A/N: Another chapter is here! This chapter is dear to me for one reason in particular. Plutarch totally gets what's coming to him and oh, was it so satisfying to write. Trust me, you'll know this scene when you read it.
As always, I cannot thank you enough for reading and reviewing and alerting and favoriting and just being all around awesome. So thanks, yet again, for being awesome.
Now, onto the chapter!
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: (giggles in excitement) Katniss, you will actually like this chapter.
Katniss: Really? The way things have been going . . . I seriously doubt that.
Me: True. You are sad . . . but you have a great moment of awesomeness that you will approve of.
Katniss: Okay. That's cool.
Me: I know it is.
Rye: I know what happens! I know what happens!
Me: Don't spoil it!
Rye: But I want to!
Me: No spoiling!
Peeta: (from his cell in the Capitol) Can someone get me out of here already?
Me: Peeta, darling . . . never rush me.
Peeta: But . . .
Me: No rushing!
Chapter 8: My Love
My love, leave yourself behind
Beat inside me, leave you blind
My love, you have found peace
You were searching for release
You gave it all into the call
You took a chance and you took the fall for us
When we arrive back in 13, we all go our separate ways. Haymitch, who has a secretive glint in his eye due to the alcohol-filled flask in his pocket, goes immediately to his compartment. I hope he doesn't drink his entire flask in one go. He'll be terribly disappointed when it's empty.
Gale is headed down to Special Defense. He's been spending a lot of time down there lately with Beetee, working on something I assume. Rye is going to a class, probably the same one that my arm says I'm supposed to go to, but it's not as though I've ever followed the schedule on my arm. Why start now? So while Plutarch and the rest of the film crew go to Command and the editing room, respectively, I go to Compartment 303. I won't make the same mistake of not telling Prim that I've arrived back safe and sound. I made sure to tell her where I'd be going today and when I'd be back during breakfast.
When I enter the compartment, I'm surprised to find that Prim is absent. I'm even more surprised that my mother is not in her nurse's garb and working in the hospital, like I assume Prim is. Maybe she got a long shift today and my mother didn't.
My mother's eyes look up to meet mine from her seat at the small desk they've been provided. The plant book is open in front of her, and I immediately recognize one of Peeta's pictures. "He has talented hands," she says quietly.
"Yes, he does," I reply, remembering all the paintings that I'd seen today. Each of them beautiful and precise and full of feeling. I could see the emotion in each brushstroke, even the loving caress as he'd sketched my nude form with charcoal.
We fall into a bout of silence, but I get the feeling that it won't last long. Like a calm before the storm. A conversation that we've needed to have and yet have avoided until now. The simple, ever growing fact (quite literally) that I am pregnant.
"Why don't you just say it?" I prompt after a few minutes. "Let's just get it out there."
My mother hesitates for a moment before squaring her shoulders and pinning me with a stare full of her disapproval. It's the closest she's come to looking stern since my father died. "How could you be so irresponsible?" she asks. "How could you let this happen?"
"We weren't being irresponsible," I tell her through gritted teeth. Did she seriously think that Peeta and I would have unprotected sex? "We were safe every time, mom." Trust me. I'd gone over every single encounter we'd had. Peeta, too. We could never come up with a time where we hadn't used a condom.
"Obviously not," my mother snaps, her hands on her hips. "But that's not even the main point. All of this could have been avoided if you'd just . . . controlled your hormones," she says, putting it delicately.
But it makes my ire rise. "You think it was the fact that I couldn't control my hormones?" I repeat incredulously before admitting, "Mom, I've been controlling my hormones around Peeta ever since I saw him without a shirt! It wasn't as though we got carried away. We made a mutual decision that we'd been thinking about for months." By the look on my mother's face, this news isn't helping my argument.
"You're not married," she says and I resist the urge to slam my head against the wall. Repeatedly. I am tired of people saying that.
