Mockingjay quotes, of which there are quite a few in this chapter, are still in italics.

This is where my alternate universe truly converges with canon again, so I found it necessary to include a lot of direct quotes from Mockingjay in the second half of this chapter. I hope it doesn't get too repetitive, and that you think Suzanne Collins's words blend in with my writing (at least well enough so that it doesn't get too annoying). Writing a few of these scenes was thrilling and actually almost scary – I found that the words and lines from the book still made sense, they still fit, even after all the changes I've made to the storyline. I was so relieved, because Katniss's mental health is a major factor in both Mockingjay and in my AU Mockingjay. I had to try to keep her mental health at more or less the same level as in the book, in order to be able to merge the two universes at the end, which is what is happening in this chapter. I hope and think that I have succeeded in finding the right level of crazy, but please let me know whether or not you agree with me.

I have to say that I appreciate Mockingjay much more now than I did before I started writing The Other Mockingjay. Revisiting it, being forced to consider every line, every emotion, as well as the plot as a whole, has made me look at Mockingjay with new eyes. Particularly the parts about Katniss's mental health. It's daring and difficult, particularly in a series written for young adults. Well done, Suzanne Collins. You've created such an amazing heroine. She is so real, so human. Thank you for Katniss!

I would also like to thank Lbug84 for helping me to figure out how to solve two key scenes in this chapter. I listened to your advice regarding one scene, but I'm afraid I disregarded your advice on the second scene, sorry. I really appreciate bouncing ideas off you and getting honest (and really good) feedback!

Chapter 37: Squirrel

They won't tell me. They won't tell me what's wrong.

I'm on a hovercraft on my way to the Capitol, and they won't tell me what's happened. I'd refuse to go if I could. Just the idea of ever setting foot in that place again makes me feel sick. But I understand severity of the situation from the look in Haymitch's eyes. From the way he refuses to leave my side.

"Is he dead?" I ask him. I've lost count of how many times I've asked that question now. Haymitch doesn't answer. "Is she dead?" Still no answer.

My mother is on the hovercraft, too. Is she here to help calm me down, or is she here because something has happened to Prim? I don't know. My hands are shaking, and I can hear that I'm starting to sound hysterical.

My mother, on the other hand, is very quiet. Her eyes are distant. She looks like… She looks like she did after my father died. Just when I started to think that perhaps my mother was back, that she was back for real, she's doing it to me again?

Dr Aurelius sits next to me on the hovercraft. At precisely noon he takes out a vial from his pocket, and asks me to hold out my hand. I obey. I've learned to obey when it comes to this. He gives me a small blue pill, and I take it, like a good Mockingjay should.

It's late when we arrive in the Capitol, it's already gotten dark. Even from afar I can see the fires that are raging in several parts of the city. Although I don't really care about what's happening in the Capitol, I despise the place, I still can't help but look as we approach what used to be the private VIP airstrip. As we fly over the Capitol, I recognize some of the major landmarks. The City Hall is still standing, and it looks relatively undamaged. The Presidential Palace is intact, too. This surprises me at first, but then I realize that perhaps Coin wanted to leave it undamaged, so she could move right in? Or perhaps she thought that the rebels taking over Snow's stronghold would be a powerful symbol?

She really likes exploiting symbols.

How many people have died here in the Capitol in these last few days? I have no idea what's happened. They haven't allowed me to watch the news, and no one's told me anything. All I know, is that the rebels – we – have taken control of the Capitol. But at what cost? And where is Snow? Is he dead, or is he in custody? Has he escaped? There are so many questions, but as long as they won't answer my questions about my loved ones – Peeta, Prim, Gale, Johanna - the other questions don't really matter.

When we land, we're ushered into a hangar. It's cold and damp, and the lights are too bright. I blink, the contrast between the darkness outside and the lights inside the hangar takes some time for my eyes to adjust to. Which is probably why I don't immediately recognize him.

"Catnip," I hear a familiar voice say.

"Gale!" Despite my constant, gnawing worry about Peeta and Prim, I'm so happy to see that Gale is here. He's alive, and he appears to be unharmed aside from a bruise on one cheek. I still see traces of the injuries I inflicted on him out in the woods. I instinctively reach for him, and he opens his arms for me. His body is warm and hard and smells of sweat and blood and Gale. When he releases me, he hugs my mother, too. "Mrs Everdeen."

