Disclaimer: The Hunger Games trilogy is not mine. :(
A/N: Here is part 3.
….
As Colonel Boggs guides me into a cold, dimly lit conference room, the first thing I notice is Beetee in a wheelchair. I'm not surprised he was immobilized, since he was so close to the lightning tree. The sight of him, though, reminds me that Peeta was guarding him, which meant he was near it, too. He could be in the Capitol right now sitting in a wheelchair, as well, or he could be in a dark room left for dead, unable to help himself or escape, just like in my dream. What if they're taunting him over there? The Capitol has special medicines and surgical operations that we aren't capable of providing in the districts. If they could reconstruct my left ear and cure my deafness after the 74th Games, I have no doubt they could fix Peeta. But what if he's not alright? What if they can help him and deliberately choose not to, just for the sake of demonstrating their power over him? Or if he wasn't damaged in the arena, what schemes do they have up their sleeves to hurt him?
The voice of Plutarch Heavensbee grabs my attention when he introduces me to President Coin as their "Girl on Fire," the nickname Cinna gave me when I first met him. I wish he hadn't called me that, because I'm suddenly reminded of just how much I miss Cinna, and the memory of peacekeepers beating him in front of me is another heartache that I can add to my list of pains. If I didn't feel so numb, I think I would've ripped Plutarch's head off. "Madam President, may I present you with the Mockingjay." President Coin approaches me to shake my hand.
"It's an honor to meet you. You're a courageous young woman." No, I'm not. All I can think about is how afraid I am. "I know how disorienting this must be, and I can't imagine what it must be like to live through the atrocities of those Games." No, she can't, and she never will. That's something only Peeta can do.
Unlike my mind, my mouth still refuses to form words; I am nowhere near as honored to meet her as she is to meet me, and disorienting is right. Ever since I arrived here, I've been in the hospital, and I haven't seen the sun or inhaled fresh air. And worst of all, the person I so wanted to protect isn't here. If he was, maybe I would've recovered more easily, because when he's with me, the nightmares don't come. Instead, I got separated from the one person, the one remedy, I need most. I could berate everyone in the room for this, but instead I focus on Coin and take in her features while she assures me I'm a welcome guest in her district. The first thing I fixate on is her hair. It elongates past her shoulders and varies in hue, streaked with dark and light shades of gray. That alone is enough to convince me that she and the rest of Thirteen have known loss. She's not very young, but doesn't appear to be old enough yet for her hair to signify the coming of grace to the extent that it does. And the second thing I notice are her eyes. They are pale and soulful, adding a certain fragility to her appearance. She looks as though she could be on the brink of tears at any minute; it's obvious there is pain there, but from what, I cannot say.
She turns away from me to take a seat, and I'm hesitant to do the same until Beetee motions for me to sit.
Plutarch speaks again. "This is history, right here at this table."
I'm not really in the mood to hear about anything except an update on Peeta, but instead, Coin apologizes for not giving me more time to recover, as if I ever could, and continues, "are you aware of what's happened?" I shake my head 'no'.
"When you fired your arrow at the force field, you electrified the nation. There have been riots and uprisings, and strikes, in seven districts. We believe that if we keep this energy going, we can unify the districts against the Capitol. But if we don't, if we let it dissipate, we could be waiting another seventy-five years for this opportunity. Everyone in Thirteen is ready for this."
The districts are rebelling. Sure. Everyone in Thirteen (except me) is ready to fight. Fine. This opportunity may not come again if we don't act now. Whatever. Now it's my turn to talk: "What about Peeta, is he alive?"
Plutarch's only answer is uncertainty; he doesn't know because he can't reach his contacts within the Capitol. Mentally, I suppress a groan. I'm annoyed he doesn't know, and even more so that he's so quick to change the subject. I can barely register his words as he continues to speak to me, mentioning something about how I'm alive and willing to fight, and then saying something about shooting anti-Capitol advertisements he refers to as "propos." I can't picture myself leading a revolution right now, though. My eyes mist as I picture myself on a crane, being pulled from the arena, being pulled to safety as fire incinerates the ground below me. In my mind's eye I also see Peeta on the ground, reaching out toward me, begging me to wait for him and calling out to the artificially domed heavens above to be taken to safety, but to no avail. Plutarch also says something about how I stood up to the Capitol and started the fire of rebellion, as if I deserve all the credit. What about the things Peeta has done? Riling the crowd before the second Quarter Quell when he convinced everybody I was pregnant? What about him watching out for me and not letting himself be a piece in the Capitol's game? They never owned him up until Plutarch let the Capitol take him. And he's not going to get away with changing the subject.
"You left him there," My jaw clenches as I try to bite back my rage. "You left Peeta...in that arena...to die." Plutarch tries to get a word in, but I've heard enough. My anger shines forth as I slam my hand on the table, "Peeta was the one who was supposed to live!" I'd be lying if I said my little outburst didn't feel good. Now Coin is next to face my wrath. And speak of the devil, guess who is next to talk?
"Miss Everdeen! This revolution is about everyone; it's about all of us, and we need a voice." Hmmph, a voice. I don't think Plutarch ever showed our good Madam President footage from the Victory Tour. If he had, she would have known that Peeta did most of the talking. If she watched the Quarter Quell interviews, she would have seen that he had more influence over the Capitol audience than all of the other victors, including myself. I did nothing more than wow them with my wedding dress and Mockingjay gown, but Peeta MOVED them.
I lean in closer towards Alma Coin and respond in a voice I hope will make her regret my rescue: "Then you should have saved Peeta," and finally, I walk away, too furious to sit in the same room with any of them.
Tears threaten to fall again as I walk out the door. It seems that all I ever do is cry anymore. I try to hold them back, and I resist the urge to turn around for fear that Boggs will see my pain and think it best to return me to the hospital. But he surprises me:
"Come with me, Miss Everdeen. I will escort you to your family's quarters." I nod and follow him through the stairways and crowds of gray jumpsuits, grateful to be going home. It doesn't take long before we reach the room that my mom and Prim share, and the first thing I realize is that it's only one floor up from the hospital. I can't help but wonder if we were assigned this room on purpose, but I quickly push the thought away and turn to face Boggs before I pass through the steel gray door of my new home.
"Are they going to start me on a regular schedule like everyone else?" In a way, I hope so. I desperately need a distraction.
"Not today, Miss Everdeen. Since you haven't had a chance to fully recover, we think it best you take the remainder of the day to get some rest, and then join everybody at the commons for dinner. You need your strength. Within the next day or two we'll have you start on a schedule."
"Thank you." I give him a curt nod and slide open the door as he walks away. Our room is rather small. There are two beds, two small tables, which I can't imagine serve much purpose other than as a place to ponder during reflection, and a bathroom stall. It amazes me how the people of Thirteen have everything down to a science. All possible resources, including space, are utilized so well, even in the face of the waves of immigrants who have come to Thirteen for refuge.
Once I take in the sight, I go over to one of the beds. I doubt I'll actually fall asleep, but with Mom and Prim gone, taking a moment to lie down sounds appealing. The bed is like everything else around here: not too fancy, and yet it's nothing less than I need. The sheets are somewhat scratchy, but they provide just enough warmth to keep me comfortable, and I wish my pillow were a little more fluffy, but it does a decent job of propping my head enough such that I'm not lying in a flat position. After I change into a sterile white nightgown, I lie down on the hard mattress and drape the sheets over me. It takes a few minutes to get warm, but once I do, I close my eyes and allow myself to relish in the tranquility of the quiet room.