"Yes, we are," I nearly growl. "I don't care if we don't have a damn piece of paper declaring that it's official. We had a toasting. That's official enough. It's official in my mind. It's official in Peeta's mind. And frankly, I couldn't care less if you disagree."
"What do you think your father would say?" she asks, pulling me up short. "Don't you think he'd be disappointed?"
"Yes," I admit truthfully. "He would've been. But I also know that he would have seen that what Peeta and I have is real, and not some teenage romance. You can't merely have a teenage romance after what we've been through. It's either real or it isn't. Dad would have seen that and yeah, he would have rather we waited, but I don't for a second thing he'd practically ignore me because he was embarrassed that his daughter had sex before she was 'married.'" I snap angrily.
"You think I'm embarrassed?" my mother asks surprised. "I'm not embarrassed, Katniss. I'm disappointed and angry you made such a poor decision."
"Poor decision?" I repeat. "Is it wrong, mom? To love someone with my entire being? Is it wrong to want to share all of myself with him? Is it? Is it wrong to want to express my love? Yes, I could give him a hug. I could tell him that I love him. I could kiss him for hours. But at the end of the day, when I'm lying in his arms, sometimes that's just not enough. It wasn't just sex, mom. It was making love." My mother tries to say something, but I cut her off. "And yes, that love resulted in this baby, your grandchild. I know you would have rather we waited. Well, guess what, Peeta and I weren't exactly jumping up and down for joy when we found out, either. But I'm not about to stand here and have you lecture me on how irresponsible I was. I am anything but irresponsible, and you know it."
My mother's next words take all the fire out of my veins. "What if Peeta doesn't survive?"
"He will," I say evenly. Peeta dying is simply not an option. "He'll live for me."
"Katniss, this isn't a fairytale—"
"You think I don't know that?" I ask. "Do you think I'm naïve about what they're doing to him? Mom, have had so many nightmares about the different possibilities that it makes me sick. But I know that he'll hold on. Peeta's strong. And he'll live for me. Because he's got something to live for."
"But, Katniss, you have to acknowledge the fact he might not survive. All the strength in the world can't save him," she says. "Not if the Capitol decides he's of no use to them. He's a seventeen year old boy, Katniss."
"Yes," I agree. "He's a seventeen year old boy who has been through more than you and hardly anyone in Panem can imagine."
"That may be so, but the physical toll—"
"I don't care about the physical toll!" I snap, tired of hearing her continue to say that Peeta will die. "Sometimes you just have to believe." I can hardly believe that the words are coming out of my mouth, considering that I've never been good at simply believing. "Sometimes, you have to have a little faith. I believe in Peeta. I have faith in him. You should, too."
I decide that this conversation is over, and head toward the door. But as a last thought, I turn back to her as I swing open the door. "Never underestimate the will to live," I tell her, repeating Dr. Riley's wise words. I know their truth. I've experienced that infinite will firsthand. It's what drives your legs just a little faster. Makes you shoot straighter. Makes you jump higher, swim faster.
And it's how Peeta will survive his torture. Simply because he doesn't want to die. Because he has something to live for. Because he knows that the baby and I are waiting for him. He'll live for us, I know he will.
I shut the door behind me, feeling drained. My eyes feel heavy as I walk a little further down the hall before slipping into my own compartment. I place Peeta's sketchbooks and things in my game bag with the rest of his possessions that I've grabbed. Then, I take the pearl out of the parachute in my nightstand, clutch it in my hand, and then slip into unconsciousness.
I'm awoken hours later to the sound of someone knocking on my door. Absently, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, placing the pearl in my pocket for the time being. I'm surprised when I find that Boggs is the one who disturbed my slumber.
"What?" I ask groggily, taking a moment to rub the sleep out of my eyes. "What is it?"
"You're needed in Command," Boggs says obviously. "Didn't you check your schedule?"
"No."
"Do you even follow it at all?" he asks, sounding exasperated, but if I'm not mistaken, with just a bit of bemusement.
"Not usually, no."
