Don't Look Back—Chapter 11

A/N: Hey everyone! I just wanted to thank you all for following my stories so loyally. I really, really love each and every one of you. Your support is unbelievable.

Also, I'm really not sure where to end this thing…how many chapters would YOU like it?

Enjoy Ch. 11!

Chapter 11—Rescuing the Boyfriend Part Uno

Prim's POV

I keep my head high and proud, smiling smugly as I walk out of the studio; the earpiece that I've inserted is going crazy: Haymitch is mad.

"YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE YOURSELF!" he screams, slamming something down.

"I was," I say calmly, the trees waving at me. "I was perfectly myself. That's what I just did, wasn't it? I was still myself."

"YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE PRETTY, DELICATE LITTLE PRIMROSE!" Haymitch roars, so loudly that I have to rip the technology from my ear and hold it at arm's length.

"I was pretty, I hope, and I cried about three times during that interview, Haymitch."

"YOU—YOU—"

"Pick me up. We're busting Ian out of 10. Today."

My sudden change of topic bemuses him and then I can almost hear him arguing with himself.

"Fine," he snarls finally. I smile, satisfied, and sit down on a rock, the surface cool against my now-bare calves. I've pulled the dress up over my head. Instead of the lovely blue gown I wear comfortable denim shorts and a t-shirt that says SUPPORT THE WAVE: THE 75TH HUNGER GAMES.

"Where are you, anyway?"

"Oh, for god's sake, Haymitch, you put a tracker in my arm. You of all people know where I am." I put a hand to my forehead in exhaustion. Haymitch is obviously hungover and grumpy. I'm not going to get anywhere by being nice, that'll only annoy him further. So I decide to beat him at his own game.

"Hurry up," I whine. "I didn't get shot in the vein for nothing!"

"I'm coming! Do you realize how long it takes to pick up THREE people?!" Haymitch yells.

I freeze. "Three? Haymitch, this is a solo mission! We can't get four people in and out of a FOREIGN DISTRICT in a matter of hours! That could take weeks of planning! You idiot!"

I've stepped over the line now. He pauses, allowing the full measure of my words to sink in. "WhatDidYouJustSay?" he growls.

I take a sharp breath. "I said 'you idiot'," I mumble in the same tone of voice. God, here comes the explosion—and yet, it does not come in the force that I thought it would.

"Listen, darling. I'm not giving up my free time, my wellbeing, and my SKILLS to be called an IDIOT. I'm picking up your sister, honey, and Peeta, and you. Do you want me to come for you, sugarplum? Because I really don't have to, you know. I could call your sorry BEHIND an idiot and jet off and get Ian and you can stay. Do you want that, girlie? 'Cause that can happen and I don't think you want that, darling. I mean, if you do—"

"No! No, no, no, it's okay."

"Good. Now, I best be off and you best be READY!" He cuts off, the line going flat. I sit there in silence, my heart pumping, my hands trembling. When Haymitch gets mad, he gets scary.

BUT THREE PEOPLE? Who? Peeta, me, and Katniss?

I mean, I can understand Katniss, since I did technically say she could come (well, she said "we" instead of "you"), and she's also very good in a crisis, not to mention her archery skills. Peeta, on the other hand…he's calm and a deep-thinker but the problem is he's not well equipped. He's got a limp. He and Katniss have obviously been through the mill. I don't think I can handle a breakdown, more tears, or even just another refusal. It's now or never.

And then I think of Ian and Elly and Elly kissing Ian and Ian forgetting me and running off with Elly and I think of how I know Elly and how she was really nice and beautiful and it makes me hate hate hate her and I want her gone, erased, nothing because (wow I'm despicable) I AM IAN'S ONE AND ONLY GIRL IN HIS LIFE.

And for the next half hour I miserably think of Ian's eyes and his laugh and when I kissed him.

A rustling of leaves and a gust of air makes me look up. My heart leaps. Haymitch is here!

He shoots me a terrifying look and touches down, the wind so strong I'm glad I don't have a dress on. Haymitch lowers the door, jumps out, surveys me with distaste, and says sharply, over the whirring of the blades, "Get in."

I don't have to be told twice. I bundle up my dress, carry my tennis shoes with me, and start toward the hovercraft. As I walk beside Haymitch, he grips my arm tightly. I wince, not because of my arm but because of the smell. Haymitch reeks of alcohol, rotten food, and puke.

