectancy in his eyes that tells me he wants to see my shock at the mention of my fiance. Even though Leon told me about the rebels' meddling, I'm not sure if he was supposed to. Maybe he let it slip, or thought Snow wouldn't think a thing of it. Something like moral decency keeps me from relaying the mess up on the Head Peacekeeper's behave, and I take on a bewildered frown. "Peeta?"
Thankfully, I didn't have to fake the longing in my voice, which causes Snow to smile. "He's been busy."
"With what?"
Snow's tongue darts out of his mouth, licking his lower lip and the smell of the rose on his suit is overcome with blood. The rusty, sharp-acidic scent flows into my lungs, swelling inside my throat. I thought I had gotten accustomed to it from all the talks we've had. Almost did. But once it became painfully obvious, the rose's scent being drowned out, my stomach heaves.
"Well, nothing that out does anything you've ever done," Snow says, oblivious to my increasing repulse. "Don't dwell on worry about that," he assures me. "Just some little agitating task he's pulled off. Like heading a rescue mission in District 4, and retrieving the prisoners I'd been harboring there."
"Prisoners?"
"Annie Cresta."
This stirs something in my memory. Someone Johanna mentioned... and then I hear Finnick, screeching at the jabberjays, far distance, echoing in the caves. A surge of irrational jealousy runs along my limbs. Peeta's saving people. Other people and not me. Moments later, I get over that, and it's replaced with an unmistakable, merciful lightness. Peeta can outdo President Snow. In one way or another. It's not the fact that he's saved someone, because in the light of the war, that little task seems so small. The lightness spawns from the hope that if he and District 13 can pull off one thing without dying, maybe it could lead to more...
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Hope is easy to attach to, especially in my state. They failed to get me. Have failed to do anything in the past four months. There must have been a reason for them to risk everything to save this young woman. Annie wouldn't be as heavily watched as I am, nor would they think of Peeta going to get her. Which only makes me wonder how Finnick's health is fairing. Maybe he refuses to become their famous firebrand symbol unless he gets his Annie. Or the snakes did him in far more than people think. It would make sense. Maybe that means he'll be joining the rebellions publicity front soon.
Hope simmers inside of me, for the first time since the announcement of the Quarter Quell. Foreign as it is, and as much as I hate to hope when I have nothing certain to grasp, the emotion must surge across my expression, because I catch Snow's eyes flaring with relentless anger.
"Don't be getting any ideas. Be careful that he doesn't surmount himself. I'll hold you accountable, and if you think to use him as a weapon against me you will find out just how far I am willing to go to save this country, Miss Everdeen!"
His voice raises for the first time I've heard it and he gives my stomach a hard, painful slap, before rising to his feet and swinging around towards the phone the gives a shrill cry. I suck in a sharp breath, consumed with the unfairness of his words. How can I control Peeta from here? What makes it my job to reign him in, thousands of miles away and completely cut from communicate ties?
"Yes," President Snow says into the phones receiver. I don't bother raising my eyes from the floor as he continues to talk, his words flying in one of my ears and out the other. Anger and fear wells up inside my chest along with everything else gathered there for the day. I shift around, hands still tied, trying to knock the fabric of my shirt back over my all too exposed (and vulnerable) belly.
Snow's voice raises, drawing my attention, "Put it on the screen," he says. With those words alone, I've already got my eyes up, focusing on the television, so he doesn't demand anything of me as it flashes quickly with the Capitol's symbol. The skin on the back of my neck prickles, and I wonder what he's going to show me.
At first I can't make sense of the scene. It's all moving too fast, the camera's slant all too strange. Quickly, I find that the blurs of color moving around are a group of running people. Peeta's among them, and he's holding, to my utter shock, a gun. But so is half the other rebels, all dressed in a similar outfit of light gray. They're in some sort of hallway, pausing only to mutter over a wrist watch on Peeta's arm, and all of them obviously nervous or skittish. Every time they turn a corner the camera switches angles.
"Where is this?" I demand. "When?"
"District Four's Justice Building," Snow answers. "These are what our security camera's picked up, and this happened today. This morning. While you were out."
The tapes have no sound, I have to rely purely on facial expression, hand motions, and lips to understand them. Peeta's very evidently in charge, as he runs a pace in front of everyone else and whenever they reach a doorway or other means of obstruction they look to him for an answer.