"It's good to see you, Gale," my mother says. It looks like she's back now. She appears alert and present, although I don't know for how long it will last.

"Why are we here?" I ask. There are no cameras, so we're not here for propos. Which means it can't be good. Gale doesn't answer at first. He looks at Haymitch, and then at Dr Aurelius.

Dr Aurelius nods.

"Why are we here?" I repeat, louder this time. I look him straight in the eye. He's so much taller than me. I don't usually think about it, but it's very noticeable now. Seam gray eyes meeting Seam gray eyes. We used to have so much in common, but now we seem so far apart.

Gale takes a deep breath. "The rebels have taken the Capitol. It took nearly three days of heavy fighting, and countless lives have been lost on both sides. Snow is in custody, and he will be put on trial for his crimes." I snort. I can't imagine that trial being particularly fair or unbiased. On the other hand, I don't think there is any chance that he will be found not guilty, anyway, so I guess it doesn't matter. "In a last-ditch attempt to protect himself, Snow confined hundreds of Capitol children in the City Circle, outside the president's mansion, as human shields against the rebels." Now that sounds like something Snow would do. He never cared about the lives of District children, and it would seem like Capitol children aren't worth much to him, either. "Apparently, a hovercraft with Capitol markings released silver parachutes above the City Circle."

"Apparently?" I interrupt him. "You mean you weren't there?"

"No, I wasn't there. I was involved in the heavy fighting taking place a few miles down the street, near the theater. I came to the City Circle about half an hour later." He takes a deep breath. "The children thought the parachutes contained gifts. They looked just like the parachutes the children had seen in the Hunger Games. Perhaps they thought they would contain food, water, warm clothes, something like that. The children had been imprisoned in concrete barricades for hours, perhaps days, and they were hungry and cold. But when they opened the parachutes, it turned out their contents were not food or gifts, but bombs."

I gasp. Snow would even resort to this? "That's... terrible," my mother says, tears in her eyes.

"Unfortunately, it… gets worse." Gale looks clearly uncomfortable now. "There was heavy fighting very near and actually in the City Circle, but still our medics rushed to the City Circle to help the injured children. The peacekeepers didn't stop them, in fact they opened the barricades to let the children out."

"Rebel medics? You mean Prim and Peeta were there?" My mother asks. My mouth has gone dry, thinking about the two of them in the middle of the fighting, at the front line… I never thought they'd send any of them to the front.

"Yes, they were. But as the medics were helping the children, many of them gravely wounded, the second wave of bombs went off."

"Second wave?" My voice is very low.

"Yes. Only a few of the bombs were programmed to go off in the first wave. The second wave was much larger – there were a lot more bombs, and they were bigger. The second wave of bombs also caused a devastating fire."

I know why we are here now.

Say it, Gale. Just say it.

"Katniss… Mrs Everdeen… I'm very sorry to tell you this, but Prim died in the City Circle last night." My head is spinning. I think my mother's painful, nearly desperate grip on my upper arm is the only thing that keeps me standing. "She hasn't been formally identified yet. There was… There was considerable damage from the fire." In other words, there is nothing left for me or my mother to identify. "But we found her dog tags around the… neck of a body." Gale's voice sounds strangled now. "We have no reason to believe it isn't her, although we would like to… ask you for DNA samples so we can be sure."

It's too much to take in. Bombs. Two waves of them? The baby kicks, almost violently, inside my belly. There is a ringing noise in my ears. Just a few days ago, Prim was with me. She helped me wash my hair. She joked about Gale and Madge. And now – gone? After everything I did to keep her safe? After volunteering for her in the Hunger Games. Then, against all odds, I won – but she still wasn't safe, I still wasn't free. I had to mentor. Marry Peeta. I even had to get pregnant. It was all for her. Still, despite everything I did to keep her safe, it wasn't enough. I failed her.

I have lost her in the war I never wanted, the same war I somehow found myself to be the symbol of. Was it all for nothing?

As if distantly, I hear my mother's wail. It's helpless, like a dying animal.