"Well, you're late for a meeting," he states as he begins to guide me down the hall, placing a hand at the small of my back. It doesn't feel demeaning. It actually has a rather fatherly connotation to it, which makes a sort of sense, since Boggs is a father.
"What's it for?" I ask dully, not really thrilled that my sleep was interrupted. I get cranky fairly easily these days.
"I think Cressida wanted to show you the propos they've pieced together from your trip to 12," he says and I scoff.
"That's what I need a schedule of," I grumble under my breath. "When propos air."
Boggs shoots me a look, but I merely shrug. I really don't care.
When we enter Command, everyone, quite obviously, is waiting for me. They've been kind enough to save me a seat between Rye and Finnick. The screens are already set up on the table. I take my seat with a little huff, and Rye raises his eyebrows. "Whoops. Looks like they interrupted the pregnant lady's nappy time. She's all grumpy now." His eyes aren't quite as bright as normal, still heavy with the sadness this morning's trip brought, but at least he's trying to pick himself up.
"Yeah, yeah," I mutter before looking at him and Finnick. "What's going on?" I've just noticed that the screens in front of us are tuned into the Capitol feed. "I thought we were watching the propos from 12."
"Oh, no," Rye says before backtracking. "I mean, possibly."
I look to Finnick for a better explanation. "It all depends on what footage Beetee chooses to use," he says with a shrug. "Beetee thinks he's found a way to break into the feed nationwide. So that our propos will air in the Capitol, too. He's down working on it in Special Defense now. There's live programming tonight. Snow's making an appearance or something." Suddenly, he pauses, looking at the screens. "I think it's starting."
The Capitol seal fills the screen, underscored by the anthem. And then I'm staring into the cold, venomous, snake-like eyes of President Snow. He greets the nation, looking as though he's barricaded behind his podium. I can't help but like my comparison. It implies that he feels threatened. Implies that he feels the need to protect himself. Good.
But when the camera pulls back to include Peeta, all my small feelings of satisfaction plummet into nonexistence. He's worse. I cling to both Finnick's and Rye's hands, trying to let them anchor me. I feel a sob begin to build in my throat, but I manage to swallow it. Be strong, Katniss.
But I'm breaking at this vision of Peeta before me. He sits in a metal chair in front of a map of Panem. His feet are supported by the lower rung, and one foot is tapping an irregular beat on the floor. Peeta starts talking about the state of the districts in a frustrated voice, as though the words aren't coming to him as quickly as he would like. His speech is certainly not as smooth as usual. Have they given him something? Some kind of drug? Maybe a sedative?
I ignore what he's saying, how he's talking of a broken dam in District 7. A derailed train spilling toxic waste in 5. A granary collapsing in 8. He contributes all of this to rebel action, the respective district lighting up behind him on the map. But I barely hear any of this.
My eyes are scouring his form. A light sheen of sweat is visible. His breathing seems too shallow, too quick. He's appears even thinner than before. Another five pounds lost. What would that make him, now? 170? 165? Far too skinny for his six foot frame.
It's his eyes that threaten to break me. Though the emotion in them is dulled somewhat because of whatever drugs I'm sure they've given him, I can still read everything clearly. Pain. That's what I see. Pain in every word spoken. Every movement made. Haunting pain. Knowing what has happened and what will happen.
And then, suddenly, he's vanished. In his place, Rye and I are standing in the rubble of the bakery. Plutarch, in the back of the room, jumps to his feet and exclaims, "He did it! Beetee broke in!"
"Thank you, Captain Obvious," Rye mutters under his breath, though his voice is strained. Neither I nor Rye are focused on Beetee's achievement. We want to see Peeta, even if he's obviously suffering. At least we know he's alive.
Peeta is back on screen again, looking distracted. He's seen me and Rye on the monitor. I might be mistaken, but I think I see a minute quirk of his lips. A hidden smile. But he quickly stifles it and tries to get back on track, talking about the destruction of a water purification plant. Beetee cuts him off midsentence, as Finnick's voice narrates over a clip talking about Rue.
