AN: Aha! Edited to have some plot movement! Because every revolution needs coups and counter-coups. Lots of 'em.

Chapter 8 - Katniss - Harvest

"Katniss! Get up, dear! We have a big, big, big day!"

No matter how many times you wake up to that, it just doesn't get better. Effie Trinket shouted from the hall, and sounded just like a very cheerful crow. She burst into my well-appointed rooms in the Capitol - not home, that would always be District 12, but an apartment rented for the duration of the Games, their leadup and aftermath - and the room was immediately filled with her chatter and noise.

You can get through this day, I told myself. Peeta's meeting you there, he'll help you get through this twisted "party", you'll be home by the weekend.

My Reaping Day itinerary was understandably full - after all, a Mockingjay's work is never done. Being symbolic is a whole-life job, apparently. I didn't have the option to quit, no matter what my feelings were.

The first stop was breakfast, which consisted of a pastry and coffee ("pastry? Not good eating habits for a star, you need your figure," tutted Effie) then an appointment with a prep team. Not my prep team, but a new trio of Capitolites, and not a chatty bunch, which was fine with me. After that painful rubbing and brushing, I was rammed into a sedate black dress with some flame embrodery and handed my trademark Mockingjay pin, then summarily bundled off into a black car and carted off to the presidential manor to participate in the proceedings. "Smile," urged Effie regularly throughout the process.

My scowl remained fixed. This whole deal did nothing but remind me of my experience as a tribute, which inevitably led me to think about the twenty-four lives that would be ruined today, along with their families... exactly the kind of thoughts I couldn't afford. I swallowed the nausea that had been climbing my throat all morning. I needed to be pleasant, quiet, hide this sense of ill ease. I could be back in Twelve in three days, if I just played along. An outburst would only drag me back into this massive game of politics. Walking out of the Games announcement hadn't played well; speculation was creeping its way through the Capitol, whisperers asking if I had problems with this Justice Games setup. Haymitch had explained that I had been feeling ill - symptoms from an injury sustained in the fighting, not intense but uncomfortable quite often.

Effie and I were lead through a back entrance of the Presidential Mansion, directly onto the stage.

The ceremony was standard. It was all I could do not to have flashbacks to the Reaping where Prim was chosen and I stepped in - the format was similar, but 24 Tributes were drawn. I saw Gale - oops, President Hawthorne - up close for the first time. All he did was grin at me, since there was no opportunity to talk. I scowled back.

Peeta seemed to notice, to know that I was thinking about our Games. Actually, he probably was too, and I was vaguely ashamed that I hadn't thought to comfort him. He gave me a pleasant smile, and he held my hand throughout the ceremony, and I wasn't sure how it would play on TV, but for the moment it felt good. Steadying.

I tried to distract myself the whole while, trying to recall the lyrics of old songs in the back of my head, keeping my mind off the coming atrocity. .. the rattlin' bog, rare bog the rattlin' bog, the bog down in the valley-o... finish the ceremony, get home. Get this over with, be back in 12 in a week. All I needed to do was look good.

Somehow it ended in just under two hours, and I was out of the Mansion through that back door as quickly as possible. Frankly, I wanted to get out of there without talking to Gale. How would that conversation go? "Did you kill my sister, you bastard?" "Ah, Catnip, your mom can have more!" Actually, it would probably be tearful and painful. Like pulling teeth. Or reopening wounds. He'd try to explain himself, I wouldn't buy it, I'd be left feeling the pain of missing Prim in an all-new way. There was nothing to gain.

As I climbed into the limo with Peeta, a news report on the Reaping was already playing, buzzards dissecting the corpses already. "And this year's contestants are going to include a Peacekeeper, a Gamemaker apprentice and president Snow's own granddaughter," began one of the talking heads. "Exactly what these games are about, justice against those guilty for the Capitol's crimes."

Sure, maybe the Gamemaker and the Peacekeeper should get it, I thought, But what about the other Tributes? There was a 12-year-old boy. Did he deserve it? The one that cried when he was drawn? The one whose family is already grieving?

"It's not our place to ask those questions, sweetheart," said Haymitch. I jumped, realising I'd said that out loud. "We just have to play our roles in one more Games." With that, he reached into his pocket and produced a flask. Of course, drunk right when I might need him. Peeta just smiled sadly.

A loud bang pierced my thoughts and resonated through the limosine. Haymitch and I exchanged a confused look, but before we could even do that, a tapping came at the window, rapid and insistant. Actually, it was a cluster of tapping and banging - a hailstorm of fists hitting onto the window, mingling with the loud cries of the people outside. Peeta slid closer to me, protective as usual, and Haymitch pressed the button to talk to the driver, and shouted, "what the hell is going on out there?"

I think we already knew the answer. There weren't many reasons for angry people to try and stop our car - "Protestors," confirmed the driver. "We're going to push right through, fast as possible."

"Won't he hit some of them if we do that?" The words seemed foolish once I said them. Of course we would, and why did I care?

"Lady, either I hit them or they hit you," responded the driver. I could barely hear his reply over the yelled slogans of the crowd. Down with the Rebels! Free the Capitol's children! End the Games! Let the girl on fire burn! Down with the Mockingjay! The window was still a maelstorm of fists and sleeves, but the car plowed through bullishly, bodies occaisonally thumping against the front. We were going about 40 kilometres an hour - was that fast enough to get home before the riot intensified? Our very prescence enraged these people.

The window blurred and shattered, some sort of long object coming through it, followed by pair of hands - a metal bar, wielded by a rioter - I slid back in my seat, trying to avoid the glass, and get away from the enraged man -

Then he fell over backwards, a sudden and jerky movement. He slumped out of the window, flopped onto the pavement. His chest was all red. There were gunshots, then a voice magnified by a bullhorn: "disperse immediately! We are armed and we will fire unless you disperse!" The limo sped up, driving through the sea of panicked people that had gone from attack to desperate flight so suddenly. A couple of rebel guards in trucks followed, brandishing weapons at the crowd. Soon, there was a sort of bubble around the limo. And several corpses left behind on the ground, red splaying out around them.

"No, no, NO!" Haymitch was muttering to himself. "Not the way to handle this, if Hawthorne keeps this up, there'll be -"

I have no idea what Haymitch was saying. I didn't really get a chance to ponder it, because we arrived at my apartment building and slid into the underground parking garage, the door shutting behind us with finality. We were safe. Haymitch immediately bustled out, yelling to the first person he could find to get him the president on the phone, now. I just sat there, shocked.

I guess Peeta got out, came around to my side of the car, and opened the door for me, because all I noticed was his hand in mine, pulling me to my feet. "Shh. It's been a long day - let's go get some rest." Yes. For now, I'd just let him take care of me. I followed willingly, ready to get some sleep.