Katniss is an incredibly difficult character to capture and I can only hope that I'm doing her justice... Honestly, let me know if I'm doing something wrong xD. As always, enjoy reading and please review!
My inspiration for this chapter:
"Make me a bird, so I could fly far, far, far away from here." – Forrest Gump (1994)
I don't own The Hunger Games.
We settle back into our routine as though nothing has changed. Venia, Flavius and Octavia quickly busy themselves with preparing me for God knows what. I feel completely and utterly safe in the knowledge that no matter what I face, my eyebrows will be shaped, my nails well kept and my legs will be completely hair free. Mostly I think about Cinna, flicking through the sketch book he left me. Every time I turn the page I'm rewarded with something incredible – I'd almost forgotten how talented he was. How talented he still is.
If Coin doesn't save him, I don't know what I'll do. This process would certainly be a heck of a lot easier if he were here to hold my hand, smile at me reassuringly. I know it's ridiculous to want him here purely for that, but I do. I don't think I ever really appreciated how much I relied on him before each of the games – I wouldn't be alive now, if it weren't for him and his magical costumes. I would never have been the girl on fire; we would have had no sponsors. I would never have left the cave, and Peeta would have died beside me.
They're depressing thoughts. I shake my head – much to the chagrin of Octavia, who is trying to plaster some strange powder on my face – almost as though I'm trying to expel the thoughts. To be honest, it doesn't really work and it just lets loose a clip that's been holding back my hair for the past ten minutes or so. The prep team groan as though it's the scandal of the century, with Flavius moving faster than I thought was possible in his haste to sweep the hair aside.
There is nothing to describe my emotion when they bring the wax out. "Thirteen don't have strips," Venia tells me, a small smile of anticipation on her face. "We'll have to use hot wax, instead." My eyes widen in horror at the thought – wax alone was bad enough, but hot wax? It's lathered on me, scalding hot. Is this not a form of torture in itself? I make a mental note to mention it to Gale; maybe he could give the weapon's department the idea. I'm sure that half of District Twelve would give up their secrets to have the hot wax taken away – but then I remember that there is no District Twelve.
A part of me wants to go back, to visit the place that I once called home – that, given the chance, I would still call home. The house in the Victor's Village never held much allure for me; it is the small house with the rotting blue shutters that I want to go back to. The rock where Gale and I would meet every Sunday just after dawn that had been worn soft over the years where we'd sat there, alone in wait of the other. Sometimes we would squeeze onto it together and just talk – about anything, everything. It was a place of trust and freedom, and unless Coin suddenly decides that it is important for me to visit, I will never know if these places were burnt to the ground.
The thought of it puts the wax and the pain it causes into perspective – apparently, me having a completely hairless set of legs is vitally important to the rebellion. I'm not about to question the word of Plutarch and Fulvia, who are to direct a series of short films they're hoping Beetee can air all over Panem. Of course, in my opinion this whole hairless thing is an overrated Capitol idea – which is exactly something a rebellion against the Capitol should steer clear of. I much prefer feeling natural – I already miss the fluffy curls that graced my legs. Once upon a time, I needed them to keep me warm. I suppose I can only be grateful that it's highly unlikely that I'll ever be in that situation again.
Eventually, my legs are completely smooth and bronzed over with some strange powder, and my face has been attended to by the careful hands of my prep team. From what I can tell, it's far from beauty base zero, but I'm hoping that they haven't completely overdone it. Judging by the huge grin on their faces, they're really pleased with what they've come up with. Unfortunately, that does absolutely nothing to make me feel better – the Capitol's residents are only ever please with something if it is completely over the top – something anybody would be able to see from the gold tattoos that decorate Venia's face, Flavius' orange curls and Octavia's light evergreen skin.
I'm not wrong to be worried – they hand me a mirror with reassuring smiles and carefully scrutinize my face for the signs of my opinion on it. I'm momentarily shocked at the reflection – this woman is not me. I do not recognise her, I certainly don't have a clue who it is. They've transformed me from a plain, weathered seventeen year old girl to a woman who is defiant, imposing, and above all – sexy. My eyebrows have been drawn on black in an angle that makes my face almost look rebellious in itself. For a moment, I think that even Peeta wouldn't recognise me. He's off with his own prep team, probably being turned into my male counterpart.
I can't help but feel guilty that I don't like it, so I try and smile at the three adults who look as though they are toddlers that have been given a new toy. Me. I catch my reflection in the mirror again – it is a small smile, not nearly convincing enough, but somehow the makeup hides it, radiates confidence. "Oh, we just knew that you would love it!" Octavia gushes, her grin doubling in size – something I didn't think would be possible. "We have so much more freedom here, with you," she tells me matter-of-factly. "Before, Cinna wouldn't let us do anything over dramatic with you," they all shake their heads sadly in agreement, before gushing over me some more.
There's not a lot that I can say. I certainly wish Cinna was here now, to calm them down, stop them from turning me into somebody I'm not. I honestly have no clue how he managed to reign them in before, because I am powerless to stop them. Maybe I am too nice. It's a ridiculous thought, really. I am Katniss, the girl on fire, survivor of the Hunger Games and the Capitol's wrath. Yet I am reduced to this, too scared to hurt the feelings of a few fashionistas. Then again, I'm a survivor. I'm pretty sure I can get through this.
