A/N: Alas, here we are for the third chapter! This means we're one chapter closer to getting Peeta back!
*happy dance*
So! Once more, I must bow in awe of your awesomeness. All these reviews? You're killing me, guys. With love. It's epic. Please, do continue. :)
Random Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games Series. As the past two stories show, my version of events would have been quite different.
Me: Places everyone! The chapter is about to start!
Katniss: Is there a scene where I'm actually happy?
Me: Um . . . sorta . . . it's a happy moment tinged with sadness.
Peeta: That makes no sense.
Me: I know, I know . . . and yet it's true.
Prim: Hey! I make an appearance this chapter! Isn't that cool? Oh, and AC . . . where's Buttercup?
Me: (laughs nervously) Buttercup? You mean that hideous, mangy old cat that for some reason you find loveable?
Katniss: Yeah, I still don't understand that.
Me: (nods in understanding) Personally, I'm a dog person.
Prim: You still didn't answer my question.
Me: Yeah . . . about that . . . He's dead, Jim.
Haymitch: Who the hell is Jim?
Me: (face palm) Right. Wrong fandom. My bad, guys.
Chapter 3: Suspicious Minds
We're caught in a trap
I can't walk out
Because I love you too much, baby
I stand in front of the door to compartment 307, the new home of the Everdeens. My mother and Prim. A pang of guilt hits me because I know I haven't visited nearly as often as I probably should have, but I was so consumed with Peeta's sacrifice and haunted by nightmares of his torture that most days it was hard enough to get out of bed, especially during my first week out of the hospital. Then I spent the majority of my time after that listening for the whispers and campaigning to see the ruins of District 12. I should have made more of an effort to see my family, especially considering that they actually saw our home burn.
Tentatively, I knock on the door. Seconds later it opens to reveal my mother, and we stare at each other for a moment before she steps away from the door, allowing me to enter. My relationship with my mother has regressed back to how it was before the reaping of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. Except this time, it's not I that holds the resentment. It's my mother. Though maybe resentment isn't the best term. More like a mix of anger and disappointment.
She's not exactly thrilled that she's going to be a grandmother. After returning from my first Games, she had said that though she thought Peeta was a nice boy, I was too young to have a boyfriend. So, naturally, the fact that we were engaged nearly six months later wasn't a great cause for joy. She never said anything of course. Confrontation isn't my mother's way. The closest she ever got to a confrontation was after the Harvest Festival and she tried to get me to stop sleeping with Peeta. Of course, I told her that it wasn't going to happen, and as I'd known she would, my mother had relented. But I do think that my mother thought that there was one line that I wouldn't cross, and that was allowing myself to get pregnant. Maybe it's because of my frigid stance on the subject for so long, but my pregnancy genuinely shocked my mother. And now she's been giving me the cold shoulder since we came to 13.
"I brought some things from the house," I say to her. "When I went to 12 yesterday."
I reach into my game bag and hand her the wedding photo and the plant book. My mother takes the photo first, trailing her fingers over my father's picture. "Thank you, Katniss," she says gratefully, her eyes shimmering with tears. She places the photo and the plant book on the dresser, and I turn to Prim, who has been sitting on the bed, silently watching the exchange between me and our mother.
"I looked for Buttercup," I tell her. "But I couldn't find him."
"You found Maya, though," Prim says with a sad smile, and I feel guilty that my pet survived and Prim's didn't. Even if I loathed that miserable, ugly creature she called Buttercup, Prim loved him dearly. "It's okay, Katniss. Really. Where is Maya?"
"She's with Gale," I reply. "I can only keep her if she's trained to sniff out bombs and stuff. Apparently, they have a K9 unit. Gale took her down there this morning."
Prim nods, and my mother clears her throat delicately. "Well, I'm needed at the hospital," she says and then without another word walks out the door.
Prim and I are silent for a few moments when Prim says, "She'll get better," she assures me. "She's just shocked."
"Yeah, well so was I." I retort, my hand coming up to rest on my stomach. "It's not like we planned it."
I take a seat beside Prim on the bed and we're both quiet for a moment before Prim asks, "Is it true? That you agreed to be the Mockingjay?"
"Yeah." I rub my stomach absently. "It's the only way I can get Peeta back."
"Did you do it just for him, or because you want to help the cause?"
I sigh. "Maybe both? But it's mostly for Peeta. The Capitol aired an interview of him with Caesar Flickerman, and Peeta explained what happened the last night in the arena." I pause, remembering how wholesome he'd looked, even if it couldn't hide the pain in his eyes. "He admitted that we were both rebels and knew about the break out. But then he called for a cease-fire . . . and everyone thought that he was a traitor."