I know Snow is watching me. To gauge what I make of this. What ideas this might give me. I couldn't care less what he found, though. This is the first time I've seen a familiar face in.. such a long time. Johanna I last saw weeks ago; a broken nose and black eyes, and shaved head. A stranger, really. Peeta though, is the picture of health. I can't take my eyes off of him. For one heartbeat, my eyes fly from the screen to look at Snow. I search his face frantically for a sign of smugness, triumph, anything. Would this tape show Peeta being shot down? Taken into custody? Were those things he said earlier all lies to get me to watch eagerly? Reluctantly I turn back to the screen, finding nothing in the man's face.
Something about the dent between Peeta's eyebrows shows some sort of genuine worry that the others don't seem to possess. A thing I can't make sense of until Peeta helps another rebel companion kick down a door, and he rushes in to unstrap a woman, I presume as Annie Cresta, from a table. To the others, it looks like just another job, an order they must follow. With Peeta, there is a true, fervent determination blazing in his eyes.
Peeta carries her out personally, hanging gently over his shoulder as the others run ahead, shooting down and gassing Peacekeepers who attempt to take them down. Everything, to me, is going by too fast. It seems so surreal. Seeing Peeta again, so animated, dressed in uniform, in charge, gives me relief. Every time he narrowly misses a bullet I stiffen. I'm struck momentarily with the fact that he's not even raising, let alone acknowledging the fact that he has a gun of his own.
Somehow I knew he wouldn't use it. And another part of me thinks, idiot.
It wasn't until the last few shots of their escape, that the cameras stationed on the back steps of the Justice Building catch, do I notice Gale among the rebels' numbers. Predictably it's his dark hair and skin that catches my notice, then the hardened expression that confirms it. It matches all the others in the group; eyes narrowed and watchful, chest thrown out in defense, fingers hovering over the trigger of their guns, a flat, untrusting gleam in their eyes.
Nothing like Peeta at all. I don't know what to make of Gale being there. For a minute I consider this all to be a lie. A trick of the Capitol, trying to make me believe this happened, when really this is just one huge manipulation of photos and interviews and scenes in the Games.
I'm still drinking in the replay when I decide it has to be real.
Why did they do it? It wasn't that I didn't want this woman rescued, but it was that I knew their actions would come back and be attributed to me. Didn't Peeta realize this would hurt me? Gale? Or did they not care? Have they decided maybe they don't need the Mockingjay after all? No. Not even for a moment do I consider that to be true.
Peeta isn't an idiot. He knows full well what kind of trouble this could cause me. And that was hardly a hesitant, distressed person strutting in to save the woman in that video. It meant something to him. Maybe somehow, this could help me in the long run. In some way I'm not seeing at this very moment. Or maybe... well I got the vague feeling that it was... important to Peeta. Is it possible he promised someone to retrieve Annie? That someone being Finnick?
A pain throbs silently at the base of my skull. My mind a jumble of questions. Thoughts of Finnick are directly associated with the Quarter Quell and so I quickly avert my thoughts to a less painful remembrance; Gale. He's alive. For a minute I'm elated, forgetting everything and where I am. It's like one less guilt infected rock weighing on my shoulders. He looked healthy enough, not beaten or starving. Not one trace of burn marks marring his skin, from what I saw, which makes me wonder what really ensued at the district when the firebombs struck. Seeing him, my best friend, makes the hope rise even further, at the possibility of my mother and Prim thriving in District 13. And that's all I need to see to feel strength again. If Gale lived, there's no conceivable way that he would have run from the fires reach without his, let alone my, family.
To see Peeta and Gale fighting.. even just those other rebel men and women with them, it is enough to remind me why I should fight. For family. For those I love. For the ones I haven't been able to truly say I loved. For a moment I wonder if Peeta knows. If he could tell that slowly, over the time I've had to come to terms with the pregnancy, that I wouldn't have had it any other way. Peeta's child, I could have. I could protect. Love, even, maybe. Peeta, though, I do love. I know it so surely now, not because of the child, but because even though I loathe being here, in the Capitol, hopeless, I would not switch places with him. Not even to be with Gale and my family. Not if it meant him enduring this pain. And I know I love him, because there is no one sweeter, no one more pure. Except maybe Prim... but I'd already saved Prim from Snow's clutches, nearly two years ago, when I volunteered for her.