And then it's like a battle of the broadcasters. Beetee versus the Capitol. The images flick back and forth as each tries to thwart the other. But it's obvious that Beetee was prepared for this, because he has five to ten second clips that he's able to squeeze in before the Captiol tech whizzes take control again. The Capitol broadcast is broken as select portions of our propos deteriorate the Capitol's official presentation.
Everyone is cheering Beetee on, as though this is a game. Personally, I've played games. Rye, Finnick, and I don't cheer. We stay silent and motionless. I meet Haymitch's stare across the room. He's silent, too, his eyes filled with the dread that I'm sure is mirrored in my gaze. We both realize that with every cheer, Peeta slips even farther from our grasp.
The Capitol seal suddenly fills the screen, again, underscored by a flat audio tone. This lasts about twenty agonizing seconds before Snow and Peeta return. The Capitol set is in turmoil. We hear people shouting back and forth as they try to get things in order, but it's obvious that they're frantic and panicking. President Snow is undeterred, however, and plows on through with his statement, launching into a spiel of how the rebels are clearly trying to disrupt the dissemination of information that they find incriminating. Justice and truth will reign, in his opinion. The full broadcast will air again when they have everything sorted. And then he asks Peeta if he has any parting thoughts for me.
At the mention of my name, Peeta's face contorts as he fights the look of longing he instinctively began to show. However, it's easily reflected in his eyes. His longing and desperate love that momentarily overcomes his pain. But there's something else. Fear . . . but determination.
"Katniss." My eyes want to close at the sound of my name escaping his lips, but I force them open. I can't take my eyes off him. "How do you think this will end? What will be left? No one is safe. Not in the Capitol. Not in the districts . . ." he trails off and then I see a decision made in his eyes, and they've never looked clearer than in this moment. It's almost as though he thinks this is his last hurrah, and the thought scares me. He thinks his time is coming to an end. But his next words scare me more. "And not you in 13!" he says quickly. "They're coming! Dead by morning!"
Off camera, Snow orders, "End it!" Beetee throws the screen into chaos, flashing a still of me standing in front of the hospital in 8. But between the three-second flashes, I'm able to see the horror unfolding in the Capitol production room. Peeta is still speaking, shouting warnings at me. The camera is knocked down to the floor, recording the white tiled floor, and I'm upset that I can no longer see Peeta.
There's a scuffle of boots and then the sound of an impact of a blow that can only be entwined with Peeta's cry of pain . . . and then his blood splatters across the white tiles . . .
For a split second, everyone is silent.
And then it's a roar as everyone starts speaking at once. I want to scream. I want to scream at the horror I just witnessed, but it dies in my throat. I would feel better if I could scream, I think. Peeta knew exactly what he was doing when he gave me that warning. They will probably kill him for this.
And he knows it. But he did it anyway.
I'll do anything to keep you safe.
I'm drawn out of myself when I hear Haymitch's voice shout over the rest. "Shut up!" Everyone's eyes fall on him, including mine. "It's not some big mystery! The boy is telling us we're about to be attacked. Here. In 13."
His words are met with a multitude of accusations.
"How would he have that information?"
"Why should we trust him?"
"How do you know?"
Haymitch's jaw sets dangerously, his eyes looking almost feral. "They're beating him bloody while we speak! What more do you need?" He looks to me, demanding. "Katniss, help me out here!"
Get a grip, Katniss. I tell myself.
"Haymitch is right," I say quickly, putting all the conviction I can into my voice. "I don't know where Peeta got the information or if it's true. But he believes it is. And if he believes it, then I believe it. And they're—" I can't continue, choking on my words as I think of what Snow is doing to Peeta.
I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry. I refuse to cry in front of these people, especially Coin. So, miraculously, I manage to dam my flood of tears. For now.
"You don't know him," Haymitch says evenly, speaking directly to Coin. "We do. Get your people ready."