"Listen, Primrose," he mutters. "We need to remain silent about this. It's not a day-long trip. It could take several weeks, considering we're spending at least two days in each district we touch down in, not to mention extra search time." I open my mouth to argue with him, but his tone of voice tells me this is serious. "Don't get short, snappy, or devastated. We don't even know if we'll find the boy, let alone get him out of there. I'm just warning you: no outside contact. We've got enough to worry about." He releases my arm and I shiver slightly.

The vehicle's door is sleek and it's emblazed with a large C on it.

"Are we disguising it as a Capitol hovercraft?" I ask quietly.

Haymitch nods. "No more talk here," he mumbles, "we're not in the clear. We need to leave, stat."

I board the aircraft and instantly feel safer. There's at least four people in the cockpit, one of them Cassia. I smile at her and she grins back, tucking her hair behind her ears. She's lovely, really. "This is James to Arab, I've got a Situation 12, and we'll be touched for about 5." She sets down her microphone and headpiece and says, relaxed, "Hey missy, I knew you'd show up." She winks, and I laugh. "I'm the pilot of this mission." She makes little pew-pew noises, making me giggle further. "Don't worry, Mitchy, I'm perfectly capable of flying this bucket of bolts," Cassia explains to Haymitch's half-murderous half-amused look.

"My name is Haymitch."

"Sure it is, Mitchy. I'll need bottled water, thanks." She makes shooing motions to Haymitch, who splutters out "I'm not your servant!"

"I happen to be the captain of this rescue mission!" Cassia says, over exaggeratedly, her eyes wide. A half-smile plays across her lips as she tries to keep from grinning. "You will get me a drink!"

"Oh, and Mitchy," I say sweetly, "could you possibly take a shower, or hasn't it been a month yet?"

Cassia erupts into laughter and high-fives me gleefully. "Just a little joke, Mister Mitchy; it's good to keep things light around here."

"Yeah, yeah, we've heard of the 'Captain's orders only' rule, yeah, you…" His voice trails off, apparently unable to come up with a fine enough insult to dampen the great Cassia James's spirit. Haymitch leaves with a final "tchah!"

Cassia ruffles my hair. "You're the best," she insists. "And we're going to get your man out of 10!"

"Is it really going to take weeks?" I ask, allowing my hopes to soar. Cassia smiles sadly. "Not plural," she sighs. I sigh as well, although my hopes haven't crashed and burned yet. "Maybe…well…we're hoping it won't be plural…" And then my hopes do fall, smash, and the pieces are too small to burn.

"God, I hate not seeing him," I murmur, and Cassia kisses my forehead. It feels so sisterly, so welcoming, and I realize that not everyone is against me.

"We'll get him," she says confidently. "Pilot Cassia James has never un-succeeded in a rescue mission!"

Later

"This is your pilot speaking, and THIS IS YOUR PILOT SHOUTING! Haha, pilot humor. Okay, this is CASSIA JAMES, everyone hear that? YOU NEED TO KNOW THAT YOU NEED TO CALL ME MS. JAMES OR MS. CASSIA OR EVEN MA'AM IS ACCEPTABLE! Also we're not crashing. That's good. And Primrose Everdeen, my FRICKING AWESOME assistant, is standing by with our records! TAKE IT AWAY PRIMROSE!"

"This is Asst. Everdeen speaking. The weather is looking clear, although we may run into some trouble with the high clouds. Remember: if you feel that anything is wrong, please report to staff. We've been in the air for five hours, twenty-three minutes and we have had no problems, except for the reek of liquor in the lounge room (would Haymitch Abernathy report to Command Center?), and a bald eagle incident. Pilot Cassia James would like to add that no one has died—yet. Shush, Cassia, you'll worry them! I'm back; did anyone hear that, no? Yes? Ah, who cares, crap it. ANYWAY we remind you of our simple rules for a safe, easy, and unnoticeable flight: be polite, be wary, be friendly, be in the game, and be a reporter, not a bystander. Pilot Cassia James would like to add that you should try not to fall out of an open door. Cassia! Gen. Katniss Everdeen reports that there have been no signs of any Capitolite recognizing us. And the final note: dinner tonight will be pasta with meat sauce—and also late, due to the fact that a meeting of the leaders has been scheduled for five o'clock. Asst. Everdeen out."

"CASSIA JAMES IS BACK! I REPEAT, CASSIA JAMES IS BACK! AND I NEED TO LIKE, FLY THIS THING, SO, UM, YEAH, JUST DON'T DIE AND EVERYTHING WILL BE COOL! WE ARE ON THIS MISSION TO RESCUE IAN J. RESEDA, PRIMROSE'S LOVE, AND THE QUESTION IS NOT IF WE RESCUE HIM IT IS WHEN WE RESCUE HIM! STAY ALIVE, EVERYONE! PEACE!"