I know I love Peeta because if I'm willing to do what I'd done for Prim, for him, how can I not? Or to ignore it, seems impossible. I remember times before this, as children. All those times I've noticed him in school, pretended I didn't. I'd always thought he was so complicated, that I owed him too much. Those blushes. Glances. Childish stalling of a thank you for saving my life, for giving me hope. Back then I had thought it would be too messy, too complicated to get into. That I would never be able to do anything. Now, the messiness and complex of our relationship is horridly worse. Yet, now I can say it with as much as certainty as I tell Prim or Gale that I love them. I love Peeta Mellark. And I miss him.
Along with the impossible hope rising inside of me, and all this certainty that'd I'd not found in my time of stability, but instead in my imprisonment, is a crippling loneliness. I don't know if it's just the mere sight of my best friend, or Peeta, or if it was simply them together. The two have never gone well in my thoughts when it was at the same time, but as Snow replays the scene for the second time I note that it was Gale and Peeta who kicked down the door conjointly. Peeta and Gale are working as a team, evidently, and I wonder if it's all for me. A sudden surge of tolerance because of a similar cause. I watch, transfixed by the screen. Them talking to each other softly. Slowly making hand motions at each other as they advance down the halls. Almost like they were... on friendly terms.
It's not the fact that they are possibly bettering from my absence, but it's that they got to be together, and I was stuck here with Snow.
On top of that I could not tear my eyes from Peeta's face. The weakness in me, that I told him he planted, makes me crave the radiating warmth that would result from the feel of his palms pressed into my skin. Snow made a mistake, letting me see this. Once looking into his face, for the first time since our separation, no matter how distant and distracted from me Peeta may be, I'm blindsided with my rush of determination.
Old, lost promises inside me rush to the surface, my fear drowning behind its strength. My beliefs jam themselves right back into place, and for a fleeting moment, I forget the child. I only need to protect Peeta. A familiar habit that could not be cut so quick.
"Are you ready to hear what I want you to do?" Snow asks me.
"Are you ready to untie me?"
He ignores my comment. "Tomorrow, Caesar and you will be going on stage. This is your last chance, Katniss, I will not tolerate any slip of words or show of rebellion support. You will defuse this bomb of yours and tell them that a cease fire must be called to preserve human life. And if you find it necessary, plead through the camera with Peeta and District 13. Go off the star-crossed lovers and child if it'll actually be believable this time, but I expect it should be... if you want to avoid my last ditch efforts of commanding your obedience."
His words don't chill me as much as they should. It takes a lot of effort not to snort at them, actually, but eventually I lose the battle and a smile cracks across my face. "You really think anyone is going to call a cease fire? There's no way they'll just throw down their arms. Not now."
Snow ducks closer, looks me over sharply, then smiles easily. Which, of course, only causes a warning siren to go off in my head, efficiently turning down the corners of my own lips. "Then for your sake, Miss Everdeen," Snow says. "You better hope they listen."
His hand on the table reaches over to me and pats my stomach as the silence continues to ring through the air surrounding us. The time ticks by as I mull over his words. Five minutes passes and as it does I grow more upset, and increasingly less sure. I can't make them do that. District 13 might draw away, maybe. I have no idea. The others though? Those poor people still remaining in District 3? There's absolutely no way to make those who have given up everything at this point to go back to the way it used to be by calling a ceasefire and packing up their things.
Finally, one painful throb of my head after another I realize what President Snow is doing. He's setting me up for failure. Was there anything in me that might convince him I could do it? Does he overestimate the effect the power of maternity has on me? "I'll try," I say, finally, thinking of Peeta. If he'll fight I'll fight. Didn't Gale tell me once never to stop fighting? I can't remember for sure.
"We will have you prepped before midnight, no need to delay this. We'll tape it tonight and air it tomorrow morning. Perhaps this will be the end of our whole predicament. Don't you think, Miss Everdeen?"
Before I can answer there is a light tap on the door. A faint moan reaches my ears through the wood and I raise my head, turning it completely from Snow. He tries to get my attention again. "Katniss," he says. "Miss Everdeen.."