Coin doesn't seem alarmed by this news. Only perplexed and mildly surprised. She idly taps her finger against the table in front of her, thinking. The projection of ease and nonchalance irks me greatly, more than it should, but my emotions are on a high right now and I'm stretched tighter than I'm meant to be. I'm just waiting to snap. And that damn tapping is about to do it.
Right when I'm about to scream, Coin speaks, addressing Haymitch. "Of course, we have prepared for such a scenario. Although we have decades of support for the assumption that further direct attacks on 13 would be counterproductive to the Capitol's cause. Nuclear missiles would release radiation into the atmosphere, with incalculable environmental results. Even routine bombing could badly damage our military compound, which we know they hope to regain. And, of course, they invite a counterstrike. It is conceivable that, given our current alliance with the rebels, those would be viewed as acceptable risks."
"You think so?" Haymitch asks, his voice filled with so much vicious sarcasm that I'm surprised Coin isn't physically wounded.
"I do," Coin replies, ignoring his tone. "At any rate, we're overdue for a Level Five security drill," she announces. "Let's proceed with the lockdown." A few taps on the keyboard in front of her and suddenly an unbearably loud, high-pitched siren is going off.
Immediately, Finnick and Rye each have one of my arms and begin to follow Boggs, who is gesturing for us to follow him. He leads us out of Command, along the hall, and then pauses at a doorway that I haven't noticed until now. It leads us into a wide stairwell that is already packed with people. You would think that such a terrifying situation would have people panicking. But this is District 13. They are completely calm, making their way down step by step in three single-file lines. It's odd how they immediately edge to the left, giving Boggs enough room to guide me, and by happenstance, Finnick and Rye down the stairs ahead of the others.
We continue to go further and further down until eventually my ears pop from the pressure and my eyes feel heavy. We're coal-mine deep. Still, we continue to go further and further down. The only plus to being so far underground is that the further down we travel, the more the siren's piercing shrill dies. It's like the sound is design to drive people away from it, and I suppose that that's probably the idea.
Groups of people begin to branch off, disappearing into marked doorways, but Boggs continues on down. Finally, we're at the very end of the stairs, which lead into a gigantic cavern. I take step forward to go in, but Boggs tells me that I have to wave my schedule in front of a scanner so that I'm accounted for. Rye and Finnick do the same and then Boggs leaves us.
Rye, Finnick, and I stand at the entrance for a moment, taking in our new surroundings. I see the numbers on the wall. "Guess we go to our room number," I say, turning to Finnick. "I'll see you later, okay?"
I hope this experience doesn't inhibit the progress he's making. Maya visiting him surely seemed to help and assisting with the propos seems to have given him a purpose. He's a bit more clear-headed now. Truthfully, I know there's only so much better he can get without Annie and knowing that she's safe. Preferably in his arms.
I know. Because I feel the same way about Peeta. Oh, Peeta . . .
I shake my head as tortuous images of Peeta fill my mind, seeing his blood splatter across the white tiles of the Capitol production room. I feel the baby moving in my stomach more than normal, obvious affected by the excitement of recent events, and I absently rub my stomach, as if to calm him.
"Well, you're in 303, right?" I ask and Rye nods. We walk to his little designated nook, and before I continue on to mine, he takes my hand, "I'll sneak over in a minute, okay?"
I nod, my eyes filling with tears, but I bat them back. I can't cry, yet. I'll cry later.
I'm walking to my own nook when I run into Plutarch. "And here you are," he says by way of greeting. He's still happy, Peeta's plight having little to no effect on him. He almost seems giddy due to Beetee's success. It makes me furious, but I manage to bite my tongue down on the flurry of curses I want to spit at him. "Katniss, obviously this is a bad moment for you, what with Peeta's setback, but you need to be aware that others will be watching you."
"What?" I manage to grit out. Did he seriously just refer to Peeta's perilous circumstances to something as degrading as a setback?