"Snow just made him say that," Prim says sharply, looking angry. "Peeta would never side with the Capitol."
I smile, knowing that Peeta would be touched that Prim thinks so highly of him. "I know that. But Coin was going to try him as a war criminal if we win the war, and I couldn't allow that. I wanted them to rescue him, but they shot me down. Then Haymitch suggested that they offer him immunity, and they eventually agreed. We included the other captured victors as well."
"So what will they make you do?" she asks hesitantly. "I mean, they wouldn't send you out there, would they?"
"No," I shake my head. "I don't think so, and if they try, Haymitch will make them reconsider."
Prim laughs a little. "It's not good to be on his bad side."
"Everyone is on his bad side," I say dryly before adding with a fond smile, "Except for you, little duck."
"You're smiling again," Prim points out softly. "It's nice to see."
Of course, at her words my smile falters, and Prim takes my hand comfortingly. "It's just so hard, Prim," I confess quietly. "Without him with me I'm just . . . lost. And I hate it. I feel like I'm being so weak, but I can't help it. It's like a part of me is missing, and there's this huge, gaping hole within me. It hurts."
"A part of you is missing, Katniss." Prim squeezes my hand. "Peeta is your other half. I know that I'm much more of a romantic than you are," she adds with a delicate blush. "But I don't think that you're being weak. I think you're being really strong. A weak person would have already crumbled. You're still fighting, Katniss. And Peeta's fighting, too."
I cringe as I think of how little 'fighting' Peeta can really do. Flashes of chains and shackles and other restraints flit through my mind quickly, along with the ghostly anguish of a pained scream. Prim cuts through my thoughts. "Katniss," she says sharply, drawing me back. "Peeta is strong, you know that. How else could he have survived all that he has?"
Memories invade my mind. Peeta has survived a lot. In our first Games, he survived the battle at the Cornucopia, and he wasn't as skilled then as he is now. He fought Cato and survived that terrible cut to his leg. He fought through all of those mutts and survived. Then in the Quell, after being revived, he still had the strength to run from the fog and fight off all those monkeys even though he was most likely on the brink of collapse.
"I know that you and Peeta are practically polar opposites," Prim says softly. "But you're both alike in the fact that you can endure." I try to be comforted by Prim's words, even if by 'endure' she means that Peeta can endure the torture inflicted by the Capitol. "I know that this is hard to hear," she says before taking a deep breath and looking me right in the eyes. "But even if they break his body . . ." I choke on a sob. ". . . they'll never be able to break his spirit."
The truth in her words causes my heart to break and lift at the same time. Break, because I can't stand the image in my mind of a broken, bloody, and beaten Peeta. Lift, because I know that Prim is right . . . the Capitol will never manage to break Peeta's spirit, his iron will.
I manage to control the tears that threaten to fall. "You're right," I nod. It's mindboggling to think that Prim has become so wise, so mature. The times and recent events have forced her to mature too quickly. I wish she could be an average thirteen year old girl without any worries of death and destruction, but I can't deny that Prim already had a pureness about her. Always able to see to the heart of things. "Thanks, Prim."
"I'll always be here," she says with a small smile.
I check the schedule on my arm and see that I'm due to meet Plutarch and Fulvia. The Mockingjay duties begin today. It's with this thought that I stand, knowing that I can't just ignore the schedule on my arm any longer. I have to work to get Peeta back. I can't fail him.
"I better go," I say, though my hand pauses on the doorknob when Prim speaks up.
"Just know, Katniss," she says softly. "I still think that love is the most powerful force in this world, a strength that can't be beaten."
I feel my heart clinch. "Let's hope it is."
Walking through the winding hallways of District 13 always makes me uneasy. The light is too artificial, reflecting dully off the grayish walls. Everything down here is grey, projecting a lifeless atmosphere. District 13 is simply sullen. Strict and serious. I hate to think the riot Rye would cause if he pulled one of his infamous pranks.
The thought almost makes me smile.
"Hey, Katniss." Gale appears by my side. "Took Maya down to the K9 unit. You should have been there. She scares the hell out of the other dogs."
"Of course," I say simply. "She's better than they are and she knows it."
Gale shakes his head. He doesn't really understand my attachment to Maya, how I practically treat her as though she's a person. It's just that I formed so tight a bond with her after my first Games, when I felt alone and misunderstood. It was nice to have a friend who didn't judge me and just accepted me for who I was. And no matter what I did, she'd still love me unconditionally.
"Yeah," Gale replies noncommittally. "Anyway, the woman down there, Lieutenant Caine, she trains them. Maya wouldn't do a thing for her though. Just sat there and stared. It was kind of funny," he can't help but smile wryly. "You're going to have to go down there later if you want to keep her from being shot for incompetence."