"Who's that?"
President Snow sighs. "I can see I have used up all of your attention span for tonight. Please, rise. Did you know it is a proper gentleman who sees a woman on her way out? There are many things, like manners, that are lost among the districts." He offers me his arm wordlessly. I stand, stiffly, awkwardly and it seems like he's forgotten I'm tied, but no matter. President Snow hooks his arm through mine anyway, very professionally, with an air of superiority. Then, very low and quiet in my ear as we pace to the door, me stiff and waiting for the catch, he says, "Remember, this can be pleasant if you make it so, Miss Everdeen," and then we're at the door.
President Snow drops my arm and opens it, receiving the people beyond it before letting me through. "Your next visitor," says a voice. "Where would you like her?"
I can't see around President Snow, nor hear what he mutters to them. There is a shuffling of multiple pairs of feet entering the shadowy room, and I lift my toes, turning my eyes ever so slightly to catch sight– my heart leaps into my throat, just as I see.
Two Peacekeepers dump Johanna's slumped, half conscious body into the chair I'd just vacated ringing the metal table. Her head lulls forward, and just as I make a move forward to see why there is a gushing of blood blooming across newly placed, bleach white bandages around her hand, the Peacekeepers grab me under the armpits.
"Escort her to the fifth floor. My own personal prep team. I want her looking," Snow pauses, then smiles, "maternal."
The guards nod. They haul me out of the room, me struggling to catch any piece of Johanna's attention. It seems to be impossible. She's too out of it. Drugs? Or pain? Exhaustion? The stubble of her hair has grown back some, but the yellowing bruises along her scalp are plain to see. I try to get a better view but the guards pull me along as if I'm nothing more than a sack of potatoes. Until the door is swinging viciously closed in my face and Johanna is out of sight, left behind, in there, with Snow.
I feel as though I'll be sick.
The elevator ride up isn't as bad as the last, and the moment I step out Leon takes me from the arms of the two unknown Peacekeepers. They smile at Leon and he grins back. Their words chill me; they imply the show that will be going on downstairs. They express how sad they are that he'll miss it. Leon gestures to me and gives a sort of I got other plans shrug. I watch them depart, images of Johanna screaming, as they use knifes and saws and multiple other torturous implements to draw those sort of noises out of her, whirling around my thoughts.
With those grueling images in mind, the sight of light glinting across metal out the corner of my eyes causes me to flinch. Leon's pulling a blade toward me, from behind, and I try to scramble away, but his hands grab me roughly to force me still. He slices the knife downward and I screw my eyes shut in anticipation of the bite. Only to get the relief of the irritating ropes falling free of my wrists.
I nearly flush under his harsh look of annoyance. "Better?" he asks.
"Much."
He leads me in silence back up the same halls and steps that we'd taken on our trip down. Most of the time I'm watching my feet, rubbing my wrists that are, even for how little they were tied, red and raw. One more elevator ride, of which is a nicer model, complete with soft music tinkling out of multiple speakers. It must be the guest elevator, not the prisoner one. All the same it has us up on the fifth floor in one swoosh of nausea. Exhaustion draws on me, rather quickly, especially when thinking about the hours of camera time I will have to endure, on top of the effort of making people actually believe I want a ceasefire.
I won't lie. I was expecting something nice when President Snow ordered me to his own personal prep team. He is the President after all and I thought, perhaps, it would be a team similar to my old shallow and affectionate one. Like Venia, with her aqua hair on the Victory Tour, or Octavia who sobbed at my farewell before the Quarter Quell. Of course, I should really learn to be less expectant where Snow is implied, because when Leon pushes me into a room I'm caught off guard by just how stoic it all is.
The room is, if possible, colder than the one underground. The walls and floors are white, blindingly so, and it feels more like a museum. Detached and unfeeling, where you are scared to walk through it in fear of disturbing its perfection. To misalign an object. Sit in a chair and make it wrinkled.
Two men stand with uncreased, tucked white uniforms, faces wiped clean of expression and very serious airs of stillness eluding their features. They dismiss Leon with a passing nod after he tells them Snow's request of my appearance, and each of them step forward to grab one of my wrists. They place me in a chair in front of a mirror, where I'm forced to watch them prep my body for the upcoming mission ahead of me.