Cassia sets the microphone down and turns it off. "God, I love this thing!"

"Yeah. You know, when your voice is already magnified, you really don't have to yell, Cassia."

"I'm excited!" she replies, smiling. "The adrenaline is infectious, isn't it? You're excited too, you little bugger." Cassia prods me in the arm, making me laugh. Cassia has this wondrous superpower that allows her to make anyone happy or make anyone laugh. It's amazing. She's amazing.

"So: tell me about this Ian you speak of."

"You know about it! We were reaped, we got sent to the arena—"

"No, no, no, wrong." Cassia shakes her head. "Tell me what he's like. You know, his interests, what you love about him, etc., etc."

And something strikes me but not completely: Cassia reminds me of someone. She reminds me of someone really familiar that I can't put my finger on. It's on the tip of my tongue. But I can't pinpoint it right now…

"Well, Ian's full name is Ian Thomas Reseda. He's fifteen-going-on-sixteen and his birthday is December 12th. His favorite color is white. He argues it's a color not a shade. What I love about him is kinda weird but not really: it's that he's mine. You know how you get the stereotypical 'personality' junk? Well that's not it. I mean, his personality is great, but you don't see all angles of anyone until they really open up to you, and Ian didn't really open up to me until after I told him I loved him. See, love is the great eye-opener. I wrote this poem a really long time ago, its super long but here's part of it:

"blinded we are by jealousy

ensnared we are by hate,

smothered we are by vainness

ye love will open the gate

"Kinda sappy, but you still get the picture. Okay, back to Ian: he loves snakes, always been fascinated by them. His lucky number is sixteen, I really dunno why. He hates school in general. He loves me. Obviously, but I mean, he really does love me, and that makes me love him even more. I like staying up late thinking about kissing him and seeing him again. I love Ian's eyes. And his smile can be cheeky, sweet, goofy, mischievous, and loving all at the same time and I love him, Cassia, I love him." My face feels wet and I realize I'm crying sad and happy tears at the same time.

Cassia hugs me and kisses my cheek.

And I hate hate hate myself for thinking this—but—she's a better sister than Katniss. I know Katniss volunteered for me in the reapings, and that she saved me, but since she's never really understood me. She doesn't do emotions and physical contact, only Peeta gets those, and she's always moody and she cries a lot now and she's not the same Katniss. And Cassia is lovely.

"Thank you," I whisper to Cassia, and she releases me and grins crookedly, her long blonde hair falling over one shoulder. Her eyes, gray as a storm cloud, twinkle excitedly. "Don't you worry, missy," she says fiercely, "I'm gonna make sure that Ian gets out. I swear. I swear, I swear, I swear: triple swear."

"Quadruple swear, actually," I say with a smile.

"Heck yeah!" she exclaims.

I smile and say "I really have to check on Katniss" and Cassia says "But of course" and I say "Thanks for being lovely" and Cassia winks and says "It's kind of a CassiaThing" and then I walk off, my brain overloaded with thoughts.

My phone buzzes.

Ian's calling!

I run to my bunk, throw the covers over myself, lay huddled in a lump, and answer.

"Primrose Everdeen," Ian proclaims.

"Ian Reseda!" I exclaim.

"I love you. Check your mailbox; it's got a card in it!"

I understand immediately: he's send me something he doesn't want the Capitol to see. "I'll be right back!" I trill, playing along.

Inside of my mailbox is a card with a mushy image on the front of it. Inside is a lovely little message: I love you, beautiful, and only you. I miss you dearly. You're always in my heart.

But something oily brushes my fingertips and I realize there's another message, in invisible ink. I grab the dimlight (instead of flashlight we call it dimlight because it shines black light instead of regular light) and shine it. You'd think the Capitol would be smart enough to realize they're being fooled. The hidden message: They're tracking our phone calls. –Ian

I feel a weight drop into my stomach. Two years worth of messages, word for word being recorded, written down, observed…

"Ian!" I whisper into the phone. "You shouldn't have!"

"You got it?"

"I did." I feel my insides squirm again, and my throat burns with bile. I swallow and whisper croakily, "How's E-Elly?"

"She's okay. She's been reading to me in the hospital to keep me occupied. We're reading some book of poetry. It's really interesting. But…but none of the poems are as beautiful as yours," he finishes bashfully, making me love him a thousand times more. "Is everything okay?"