"I will," I say. "After I see what Plutarch wants. My mockingjay duties start today."
Gale nods. "Figured they would. It's already circulating that Coin is making the announcement today during Reflection."
"Good."
We reach the doors to Command, and haven't stepped a foot through the door before Plutarch and Fulvia descend. "Oh, there you are," Plutarch says. "Excellent, excellent."
"So what am I doing, today?" I ask without letting any of the anxiety I feel leak into my voice.
"Yes, well, first off, we're so happy to have you on the team," Plutarch says as he reaches out to the side where Fulvia is already handing him a sketchbook bound in black leather. Absently, I note that it's something Peeta would like. "You know in general what we're asking of you, Katniss. I'm aware you have mixed feelings about participating. I hope this will help."
He gives me the sketchbook, and I curiously open the book to the first page. What I see shocks me. I'm staring at a picture of myself. I look powerful and strong, dangerous and gorgeous in a black uniform. It looks rather bland at first glance, but when I look closer, I see the brilliance. The swoop of the helmet. The slight curve to the breastplate. The slightly billowed sleeves that allow for a fringe of white to show underneath. Once again, he's turned me into a mockingjay.
"Cinna." His name escapes me in a pained whisper. It was last week when Plutarch told me his sources revealed that Cinna had died in interrogation. In other words, he was tortured to death. The reminder causes my heart to clinch as I think of Peeta and how he may share in Cinna's fate.
It'll be alright, Katniss. Don't worry about me.
I'm drawn from Peeta's whispers when Plutarch speaks, "He made me promise not to show you this book until you'd decided to be the Mockingjay on your own," he says, referring to Cinna. "Believe me, I was very tempted." I've yet to move from the first page, so he encourages me, "Go on. Flip through."
I do and watch as Cinna shows my outfit in all its facets. He's truly outdone himself. The extra layers of body armor to cover my vital organs. Hidden weapons in my boots and belt. Special reinforcements over my heart. But it's the last page that makes me teary. Cinna has drawn a picture of my mockingjay pin, and beneath it has written, I'm still betting on you.
"When did he . . . when did he design these?"
"Let's see. Well, after the Quarter Quell announcement," Plutarch thinks. "A few weeks before the Games maybe? There are not only the sketches. We have your uniforms, though he had to do some quick alterations once he learned of your pregnancy. Oh, and Beetee's got something really special waiting for you down in the armory. I won't spoil it by hinting," he says, as if he thinks that it's the first thing I'll respond to after his spiel. A weapon? What would a weapon matter to me right now? Even if it's one of Beetee's creations?
I'm more focused on the fact that Cinna, one of my truest friends, is still helping me even in death.
"You're going to be the best-dressed rebel in history," Gale says with a smile, but I'm in no mood to smile. His expression falters to one of concern when he sees the sadness that I'm trying to hide. I give him a subtle shake of my head to tell him not to worry.
"Our plan is to launch an Airtime Assault," Plutarch informs us, completely missing mine and Gale's nonverbal conversation. "To make a series of propos featuring you, and cast them to the entire population of Panem."
I nod. Haymitch warned me and Peeta of this beforehand, before we even left for the Capitol.
"How?" Gale asks. "The Capitol has sole control of the broadcasts."
"But we have Beetee," Plutarch counters with a smile. "About ten years ago, he essentially redesigned the underground network that transmits all the programming. He thinks there's a reasonable chance it can be done. Of course, we'll need something to air. So, Katniss, the studio awaits your pleasure." Oh, joy. Me and cameras. Best friends, we are. "Fulvia?"
"Plutarch and I have been talking about how on earth we can pull this off," she says, sounding exasperated by the trouble I've caused. "We think that it might be best to build you, our rebel leader, from the outside . . . in. That is to say, let's find the most stunning Mockingjay look possible and then work your personality up to deserving it!"
I pretend that she didn't just insult me, however subtle it was. But honestly, I'm wondering how I'm going to pull off 'stunning' with my acid damaged hair, scarred skin, and let's not forget the fact that I'm four months pregnant.
"You already have the uniform," Gale points out.
"Yes, but is she scarred and bloody? Is she glowing with the fire of rebellion? Just how grimy can we make her without disgusting people? At any rate, she has to be something. I mean, obviously this . . ." Fulvia waves her hand up and down in front of me. ". . . won't cut it." I glower at her and she flinches. "So, with that in mind," she finishes quickly. "We have another little surprise for you. Come, come."