They move faster than my other prep team. With them there is no fruitless gossip, no comments or talking of any type. They seem to work seamlessly. Never pausing as their hands fly from one piece of me to the other. Make-up erases the traces of despair and lines of exhaustion across my face. Different hues and shimmering lusters are applied to actually make it look like my scowl-worthy expression might be teetering toward a smile. My brows and legs are stinging from the waxing; they didn't even let me bathe, but instead toweled me down with wet cloths and their cold hands.
I stare at my face as they tweak my hair. I'm not sure how they did it. Hardly anything makes it look like they have been mistreating me, which I suppose they haven't yet, but Snow's threats are still ringing in my ears, only making the thought of happiness completely beyond reach.
How can just one sweep of make-up make my face look so plump? It changes a lot. Makes me look just as Snow wanted; maternal. Kind, motherly, just what plump young girls, with a bulging abdomen should look like. With bright eye brought out by cosmetics and an eagerness that shines in my artificial blush, it makes me wonder how Peeta will react to seeing my face like this. To seeing the thing that rests underneath my shirt. Would he be upset? Happy, fleetingly? Mad that I hadn't told him? What do I want him to feel? I don't know. Not really.
I know how seeing him effected me. Could I somehow slip in the words I've never said to him? Would that help or hinder him? Me? But I don't want to do that, either. It'll only seem false. But it doesn't have to be that way. And it isn't... hasn't been. I do love him, I want him to know, for sure. So if I die, Peeta won't live on thinking I'd hated him for the baby, or for the star-crossed lover mistake. I know, though, that I won't say it. I don't want to. It's not real enough. It has to be in person, in private, when I can kiss him and mean it. Truthfully the thought of saying it on television just isn't me. To share my emotions to everyone, through the camera, is too public. I have a hard enough time sharing my emotions with Prim, and with her at least I can do it comfortably. Which all seems ridiculous, considering the past year, where I'd gotten engaged to him on camera, but I can not truthfully share with Panem I love him now.
When he sees me, I just hope he doesn't lose sight of what really matters. I saw him fighting and it makes me want to fight. So would him seeing me give up, make him want to give up? Would the sight of me looking like this, heavy with his child, cause something in him to throw aside fighting attempts and beg to have me back? Would he feel sad? Regretful? Betrayed? Like I'm sure half the nation will once the word ceasefire crosses my lips.
When the two men finish primping the thin wisps of hair around my face and at the back of my neck, leaving the rest in a heavy braid against my right shoulder, they have me stand and strip. I'm usually self conscious about nakedness. The vulnerability of it makes me wince, but I don't actually feel that threatened or embarrassed, especially not with these two. It's as if I'm in an unfeeling, hospital-like room all by myself with ghosts that work around me. Empty people. I begin to wonder if they're Avoxes.
A dress made of velvet is carefully placed over my head and the fabric settles lightly on my shoulders as its light blue coloring gives my skin a new tone of darkness. Almost like I haven't been deprived of sunlight for weeks.
Surprisingly they spend a lot of time on my nails. They've got nothing to work with, since I've chewed them to nubs over the past week. Halfway through the process of finishing my toes, my head starts to ache. It's the longest I've gone without drugs since the ending of the Quarter Quell, and just before it could get unbearable, guess who steps in with a plateful of food to hold me together?
"I tried to get some of the lamb stew you said you loved," Leon tells me as I devour a piece of fruit, "but this was all I could find within the Peacekeeper's kitchens." I'm not sure how to reply. It's saying a lot that he even remembers that, it was nearly two years ago when I was that little girl on the stage, giggling and twirling and freely giving compliments to the Capitol. Maybe that's why he cares; he remembers me that way.
However his expressionless stare in the mirror as he stands behind me gives away nothing. I attempt to smile at him, hoping that it'll help me practice for when I'll have to smile for the cameras, and express my thanks. The food does help immensely with my headache. Substance in my stomach ceases the churning, that I have a vague inkling the child causes.
The prep team finishes me up by strapping on nice, safe, and un-heeled flats. Leon is the one who helps me get awkwardly back on my feet. It's the prep team that escorts me to the giant mirror against the wall on our right.