"The other people in the bunker, they'll be taking their cue on how to react from you. If you're calm and brave, others will try to be as well. If you panic, it could spread like wildfire," Plutarch explains, oblivious to the murderous thoughts that are now revolving in my mind. All centering on him.
"Why don't I just pretend I'm on camera, Plutarch?" I ask scathingly, but it's like he's immune.
"Yes! Perfect. One is always much braver with an audience," he says. "Look at the courage Peeta just displayed!"
That's it. "You know nothing of courage," I hiss at him, taking a menacing step forward. It thrills me to no end that he takes a step back in fear. Oh, he should be terrified. "Peeta possess more goodness in his little finger than you do in your entire body, courage only being one of his many qualities that makes him better than the rest of us. So don't you dare pander to me about his courage when you cannot possibly fathom the feeling." Plutarch appears as though he wants to say something, but I cut him off. This is my time to speak, and he better damn well listen to every word. "The love of my life and father of my child is currently being tortured, maybe even killed," I pause, choking back sobs as I add, "Maybe he's already dead." Peeta certainly thought it was a possible consequence. I could see it in his eyes.
"Katniss—" Plutarch tries to interrupt me again, but I silence him with my most ferocious glare as I continue.
"And your main worry is that I remain calm and collected so everyone else can too?" My voice takes on a heavy condescension before I spit, "Go to hell."
And with that, I stalk to my designated space.
My space, which has 313 in large letters on the wall, consists of an eight by eight square of stone floor. Just big enough for a small bed and a ground-level cube space for storage. I notice a sheet of plastic-covered paper on the bed, and pick it up. It reads BUNKER PROTOCOL.
The first section is entitled "On Arrival."
Make sure all members of your Compartment are accounted for.
I look around my compartment. The one who is supposed to share it with me is currently being tortured by the Capitol. Or . . . worse . . . being killed in a brutal manner for fulfilling his promise to always keep me safe, to always watch over me. I skip ahead to the next line, trying to read the words through my tear-filled eyes. My conversation with Plutarch did not help in my attempts to restrain the visual evidence of my grief.
Go to the Supply Station and secure one pack for each member of your Compartment. Ready your Living Area. Return pack(s).
I scan the cavern and spot the Supply Station, tucked away into a hollowed out corner with a long countertop in front of it. Some people are already milling around in the area, but there's not a lot of activity. I walk over, hand over my compartment number, and request one pack. The man checks a sheet of paper, moves back toward the shelves, selects my pack, and then hands it to me. Without another word, I turn around to head back to my compartment, and I'm startled when I see a long line that has formed. Are they seriously taking their cue from me? Do I really hold that much clout?
Once I'm back at my space, I scour through my pack, noting its contents. A thin mattress, bedding, two sets of grey clothing, a toothbrush, a comb, and a flashlight. I make up the bed, and then am left with no choice but to observe the last rule.
Await further instruction.
Brilliant.
I don't have too long to brood though, because my mother appears, looking anxious. "Where's Prim?" I ask.
My mother wrings her hands, and my heart is automatically doing double time. "I was hoping she was with you," she explains. "She's not at our Compartment, but I don't understand. She was supposed to come straight down from the hospital. She left ten minutes before I did. Where is she? Where could she have gone?"
I don't know. I have no idea why Prim wouldn't be here. But that doesn't matter right now. Immediately, I'm on my feet and my mother is right behind me as we begin to push through the crowd, trying to reach the entrance to the cavern. My heart stops when I'm able to see the doors, heavy and thick, begin to slowly slide inward. Intuitively, I know that when these doors shut, there's no convincing the soldiers to open them until the all clear.
And I'm running. As fast as I can, trying to maneuver myself through the throngs of people. It's not as easy as it would have been a few months ago, but I still manage. Politeness has gone out the window when I see the sliver between the closing doors grow smaller and smaller. I'm shouting at them to wait, to stop. The space between the doors continues to shrink. A yard. A foot.
Inches.
I throw myself forward, managing shove my hand through the tiny space. "Open it!" I demand. "Keep it open!"