"Fine," I answer mechanically, still horribly aware of Capitolite tracking. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not. What's wrong?"

"Just—I guess—I have to go. I'm sorry. I'll tell you later. I swear." We're not going anytime soon (there are plans to be made, routes to be double-checked, and even weapon tests—we're not leaving for at least eight more hours).

"But—"

"I know, I know. I SWEAR I WILL TELL YOU. Just—please—don't call me. I need to go. I'm sorry. I love you. Bye, Reseda." I hang up and sob. I sob for a very, very long time. I must sob for at least an hour, because I can't tell him anything, anything, because I'm sick with worry about the Capitol and also what if we don't find Ian, what if he's dead by the time we get there because maybe they know, do they know, OH MY GOD IF THEY KNOW…

"ASST. PRIMROSE J. EVERDEEN, REPORT TO COCKPIT IMMEDIATLY."

I wipe my cheeks and run, run, run to the cockpit because I was supposed to be there for the Checklist meeting. I was supposed to be there a half hour ago. I was supposed to, but I was too distracted by Ian, too distracted by fantasies, things that I can never redo. Things that are over, things that cannot come back; I need to stop. Stop living in the past. Stop missing him. There's a chance they know, a chance they have Ian, a chance he's already being tortured…I feel my eyes overflow again and wipe my tears with the heel of my hand.

"ASST. PRIMROSE J. EVERDEEN, REPORT TO COCKPIT IMMEDIATELY. YOUR CAPTAIN IS WAITING."

I turn blindly, my feet with a mind of their own. Step, step, step, step…my footsteps sound odd, alien in my ears, echoing against the tile floor. I like it, although it makes my ears ring with the pat, pat, pat noise.

I know I just received this "tracking" information an hour and a half ago. I know I only formatted the thought of Ian dying, them taking him before we can reach him, an hour and a half ago. I know. I know, I know, I know.

But time, time is endless; time is inescapable, time is just—time. You are limited in your amount. When you enjoy yourself, it flies. When you hate everything, it slows. And it is slowing for me.

We need to go faster.

I blink, and find myself staring at the words CONFERENCE ROOM emblazoned on a plaque beside a door. I pull the handle and with the smoothness of silk, the door opens for a virtually silent entrance. There is a wall that sets the doorway off from the actual room, so I can only see one vacant chair at the end of the table. I'm about to round and sit in it when I hear my name, and not just complaints—

"I'm a bit afraid, for Primrose's sake," Effie Trinket says, her voice still tinged with a Capitol accent. "What if Ian is gone? Dead? Tortured?"

"We know there's a possibility," Katniss reasons. "But for Prim, I think we should still go. If he's insane, or worse—she can handle it. I hope."

Her words burn the inside of my throat. I hope. I hope you can keep it together too, Katniss.

"Where is the girl, anyway?" Haymitch demands.

"Oh, give her a break," Cassia snaps. "The SMs have been watching her; Ian broke the news. He called her. He's a clever kid, sending the message in invis. Although that's risky at this point; the Capitol should know way, way better, and that concerns me. Anyway. She knows about the tracking. God, if they know, we're toast. It's fifty-fifty at this point, fellows."

"We know that. But with Lauren and Logan gone—well, we need to be cautious."

Lauren. Logan. Gone. They're gone. They're dead, and they were only fourteen. I remember them being lovers at twelve—that was their oddness. Their special little oddness. It was lovely. Young love is the best love, because it blossoms so beautifully.

"Who's the stylist now?" Madge asks. I forgot she was part of the crew. I think she's Asst. Weapon Overseer, with Katniss being Chief. "Portia? Cinna?"

"Both," answers Peeta. He sounds fine. He's Chief Sanitary Overseer. He also helps in the kitchens. "Cinna and Portia; we can only hope their new ideas for protective gear are successful—we can't afford to wait any longer. We move now, or we never move."

"True," Katniss says, agreeing, "but we need time to test everything, get things formed. I hear Cinna's been developing a fire-resistant material, and possibly an explosion-proof one as well. Portia's working on camouflage."

"Good. Good." Effie sighs. "My goodness, if they could hurry up with those weapons…we need more!"

"Effie. Listen. They. Are. Making. Them. As. Fast. As. They. Can," Haymitch says, slow and annoyed.

"I know that, Mister Obvious, but as Peeta so rightly said, we need to move now." Effie sniffs. "I understand that, above all, we need to get Ian out safely. If he is still alive, that is."

My stomach constricts, loosens, and tightens again. It's like the tide, coming in and receding, except the whole ocean inside of me. The Wave, they called me. The Wave was me. I was the Wave. But Waves crash, dissolve, and reform.