What I hate about the dress isn't that its easy to move in, but that it's making my stomach even more obvious. It's maternal clothing. Something I've seen rarely around the district. Mothers usually begin wearing their husbands clothing once they've outgrown their own. The ruffles along the sleeves make me scowl. These clothes are a hundred percent not me. Just one more reminder to everyone who owns me. The Capitol has signed itself across my appearance once again.
But this time's different. This time not only do I look like them, I'll be talking like them. No freedom of speech. Every word that flies from my tongue is tinged with what they want and feel. I'm no longer myself. I'm the Capitol's Mockingjay. I'm an empty husk of a girl who was once on fire, forced to sit at the sideline, made to obey and shackled by her own beliefs. My belief that what makes the Capitol so atrocious is that they kill innocent children; so how can I kill mine without being them? In my head, there is these two options. Die before I become a tool against the rebels or be the tool. There is no third option, no rescue. Not this time. But really, there is only on option. Live. Be the tool. A good mother.
"You've done a nice job," Leon tells the prep team, stepping forward. "Snow will be pleased. You've been here for hours, I think he will not mind if you leave for a dinner break. I'm sure there are still left overs, a few sandwiches, you must be famished. I'll handle her until the cameras are ready."
"Are you sure?" asks the taller male. It's the first time I've heard either speak and his voice is as brittle as glass. Not Avox after all.
Leon gives a smile, I'm surprised by how lazy and warm it seems. "Think I'd let her get away?"
There is a sharing of amusement I don't understand, then the two members of Snow's prep team sweep from the room. Leon's smile disappears the second they are gone and it makes me wonder if it was in all actuality forced. His eyes find mine again, but this time I turn to face him and his lips press into a thin line.
"You will make them believe, won't you? They'll listen to you?" Leon demands. "You can get the rebels to call a ceasefire?"
Even though there is a forced calm to his voice, I can hear the earnest hope seeping through it. "I don't know," I tell him, honestly. I can't look at him much longer, so I turn to inspect myself in the mirror. My hands fidgeting with the irritating dress. "They don't actually go by my orders, you know."
"Does anybody?" he murmurs.
I open my mouth to snap, but to think about it... no. I don't make any of the plans. I mess up the plans that everyone else makes, it's my thing. I screwed over Snow's plan. A law, even, of having only one victor. Which initially got me in this mess. My capture messed up the whole point of the Quarter Quell, not only because the rebels failed to get me, but also Snow's original plot was to have me die in that arena, which of those I did neither. Even now, I'm worried that this interview will not work out. The ceasefire won't happen. Everyone knows it.
The hopelessness of it all threatens to choke me.
Leon steps forward, making my eyes snap to his in the mirror's reflection, his face hovering over my shoulder a few yards behind. His frown is concerning; he's frustrated. For several minutes he mulls over something that seems to trouble him. When he does speak, his eyes flick around the room. "Can you promise me something?" he asks.
No. All I can promise is more suffering. Still my lips part on their own accord. "What do you want from me?" I say, the words tinged with exasperation. I'm tired of people wanting me, and even more so, using me.
"Tell me you'll try," Leon says. "Will you promise me to do everything in your power to influence an end? I don't care how it ends, with the rebels or the Capitol, I just want this dying to stop. I'm not the only one. Please, Katniss, you started this, don't you think you at least owe something to us, all of us, to stop the misery? Don't you know that you're not the only one who has lost something? Someone?"
My eyes drop to my hands. Fingers picking at the newly manicured nails. "I know that," I say. "But how can you ask me to stop all the dying, when it was you and your people who have been killing twenty-three kids for over seventy-five years? How can you justify that to me? I didn't mean to start this war, not at first, but maybe now that you know how it feels to lose something, there's hope."
"Hope," Leon replies sharply, "that anyone who survives whatever this war may lead to will be bitter people filled with prejudice and hatred, completely incapable of understanding at all why this war was even started; with a girl who wanted the boy she cared for to live."
"There will be children," I say, my voice growing hard. My eyes find his in the mirror again, scowling back at his glare. "They will be beyond the reach of the leftover destruction. They'll be free of the Hunger Games and that's why I did it, not because Peeta, not because I could, not to shove the rules into Snow's face. But because I didn't want anyone to feel the way I did when Prim was reaped."