Pure shock shows on the soldier's faces, but nonetheless, they open the doors a bit more and I wedge my shoulder into the space for good measure. "Prim!" I holler up the stairs. "Prim!" My mother is pleading with the guards as I continue to yell for Prim.
Then I hear faint footsteps. "Prim!" I call again, begging for an answer.
"We're coming!" is Prim's faint answer and I would relax if I didn't know that the battle was only half over. I still needed to get her through the doors.
"Hold the door!" Gale.
"They're coming!" I tell the guards. "Open the doors!"
The slide the doors open about a foot, but that will do. Finally, I see them. I don't move from my place until I absolutely have to and then Prim and Gale slip through the crack. Not a second after Gale is clear of the doors, they are shut. The guards aren't happy with the delay, but I don't care.
I grab Prim by the shoulders, giving her an angry shake before enveloping her in a tight hug. "What were you thinking?" I demand, my scolding tone marred considerably by the tears in my voice.
In answer, Prim steps out of my embrace, and slips a leather strap off her shoulder. The leather strap of my game bag. The game bag that contains all of Peeta's things. I feel guilty about the waves of relief and joy and gratefulness that course through me as I take the game bag from her. Prim risked her life for these things. Just because she knew how much they meant to me.
I shouldn't be grateful that she risked her life . . . but I am.
Almost as if sensing my inner struggle, Prim smiles slightly. "It's okay, Katniss," she assures me. "I know how much you need him."
I give her another tight hug, before allowing my mother to smother Prim with tears and affection and gentle scolding. I tell them that I'll be at my Compartment, but before I go, Gale grabs my arm. "He'll be alright, you know," he says, and I think of how Peeta spoke those very same words to me after Gale had been whipped.
"I know," I say, my voice trembling. "I'll see you later, okay?"
"You bet."
I retreat back to my space and find Rye waiting for me. He sees the added stress on my face, and I explain to him about the drama at the doors with Prim and Gale. Rye asks what's in the bag, and I show him. No one else but Prim knows the contents of the bag, but I don't mind showing Rye. Peeta is his brother.
However, I'm surprised and guiltily grateful once more when I realize that Prim saved more than Peeta's things. She also saved my father's hunting jacket, the plant book, and our parent's wedding photo. But Peeta's things are still there. His shirts. I take each one out and fold it neatly. Rye notes the presence of Peeta's favorite shirt, the blue one, with a sad smile. Next are the meager art supplies I brought back from our most recent trip to 12, and Rye makes a comment about flipping through one of the sketchbooks, the one that Peeta has already nearly filled. I tell him that we might later. I'm still wary about seeing his artwork without permission . . . and I'm wondering if there might be a nude sketch of me in there somewhere.
Definitely not something Peeta or I would want Rye to see.
I place everything back into the game bag neatly, just to give me something to do and occupy my mind. Because if I'm left with nothing to do, I know that I'll breakdown. I can only hope that I can quell my grief until bedtime. That way I can muffle the sobs in my pillow.
Coin's voice suddenly echoes throughout the cavern over the intercom system. She applauds everyone for acting exemplary, but reminds us all that this is not a drill. This is very real. Because Peeta Mellark, the District 12 victor, has possibly made a televised reference to an attack on 13 tonight.
Not a second after the words escape her lips, the first bomb hits.
So how about that? Lots of stuff happened this chapter! But, alas, this only brings us closer to being reunited with our Peeta once more. Excitement!
The following is a summary for this chapter: Peeta paints the floor red, Coin has proven to be a Romulan, Plutarch got OWNED, Haymitch made everyone feel like an idiot (again), Rye doesn't know what's on TV, Finnick escaped the psych ward, Beetee and the Capitol played an interesting game of Halo, Gale ran a marathon with Prim, and Katniss has Peeta-cravings.
Quote from the next chapter comes from . . . Finnick!
"Initially, I only thought that Annie was beautiful, and that I hated knowing that I would probably watch her die."
Lots of love,
AC