"Wait, wait, wait," I say quickly, already seeing flaws in their dream plan. I admit that all of this image stuff and how I'm presented isn't my thing, and I don't pretend to know a lot about it. Peeta was the one good with the cameras, but even I can see how much this plan sucks.
"What is it?" Fulvia asks confused.
"You can't make me scarred and bloody," I tell them, and they look at me like I'm crazy. They may be rebels, but they're still from the Capitol. "I'm pregnant," I remind them. "You can't scar and bloody a pregnant woman. It's just . . . not right. And grimy? Again, pregnant. That's not going to work either."
Fulvia gaps for a moment, like a fish out of water, before spluttering, "Well, then what can make you into?"
"Let her be herself." We all turn to see Haymitch, who is eyeing Plutarch and Fulvia with a look that clearly shows he doesn't have much faith in their intelligence. "You can't dress her up and make her into something she's not. She's a seventeen year old pregnant girl whose husband is being tortured by the Capitol. She's young. She's vulnerable. But she's strong, and she's got fire. Don't take away from that."
I think this is the closest I'll ever get to a compliment from Haymitch.
"Right, of course," Plutarch agrees after a moment, much to Fulvia's disgruntlement. "Yes, I can see your point. A more natural approach, yes, I can see how that would work better. We'll be able to make the adjustments, I'm sure."
Haymitch merely stares at him, his arms folded across his chest as he watches Plutarch squirm under his glare. My lips twitch as I fight a smile. It's good to have Haymitch on my side.
"So," Fulvia coughs delicately. "With that in mind, we have another surprise for you, Katniss."
She waves us through the door and we follow her to the elevator. Haymitch, however, doesn't get on board. "See you in the studio," he says gruffly before the doors close, blocking my view.
Plutarch presses a button on the elevator, but we don't move. He checks his notes. "Let's see. It's Compartment Three-Nine-Oh-Eight." Plutarch presses the button marked 39 yet again . . . and we still don't move.
"Maybe you have to key it," Fulvia suggests.
"Ah, yes." Plutarch produces a key from his pocket that is attached to a silver chain. He inserts the key into a slot that I've never noticed before and suddenly we're moving downward. "There we go."
The elevator continues to descend, further than I really knew it could. We go down thirty levels, leaving me wondering just how humongous is the underground network of District 13. Finally, the doors open to reveal a bright, white hallway. Too bright. It reminds me of the bright white suits of the Avoxes in the Capitol. The white walls and floors of the Launch Room. Immediately, goosebumps cover my skin, and I clutch Cinna's sketchbook to my chest.
The white corridor is lined with bright red doors, looking far too similar to fresh flowing blood for my liking. Too many bad memories. I don't like this place. I want to leave. I want Peeta with me. He should be here. He should be with me.
I edge slightly closer to Gale due to my perturbed discomfort, and if he notices he doesn't say anything. When the elevator doors shut behind us, I notice a steel grate that descends over the regular doors. We pass the blood red doors, each marked with a black number, and I vaguely catalog them in my mind. 3901, 3902, 3903 . . .
A guard suddenly materializes in front of us, looking stern and suspicious. A door on the far end of the hall swings shut. It must have been the room he came from. Plutarch immediately moves to greet him, waving jovially, though the guard's expression merely darkens slightly. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. There's something wrong with this place. I don't want to be here.
Why do I have the feeling like I've been transported to the Capitol?
I look up at Gale, to see if he's getting the same bad vibe I am; something that has to do with more than the claustrophobia from being so far underground or the sharp smell of antiseptic or the reinforced doors and elevator. His eyes have narrowed slightly. Gale senses it, too.
Plutarch and Fulvia are apparently oblivious. "Good morning!" Plutarch greets the stony-faced guard. "We were just looking for—"
"You have the wrong floor," the guard interrupts sharply.
Plutarch frowns in confusion. "Really?" He pauses to check his notes. "I've got Three-Nine-Oh-Eight written right here. I wonder if you could just give a call up to—"
Again, the guard interrupts. "I'm afraid I have to ask you to leave now. Assignment discrepancies can be addressed at the Head Office."
Compartment 3908 is just ahead of us to my left. I study the door quickly, noting that there is no door knob, so it must swing free on hinges. In fact, none of the doors in the corridor have knobs. Something isn't right . . .
"Where is that again?" Fulvia inquires.
"You'll find the Head Office on Level Seven." The guard extends his arm, as to usher us back to the elevator, and I willingly turn to go, ready to be away from this perturbing place.