I close my eyes. I've heard that sound only once before – when we were told that my father had died in that mining accident. I wonder why I can't make that sound, too. Why am I so strangely calm? Is it the drugs?

"And… Peeta?" I whisper.

Gale hesitates. "He was gravely wounded in the fire. He's in a hospital here in the Capitol."

"Take me there." I don't know how my voice can sound so calm. Prim is dead. Prim is dead. There is nothing I can do about it. I have to deal with this later. But Peeta… Perhaps he can still be saved. I can't let grief overwhelm me, not now. I have to save that for later.

The trip to the hospital is a blur. We're in a tank. When I ask why we can't just drive in a car, it would surely be faster and more comfortable, Gale answers grimly: "It's imperative that we keep you safe, Katniss. There might be pockets of underground fighters loyal to Snow that we haven't gotten under control yet."

It also means I'm unable to get a closer look at the destruction in the Capitol. I don't know if I'm grateful or not. Both my body and my mind are strangely numb. Dr Aurelius sits next to me, he refuses to let me out of his sight. My mother is apparently going to the improvised morgue, so she's in a different tank, going to another hospital. I don't know if I'm angry or grateful that she's not here. Perhaps both. She should be here, with me and for me. At the same time, I have enough with myself right now. I can't keep her sane as well. I've tried once before, and I failed miserably at it. I wasn't enough for her. Not even when it was both me and Prim was it enough. How can I possibly be enough on my own?

I can't feel anything.

But even if I can't see the destruction, the tank's ventilation system can't keep the stench out. Of fire and ashes and death. I've smelled it once before – back in Twelve. I know what's out there, even if I can't see it. The memory of the destruction of Twelve returns with a shocking intensity, and I vomit on the floor. Gale strokes my back hesitantly, trying to comfort me but probably not knowing if it's okay to touch me. As soon as my body stops retching, I strike his hand. I hit him hard, harder than I intended. He immediately pulls back. I can't stand anyone touching me, let alone him.

There is no way of cleaning up the mess right now, but at least the stench of vomit keeps the stench of death somewhat away. I think it's preferable to the alternative, although I don't know what the others think.

The only thing that reminds me I'm still alive, aside from the stench in the tank, is the baby. She's moving around, kicking me from seemingly every possible angle. What does she know? I wonder. Does she understand what has happened to her father? Does she understand she may never get to meet him? That her aunt is gone? The aunt who used to talk to her through the thin, stretched skin of my belly? Whose laugh always made her calm down?

For the first time, I allow myself to think it, to truly take in what it means: She may never meet Peeta. I may be all alone. "I can't do this on my own, I can't do this on my own, I can't do this on my own…" I whimper, again and again, rocking back and forth.

"You're never alone, Katniss," Gale says, but he's not touching me now. "You'll never be alone."

I close my eyes. What does Gale know about being alone?

When we arrive at the hospital, it's nearly midnight. The hospital and the surroundings look unscathed. We walk along endless corridors, they are impossibly long and white and bright. There are people everywhere – crying, wailing, comforting, dying.

Still, when I pass them, they look at me. They stare. "Katniss Everdeen," I hear someone whisper. I'm guarded by six heavily armed rebel soldiers, and they lift up their machine guns and form a protective formation around me as they realize everyone has understood who I am. But no one tries to attack me, they just stare.

Whisper.

It's not like it was in the hospital in Eight – the reactions here are mixed. Probably because the crowd looks like it is a mix of rebel soldiers, Capitol soldiers and Capitol civilians. To the rebels, I'm the Mockingjay. To the Capitol civilians, and to many of the peacekeepers and soldiers from Two, I'm a traitor, or a victor, or one half of the star-crossed lovers… Or perhaps a celebrity and a fashion icon. I have so many roles in the eyes of Panem. The only one I don't have, is who I really am: A scared teenage girl from Twelve who just wants to be left alone.

I force myself to keep walking. Peeta, Peeta, where are you?