Somehow between the snapping and his snarling, my hands have found their way to resting on my abdomen, pressing hard against the slope for support. His eyes flicker there, then back up and in those two seconds he's composed again; his anger and frustration hidden expertly behind a mask of professionalism.
"I have a son," he says abruptly, stunting me. "His name's Cooper, and he turned two just three days ago. I wasn't there to see him, or give him gifts or even smile, damn it. Instead, I was here, with you, hoping that somehow I could get you to notice that it's not just the Districts that matter. There are people, human beings inside the Capitol, too, that can't be thought of as expendable. I want my son to grow up just as much as your kid! Snow may not care about us, and the rebels absolutely forget us, but someone has to care; I care. And I can't be the only one to care, Katniss. Someone else has to. Someone has to help us, because I'm not enough."
Leon's eyes soften in the mirror, until for a moment, I see him clearly. Not the Capitol's tool at all. Not some Peacekeeper who just blindly does as he's told. Maybe he didn't get unfortunately assigned to babysit me, but he weaseled his way into the position, just to have this conversation.
I know I don't care about the Capitol citizens. I know a whole lot of people in the districts hate them, because they have had it so much better. They never had to fear the reapings. Never had to look around and wonder who would be stolen from their lives the next coming year. Endless luxury was always at their fingertips, with food that they throw to waste, with drugs and styles they abuse. Even now I get sick thinking about the utter waste of life the people of the Capitol are. But then I think of the people that could be like Cinna, hiding somewhere in there, doing those trivial things, like fashion designing, which is useless, but I remember the way Cinna loved it, the way he did it flawlessly. Then there's Leon, who just like those in the districts, stick up for his people. No matter what Snow may want.
"What are you asking me?"
"Will you be my Mockingjay, Katniss?" Leon asks. "Not Snow's. Not the rebels, but ours, the forgotten citizens of the Capitol?"
My stomach does a whirl. The velvet of the blue dress under my fingers seems flimsy, no longer freeing, and for a minute I'm unsure of what I believe. I waver, thinking maybe I should be. His voice is so honest and calm, yet it hides the desperation he must really be feeling. It's a gift, that I wish I had, because as I open my mouth, I know my voice will shake.
"I don't want to be anyone's Mockingjay."
Leon takes a step closer to me. "Someone has to be. You have to choose a side."
"No," I snap, head swinging around to stare at him. "I shouldn't have to. I just want Peeta back. I want to see my sister, and Gale. My home shouldn't be a pile of ash, and the Hunger Games should have never been. But things aren't like they should be, so stop saying things like that!"
It is silent after that, and slowly, I relax. The pressure of my hand on my stomach lessens and I feel the baby moving, stretching more like, and I trace the edges of where the limbs poke. It's strangely calming, as I take repeated deep breaths. My thoughts struggle to untangle, repositioning themselves again in preparation for the upcoming interview, that Leon efficiently distracted me from.
After nearly ten minutes, there is a knock at the door, summoning me. Leon wordlessly leads me out and escorts me down the hall into another room. This room reminds me a lot of the room Peeta and I had our after Hunger Games interview. A soft, yellow paint adorns the walls with white carpet on the floor and two plush chairs set in the center of microphones, cameras, and the crew that controls them.
Caesar sits on one of the chairs, smiling brightly over at me as I enter. His familiar face, among the sea of unfamiliar is like a breath of fresh air. At least I'll have one ally during this interview.
Just as I'm about to sit, Leon leans into my ear. "Don't promise me, if you don't want to," he whispers quickly. "But when you do this, don't think about betraying the rebels. Think about me, my son, think of what would happen to him if I died; he'll be an orphan. Think of the lives you could be saving, if the ceasefire actually does work." He pulls away before anyone can send a questioning look.
With a hand he pats my shoulder softly, then helps me sit down, hunching into the chair, arms falling around my stomach. I stare up at him as he backs out of the camera's shot, wondering what he meant about his son being an orphan. If I could actually, ever view it like he asked me to..? No, not at all. I might pity those very few good souls in the Capitol, but I know I care more for Prim and Peeta and Gale than I do for strangers.
I don't get a chance to completely absorb what I want to do, let alone the chance to consider either Snow's or Leon's request, because the second I take a breath, the blinking red light on the camera goes on continuously and Caesar begins his opening lines.