And then I hear it. A whimper. It's not an animal sound. It's human. And it's a human whimper that I've heard before many times in the days leading up to the Quell. My eyes meet Gale's for only a second, but it's long enough for two people that know each other as well as we do. I drop Cinna's sketchbook to the floor, and the resulting smack the leather-bound book makes against the floor resounds throughout the corridor. The guard leans down to retrieve it, and Gale does as well, purposely bumping heads with the guard. "Oh, I'm sorry," Gale apologizes, but I'm not really paying attention.
I'm already moving past the distracted guard to door 3908. I push against the door and stumble into the room, causing three frightened, skinny, half-clothed people to cower away from me, their shackles clinking against each other with the quick movement.
My prep team.
Shock causes me to still. I absorb what I'm seeing as one entire picture. Venia, her gold tattoos in stark contrast to her pale skin. Flavius, his orange corkscrew curls in complete disarray. Octavia's evergreen skin seems to hang off over, as though she's deflating. Together, they sit huddled together, shrinking away from me as though I will hurt them, despite all knowledge to the contrary.
My eyes focus on the shackles that have bruised their wrists and rubbed the skin raw, and then slowly trail along the floor and find the large drain in the middle of the room. Imagination isn't needed for me to wonder to what purpose the drain serves.
The stench of the room finally hits me. Unwashed bodies, stale urine, and infection break through the reek of antiseptic. My noise crinkles and I have to swallow the urge to vomit. This entire situation is hitting far too close to home for me. Not only because of the harsh imprisonment my prep team has obviously faced, but because the situation reminds of Peeta.
Does his cell look like this?
Before I can contemplate this further, a whimper from Octavia, the sound that originally drew me into the room, causes my attention to focus on the present.
Equal amounts of anger and horror have overcome my shock by now, and I'm fuming. Only mere seconds have passed since I darted into the restricted room, even though it feels like longer. A sound of a scuffle behind me makes me think that the guard tried to enter the room and Gale has thwarted him, since I've yet to have someone try to drag me out of the room.
As if they would be successful.
I approach Venia as calmly as I can, not wanting to startle her. She's always been the strongest of the three. I take her icy hands in mine. "What happened, Venia?" I ask. "What are you doing here?"
"They took us," she answers, her voice trembling, though her hands clutch mine tightly. "From the Capitol."
"What on earth is going on?" Plutarch's voice echoes off the walls.
I need clarification from Venia. "Who took you?"
"People," she answers. "The night you broke out."
"We thought it might be comforting to have your regular team," Plutarch says from behind me. "Cinna requested it."
I drop Venia's hands and spin around to face Plutarch, anger shining brightly in my eyes and saturating my words. "I doubt that Cinna requested this," I hiss in outrage. "Unchain them!"
Plutarch looks genuinely surprised by the situation. "I was only told they were confined, Katniss," he says, and I believe him, but I really don't care about what he was told.
"Unchain them!" I repeat, my words carrying a note of an authority I didn't know I possessed.
By now, the guard has moved past Gale and is standing beside him. "They are being punished for stealing food," the guard says, as if it makes everything justifiable. "We had to restrain them after an altercation over some bread."
Bread. This was all about bread?
"No one would tell us anything," Venia says, her voice hoarse. "We were so hungry. It was just one slice she took."
Octavia sobs in response, and I'm thrown back to the day after my first Games, when Octavia slipped me a roll under the table because she couldn't stand to see my hunger. I gently ease myself down in front of Octavia, who flinches away from me as I take her hand in mine. "Octavia?" I say so gently and softly that it's practically a coo. "Octavia, it's going to be alright. I'm going to get you out of here."
"This seems extreme," Plutarch says, and I growl under my breath. I'm glad he's able to see the severity of the situation.
I stand protectively in front of my prep team, glaring daggers at the guard. If only looks could kill. "All of this over a piece of bread?" I question derisively.
"There were repeated infractions leading up to that. They were warned," the guard says, still seeing nothing wrong with the situation. "You can't take bread."
I've had enough of this. "Unchain them, now," I demand lowly.
"It's not authorized—"
"Unchain them now, damn it!" I yell, breaking his composure, and causing him to stammer.
"I have no release orders," he says quickly. "And you have no authority to—"
"Do it on my authority," Plutarch interrupts crisply. "We came to collect these three anyway. They're needed for Special Defense. I'll take full responsibility."
The guard nods stiffly and then proceeds to make a call. A minute later he returns and gives us permission to take my prep team. Their legs are wobbly from being forced into their cramped positions for so long, so I put Venia's arm around my shoulders and help her out of the cell. Plutarch helps Flavius and Gale does the same with Octavia, who keeps up a soft whimper the entire way to the hospital wing.