What does that suggest? That I'm immortal? That's stupid! No one's immortal!

"Primrose is weak. She's weak, admit it. Emotionally weak, physically weak, and mentally weak. She needs to train," Haymitch says loudly. "She's the weakest thing I've seen lately. A little girl."

"HAYMITCH!" Cassia yells.

"Please, do calm yourself, dear," Effie says, not unkindly. I hear jingles as she shifts in her seat, presumably, to snap at Haymitch, "She's fought off much more than you, if I recall. She won her Games when she was thirteen. That beats Mr. Odair by a year! 'A little girl', shame on you! She's fifteen."

"Fifteen is young!" he exclaims angrily.

A sigh issues from around the table. I decide to chance my luck and peer around the wall.

Effie's wearing some sort of icicle dress, with the great things hanging from her shoulders. It looks like someone shocked her, because her hair is also adorned with a headpiece covered in the spikes. Katniss picks at a cuticle, not even looking at Peeta, who glances over at her six times in a span of the thirty seconds I look. Haymitch looks enraged and bored at the same time, a magnificent feat. The last person at the table is Cassia. She glares at Haymitch while Katniss does nothing. This makes me feel ice cold. My own sister, uncaring of what Haymitch said about me. Cassia looks up for half a second, looks down, and does a double take. She's seen me. I smile halfheartedly and make a "please no" motion with my hand. She nods nonchalantly, which to someone else might look like a mere hair-out-of-my-eyes motion. I smile again and disappear behind the wall.

"I agree," Katniss says quietly, "with Haymitch. She should train; she's really fragile right now."

"Don't talk about her like that," Cassia snaps. "You're her sister. Act like it, you—"

"Anyway," Peeta cuts across, sounding nervous, "I don't agree with Haymitch. She's strong. Stronger than you, I daresay," and I can only assume he's talking to Haymitch. A warm glow spreads within me. I've got two on my side.

"I vouch for that," Effie says. Three.

Who would've thought my sister wouldn't be on that side?

"She's weak," Katniss explains, "too weak to fight. Even for her boyfriend. He's probably dead. Someone should—"

There's a colossal CRASH. I look around the wall again to see Cassia have Katniss pinned to the ground. Katniss is face-up, staring at Cassia with wide, fearful eyes. Cassia spits hair out of her mouth. "Do not—talk—about—Primrose—that way. Love—you—fight—no—matter—what." Her breaths are uneven, hysterical. "Shut up shut up shut up shut up SHUT UP SHUT UP!"

Katniss mumbles something. Cassia screams in fury. "NO, YOU IDIOT! DON'T YOU EVER CALL HER THAT—AGAIN!" She actually slaps Katniss across the face. "EVER, YOU HEAR ME? EVER!"

"I hear you, alright?" Katniss says quietly.

"SWEAR!"

"I swear I'll never call Primrose a—a—a burden."

I can't help it, I burst into tears. I turn on my heel and leave the Conference Room. Someone calls my name but I really don't give a damn anymore.

Katniss was the only one left who I really loved, who I really knew cared. I knew she actually cared. She volunteered for me. She protected me. She helped me win. And I really loved her.

But now…

Am I a burden?

She volunteered for me. She could've let me die. So, if I'm a burden, why did she volunteer?

Maybe…maybe it wasn't until after the Games I became a burden.

Am I a burden?

"Hello miss, can I help you?"

I toss my head and raise my eyes to find myself standing in front of the information desk. A woman with sharp eyes and a severe hairstyle sits behind it. I clear my throat. "How big is this thing?"

It tumbled out.

"Well, it's quite big, obviously. About as big as a motel, I suppose. But the invisibility factors help a lot."

A flying motel?

"It's longer than it is wide," the woman says. "Rather like living in one long hallway that's twelve feet apart from the other side. Cramped, isn't it?"

"Sure."

I turn away; my mouth tasting like someone washed it with gasoline. I just want to plummet off this stupid plane and end my stupid life.

Don't you dare try. Don't try to die again. Death is inescapable. Death will come. Remember what your maniac of a therapist told you.

I breathe in and out. In, out, in, out; inhale, exhale. Be calm, be calm. Everything is fine, you're not suicidal…

"I hate you, Katniss." The words need to be said. I can't shake the feeling. I hate her. Is that wrong? Hating your own sister? Yeah. Well, calling your own sister a burden is worse. I am not a burden. I am a burden. I don't know what to believe.

"I hate you."