By now, it's become quite apparent that Coin knew exactly what she was doing earlier on in the morning; I slip into my costume and am lead to the filming studio where, it seems, they have been expecting me for days. Judging by Fulvia's expression, it was a few days too long and the hassle of having me attended to by the prep team is yet another thing that has taken longer than it should have. Despite being walked past several mini studios with several different sets, I am placed in front of a green screen rather than something a little ... Realistic.
"You're absolutely going to love our slogan!" Fulvia grins at me, as though she is building up to something mindblowing, monumental. The room is almost eerily silent, save for the whirring of the computers in the background, and everybody is watching me, waiting. I can tell by the small smiles threatening to break out onto their faces that each and every one of them are about to burst with excitement. After all, this is a rebellion, and you can't have a rebellion without a slogan. Me? I'm worried, extremely worried. I don't do scripts – they need Peeta for that. I'm trying desperately to keep my face neutral, but I'm not entirely sure how well I'm pulling it off. I never was a brilliant actress.
"People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice!" That's the line. I can tell by the way they present it that they've spent months, maybe years working it out and are really proud of it. I'm the only person in the room that hasn't heard it yet, so all eyes are on me – then again, all eyes are always on me. Honestly, it seems like a bit of a mouthful to me, a stiff line that nobody would ever say in an actual conversation. If I were truly standing before the people of Panem, the last words that would spurt from my mouth would be them. I know, I've been in that situation before. "It's wonderful," I tell her, smiling and nodding as though I really mean it. I don't.
The room bursts with excitement, just as I expected, and I let myself smile and squee along with them. It's fun, just to be able to laugh and be happy about something, even if it is about a lie. Eventually, though, Plutarch puts his serious face on and tells us to calm down and get filming, so that's exactly what we get to doing. I'm all ready and suited up to stand in front of the cameras and roll the film, but as a last minute addition Octavia runs on and pins my Mockingjay badge on the suit. I can't believe I forgot it, so I thank her profusely and look directly at the camera.
I feel absolutely ridiculous. If I were a real Mockingjay, I would have flown far away from here by now. I am simply a seventeen year old girl from the Seam – a place that has now been reduced to ashes. For the first time since this morning, I focus on the pain that the destruction of Twelve has brought me. The idea of my home being burnt to a crisp ricochets around my head and I let it roam free. If I'm to please Coin and save Cinna, then this needs to be good. It needs to be mind-blowingly convincing and inspirational.
The cameras have been running for a few seconds now, and I gather up all of my strength, pain and courage and look the camera – my audience – in the eye. Taking in a huge breath, I steel myself and yell.
"People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice!"
There's a moment of silence, and I hear a thunk as the cameras are turned off. I'm actually pretty pleased with how it went, and the room automatically bursts into applause. Apparently, I'm not the only one who thinks I've done well. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a lone figure in the corner of the room, somebody I haven't spotted before now. Haymitch. He's sulking, by the looks of it – and sober. By some miracle, Thirteen must have managed to get him off of the alcohol. My bet is that as soon as this rebellion is over he'll go to wherever there is alcohol and start drowning himself in the stuff again. From what I've seen of Thirteen, they'd be too stingy to let him have the occasional drink. I make a mental note to ask my Mother to sneak me some of the alcohol they have in the medical wings.
"Haymitch," his name forms on my lips and I leave the set, head towards him. The closer I get the more I realise that he's not joining in the celebration with everybody else. Maybe it reminds him too much of the pre-Games, the interviews. Something tells me that there's something more to his expression though. Disappointment? I hope not. "Well, what did you think?" I ask, trying to sound confident and uncaring. I'm not sure if it works. After all, Haymitch has always been brutally honest with me – he'd tell me if it was terrible.
"We'll see what it's like when they're done with it," he shrugs. Not getting a straight answer from him is even worse than him telling me that it was crap.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that they're going to edit it, put you in a place you've never visited. You already look like somebody else. What I just saw will be nothing like the finished product, and it will be even less like you." With that, he walks away, leaving me to my own thoughts. My over excited mood has faded almost immediately, replaced by the feeling of self doubt. I can't ignore it, and I have to admit that he's right. It all depends on whether they want me to be the Mockingjay, or somebody that they make me into.
I think I can be either, but I would like to be me.
This is nerve-wracking. I'm back in the TV room and the memories are haunting me. I have Peeta right beside me, and I am ready to bury my face in his neck as soon as the screens explode into bombs. They don't, though. Instead, my face looms on the screen, except it is not my face. It's something similar, sure, but it's an older version of me. I look sexy, rebellious, and nothing like the scared little girl I was in the Games, the girl that I am sure Panem remember.
There are wisps of smoke rising from me, and I look as though I have just been extinguished or am about to burst into flames. I've been so captivated with how different I look that I've barely noticed the setting they've stuck me in. The screen Katniss is in a barren battlefield with bodies strewn all around her, a place of death and fear. The screen me takes a big breath and yells out to the camera with conviction, but it's terrible. Haymitch was right, this is nothing like me or what the Mockingjay is about. It reminds me far too much of the Capitol.
The room is completely silent. Quickly, I scan the faces of everybody who has just seen the short film, and nobody looks overjoyed or excited like they had on set. Even Peeta looks disappointed, and I didn't think I would ever be able to disappoint him. Still, nobody speaks, simply looking blankly in at the screen in a state of shock. From behind, I hear a door open, but I don't bother to see who it is. Probably just one of the film crew, I didn't think they were all here. Maybe they were late.
"Oh, Katniss was right. You do need me."
The voice is one that I recognise, one that I love and miss. I swing round in disbelief, a gasp forming on my lips.
Cinna.
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