I spot my mother immediately, bandaging a scraped knee of a little boy. However, when she sees us come in, all her attention switches to us. Another nurse takes care of the little boy and my mother hastily directs us to three examination rooms. I help Venia onto the cot, and promise her that my mother will take care of her and that I'll be back to check on them later.
My mother is in the zone, I can tell. Her face is set in determination. Focused on the task at hand. And yet I see the surprise and the wariness in her eyes. I know that when she tenderly pokes and prods at my prep teams' bruised wrists, she knows what caused those injuries. The shock she's trying to bury stems from not the condition of her new patients—she's seen enough abused bodies in District 12—but from the fact that this sort of thing goes on in District 13 as well.
I move to wait in another room where Gale, Plutarch, and Fulvia have retreated to. Seeing my worried expression, Gale puts his arm around my shoulders and says, "She'll fix them up." I nod, my mind briefly flitting back to the day of his whipping.
Haymitch and Rye suddenly enter the room, and for a split second I see Peeta instead of Rye. They're just so similar. All the Mellark brothers looked alike, but Rye and Peeta could have been twins. The ever-present ache in my heart intensifies as Rye shoots me a small smile before wrapping his arm around my waist and giving me a half-hug.
"What happened?" Haymitch asks, looking at me briefly and then Plutarch.
"I was only told that they were confined," Plutarch says, somewhat defensively. "I knew nothing about this."
Haymitch shrugs. "I guess we've all been put on notice, then."
"What? No. What do you mean?" Fulvia asks, confused.
I quickly catch on to Haymitch's train of thought. "Punishing my prep team is a warning," I say. "Not only to me, but to you, too. About who's really in charge and what happens if she's not obeyed. If you had any delusions about having power, I'd let them go now. Apparently, a Capitol pedigree is no protection here. Maybe it's a liability."
Fulvia's expression hardens. "There is no comparison between Plutarch, who masterminded the rebel breakout, and those three beauticians."
"Perhaps we're a little more necessary to the war effort than you give us credit for," Plutarch says haughtily, obviously unconcerned.
"Of course you are," Rye suddenly speaks up. "The tributes were necessary to the Games, too. Until they weren't." He eyes Plutarch innocently. "And then they were very disposable—right, Plutarch?"
Rye sufficiently ends the conversation, and I'm filled with new respect for him. His words could have just as easily come from Peeta's mouth. Poignant and true. We sit in silence for the rest of the time, waiting for my mother to give her diagnosis.
It's around a half hour later when my mother appears. "They'll be alright," she says. "No permanent physical injuries."
"Good. Splendid," Plutarch says, obviously more worried about his own plans than the fact that my prep team has suffered. My words are confirmed when he continues. "How soon can they be put to work?"
"Probably tomorrow," my mother replies tersely, not liking Plutarch's obvious unsympathetic nature. "You'll have to expect some emotional instability, after what they've been through. They were particularly ill prepared, coming from their life in the Capitol."
Plutarch nods, and my mother quickly excuses herself to get back to her patients. Whether it's due to the fact that my prep team is indisposed or that I'm obviously not in the mood to put up with anything mockingjay-related, Plutarch gives me the rest of the day off. Gale, Rye, Haymitch, and I all go down for lunch, where we're served bean and onion stew, a thick slice of bread, and a cup of water. Well, that's what the boys get. I get an extra slice of bread and a bigger bowl of stew.
"That's so not fair," Rye grumbles into his bowl. "I wish I was pregnant."
I roll my eyes. "I'm sure."
District 13 has food down to a science. Everyone has a strict diet, serving sizes determined by a variety of factors. Due to the regimen, many from District 12 are looking healthier, especially the children. Since I'm pregnant, I get more food than everyone else. Pregnant women in general are treated almost like angels in District 13. You see, years ago District 13 suffered from a pox epidemic, which killed many and caused many more to be infertile. So the influx of refugees from District 12 were welcomed for not so altruistic reasons. They simply provide a new gene pool that 13 desperately needs. Just another reason not to trust them.
We don't speak very much, neither Gale nor Haymitch are big talkers. I've never been one to chatter either, and Rye can't seem to summon the seemingly constant flow of words that he used to back in 12. Haymitch mutters something about needing a drink as he tosses back his water like it were a shot. Rye asks me a few questions about the baby and if there's "fluttering in the womb." Gale always goes quiet when the baby is brought up, not that I really blame him. It really must be weird to be in love with your best friend who's pregnant with another man's child.
As lunch wraps up, Gale checks his forearm. "I've got training next," he says, prompting us all to see what District 13 has planned for us next.
"Me too," Rye says, not thrilled at all. Like all able-bodied young men, he'd been drafted into 13's army. And like Peeta, Rye doesn't have a taste for war or battle or being a soldier. Unlike Gale.
I check my arm. "I'll out there with you," I say, seeing that the next two hours are my allotted time to be outside. "What are you doing Haymitch?" I ask.
"Something with Command," he says irritated.
I resist a smile. Barely. "Are you going to go?"
"Nope."
Ten minutes later I'm outside, walking above ground. We're in a large fenced-in training area. Gale and Rye's squad is already doing laps, and Gale immediately takes off to catch up with them. Gale's eagerness in the war effort doesn't surprise me. I've been listening to him rant and rave and accuse the Capitol for years. His hate for them burns brightly, and I don't begrudge him for it. I hate them, too.
Rye, on the other hand, doesn't harbor the same ill feelings. Does he detest the Capitol? Of course. They've taken his little brother, the only family he has left. However, like his brother, I don't think Rye is capable of feeling hate, of wishing evil upon someone. He's too good.
"You better go join them," I say softly.
Rye whines childishly. "But I don't want to."
"Go ahead and stomp your foot while you're at it," I chide. "Add to the immaturity."
"Don't tempt me."
I roll my eyes.
"You'll be okay?" He glances toward his squad that's coming around for another lap. "I'm totally willing to skip."
"I'm sure your motives are completely selfless," I reply knowingly. "Go. I'll be fine."
"Right. See you later, sweetcheeks," he says before turning around and falling in line with his squad.
I watch them run for a moment before scanning the area. Most of it is for the soldiers. There's obstacle courses, a track, and a target range that take up the majority of the space. However, there's a small portion of the area that is for children. A playground of sorts. Swing sets and slides and a jungle gym. There's some picnic tables set up for the mothers to sit at while they watch their children play.
I surprise myself by heading in that direction, my hand unconsciously finding my stomach as I walk. My pregnancy has yet to condemn my ability to walk silently, so I'm able to arrive without anyone noticing. I avoid the picnic tables and the benches, choosing to sit on the grass under a modest tree. There are only a few children out today. A little girl with raven-black hair that I'd guess to be about four. Two boys that must be siblings if their matching brown hair and hazel eyes are anything to go by. They appear to be about six. The fourth child is a little toddler, a boy, with white-blonde hair and sparkling green eyes. My attention focuses on him more than the others. If his hair was a golden blonde, if his eyes were blue, it could be feasible that he could be my child. Peeta's son.
My heart threatens to break. It's been teetering on the edge since we broke out of the arena. Just one more crack and I know it will shatter completely. Only Peeta coming back to me can possibly hold me together. I'm trying to be strong. I really am, and my fury at Snow has not faded in the slightest. It's the only thing that's really keeping me going, aside from the baby. My hate for Snow. What he's done to me and my family. How he's already torn my blooming family apart. He's taken the father of my child from me, and the mere thought of what Peeta could possibly be suffering through causes bile to rise in my throat.
All of his suffering is because of me. He's going through all of that pain for me.
I'll do anything to keep you safe.
My eyes close as the whispers take over my mind, making my heart ache and lift at the same time. If I concentrate hard enough, I know that I can recall the feeling of his arms around me so vividly that I can almost believe it's real. The warmth of his embrace. My face buried in his chest, listening to the steady sound of his heartbeat. His strong arms wrapping around me and keeping me close. A soft kiss.
I open my eyes.
Peeta isn't there.
"Peeta, you should be here," I can't help but whisper. "You're missing so much."
My hands find my stomach. The first day I discovered my baby bump I cried. Because I could just imagine the excited smile on Peeta's face, how his hands would gently touch my stomach, a look of wonder in his eyes. The first time I heard the baby's heartbeat. The first time I saw his little image on the screen. Peeta's missed so much.
"We need you." I don't know why I'm whispering, as though somehow he can hear me all the way in the Capitol. "I can't do this without you, Peeta."
As soon as the words leave my lips, I feel something in my stomach. A flutter. It's not a kind of fluttering that I've ever experienced. Not the nervous fluttering that I remember feeling so long ago when Peeta would smile at me with that soft smile he reserved especially for me. This is fluttering of a different kind. This fluttering is totally and completely real.
My baby is moving. I can feel him.
Tears fill my eyes and a watery smile forms. "Hi, baby," I say softly as I gently rub my stomach. "We'll get your dad back, I promise. Daddy's being really brave."
Daddy's going to keep you safe.
"We'll get him back," I repeat. "Don't worry."
The rest of my time outside I spend in silence, listening to more of Peeta's whispered assurances and feeling my baby move. When my time is up, I go back to my compartment for a brief moment of rest before Reflection, where Coin is supposed to announce Peeta's and the other victor's immunity. I'm jolted awake by a sharp knock on the door, and open it to find Haymitch standing on the other side.
"Let's go, sweetheart," he orders and without a word I fall into step beside him.
The entire population of 13, except those needed for essential jobs, is required to attend. Haymitch and I follow instructions down to a gargantuan room called the Collective that easily holds thousands of people. I stand silently by Haymitch as everyone files in. I see my mother and Prim, still in their nurse's garb, helping mobile patients who are still dressed in nightgowns and robes. I spot Finnick, who looks dazed, but gorgeous as always.
Haymitch sees Finnick, too, and starts to move through the crowd toward him. Whether it's because he knows I would have gone to Finnick anyway or he actually wants to check up on the bronze-haired stud I have no idea. When we reach him, he doesn't acknowledge our presence. He simply stares forward while his quick, practiced fingers tie knots in his strand of rope that's always with him.
"Finnick?" I call, trying to claim his attention. Nothing. "Finnick!" I say more authoritatively, nudging his shoulder.
"Katniss," he says, finally looking up. His hands abandon his rope for a moment to grasp my hand tightly, probably happy to see a familiar face. "Why are we meeting here?"
"I told Coin I'd be her Mockingjay," I tell him. "But I made her promise to give the other tributes immunity if the rebels won, and to announce it in public, so there are witnesses." I glance at Haymitch. "It was Haymitch's idea, really. I wanted to actually rescue them. They didn't go for that."
Finnick frowns, but nods. "I worry about Annie," he says. "That she'll say something that could be construed as traitorous without knowing it."
"I'm sure she'll be fine," I say, giving his hand a squeeze. Trying to find a light in the darkness, I announce, "I felt the baby move today."
Finnick's eyes light up a little. "Really?" he asks, placing his hands on my stomach. This would normally annoy me, but it's Finnick, and so I let it slide. "I don't feel anything."
"That'll come later," I promise him. "You'll have to wait."
"Finally fluttering, huh?" Haymitch asks gruffly, trying to hide his interest and happiness at the news. He'll never admit it, but I know he's secretly as excited about the baby as Prim and Rye. "That a good thing?"
"Very good thing," I assure him. "Don't worry there, Grandpa."
Haymitch scowls at the name, but I know that he's actually kind of fond of the idea. Besides, with both my father and Mr. Mellark dead, Haymitch is the closest thing my child will have to a grandfather. I open my mouth to tease Haymitch further, but Coin takes the stage, effectively causing my words to die in my throat.
Coin calls everyone's attention and then cuts right to the chase. Words are not wasted in District 13. After making a few opening remarks, she announces that I have agreed to be the Mockingjay. The announcement is met with polite clapping. And then she tells everyone of my condition. How I will only be the Mockingjay if the other victors—Peeta, Johanna, Enobaria, and Annie—will be granted a full pardon for any damage they do to the rebel cause. This announcement induces a rumbling in the crowd, a show of dissent. The people obviously didn't think I would put up any objection about becoming the Mockingjay, and so naming a price that spares possible enemies (in their view at least) angers them. I ignore the hostile glowers aimed at me.
The president only allows for their unrest to last for a few seconds before she calls back their attention. However, the words coming from her mouth are news to me. "But in return for this unprecedented request, Soldier Everdeen—"
"Mellark," I correct under my breath.
"—has promised to devote herself to our cause. It follows that any deviance from her mission, in either motive or deed, will be viewed as a break in this agreement. The immunity would be revoked and the fate of the four victors determined by the law of District 13. As would her own. Thank you."
Coin steps back and I swear that she meets my eyes from across the room. While her face is expressionless, I see the smirk in her eyes. I made my move and she just made hers, the little surprise twist in our agreement. My eyes meet Haymitch's, and I know we've both understood Coin's veiled threat.
One wrong move and we're all dead.
You know, I think Coin gives Mrs. Mellark a run for her money for the title of Top Bitch. What about you?
And the summary for the chapter is: Mrs. Everdeen thinks Katniss should be on Teen Mom, therefore making Katniss sue for slander, Prim's ageless wisdom is discovered to be a trait inherited from the Elves (Legolas, I love you!), Rye doesn't want to play with the other kids, Gale is still pining after Katniss trying to rewrite the Guy Code, Haymitch is secretly having a midlife crisis because he thinks he's too young to be a Grandfather, Finnick is playing with his rope, and Coin is vying for the crown of Queen B.
And Peeta is still partying in the Capitol.
Quote from the next chapter comes from . . . Peeta!
"You don't do this to someone you love."
Lots of love,
AC