He turns out to be behind locked and guarded doors, in the high-security section of the hospital. They lead me to a white metal door. No one tells me, but I know he's behind it. I can't bring myself to open it. It's as if I want to delay the inevitable for as long as possible. As soon as I actually see him, I can't keep myself from taking in how severely wounded he may be. "Why is he here in the Capitol?" I ask. The question has been gnawing at me since we left the hangar. "In Two, you said it wasn't safe for Finnick to be treated at the hospital there. That doctors or nurses working there could be undercover agents for Snow, trying to kill him. How do you know it's not the same here? Why don't you transport him back to Thirteen, where he would be safe?"

"Katniss…" Gale says, hesitating. "His injuries are so severe that we don't have the medical expertise or the facilities available to treat him in Thirteen. His only chance is to stay here in the Capitol."

"How do you know they won't kill him in his bed?" Seam gray eyes meet Seam gray eyes again.

Gale hesitates before he answers: "Because we keep a small team of nurses and doctors who are here around the clock. Peeta is their only patient. And they all know that if he dies, they die. As well as their families."

I guess this should shock me. That Peeta's death would mean the death of innocent people. He would absolutely hate it if he knew it. The injustice of it. But it doesn't shock me. Because I can't feel anything.

I take a deep breath and open the door.

What had I expected? In retrospect, I don't know. Had I expected him to be awake? Perhaps I had. But he's not. He's intubated, a machine is breathing for him. They tell me his lungs have been damaged by the smoke, and besides, they must keep him deeply anaesthetized because of the pain. They can't allow him to feel the pain. He could die if he were allowed to feel the extent of the pain his body is in right now.

They can't take away my pain, though. Not when I see him.

His face is mostly unharmed, as are his legs and his right arm. But his torso and his left arm are covered in white bandages, and they tell me he has sustained third and fourth degree burns over large parts of the skin that's currently covered by the bandages. When I ask what that means, what the different degrees of burns are, they tell me it means his injury are as deep as they can get.

From this moment on, time ceases to have a meaning for me. My world has contracted to consist of this room only. Peeta is in a special bed that's not really a bed. He's floating on foam, because his non-existent skin can't handle the pressure of regular sheets. He still looks like himself, if I only look at his face. I'm grateful his right arm has not been injured – it means I can at least touch him. After I've scrubbed myself down with alcohol, of course, and if I am very careful not to touch any of the sensors or cannulas that are attached to his hand and arm. I recognize the smell of the burn medicine from the arena. It's nauseating, but I remember how well it worked on me back then. I know his injuries are much more severe than my wound was, but I hope the burn medicine will at least help.

Gale leaves. He says something to me, something about his job and how he has to go even though he doesn't really want to, but I don't listen. He is replaced by Haymitch. He went with my mother to the morgue, but now he's back. He hugs me, like a long-lost child, holding me tight. He's been crying, I realize.

"I'm so sorry, Katniss," he whispers.

I don't answer, because there is nothing to say. He sits down on the chair next to Peeta's bed, the one I was sitting on before he came in, and I sit down on his lap. I guess it should feel strange, sitting on a lap of an adult man that's not Peeta, but it doesn't, because it's Haymitch. He kisses the top of my head as he stares at Peeta's face.

And that's when I realize. He looks at Peeta and me as his children. We're as close to his children as he will ever get. I can't say that I look at him as my father, because I had one, and he's gone. Haymitch is nothing like my father, and he could never replace him. But I know that in his own way, he loves me as much as my own father did. Haymitch has saved my life, probably more times than I even realize myself. He's saved Peeta's life, too. We never would've made it out of the arena alive without his help, and he's been there for us every step of the way after the Hunger Games, too. I think he's here to save our lives again, but in a different way this time.

From that moment on, we pull the weight together. Haymitch forces me to eat, even when I don't want to. We sleep in shifts, but neither of us ever leaves the room except to go to the bathroom or take an occasional shower. Dr Aurelius makes me take my drugs. He rarely leaves my side, and when he does, he always clears it with Haymitch first. I'm never allowed to be alone. I even have to go to the bathroom with a psychiatric nurse by my side. I recognize it for what it is, of course. I'm officially on suicide watch.

But in his bed, Peeta is still breathing, even if the machine does the actual work for him. His heart is beating on its own, though. And as long as it does, I'll never leave. I can't press my ear against the warm skin above his heart, the place which used to be my favorite spot on many long nights in bed together, fighting off the nightmares. His chest is covered in horrific burns, hidden by bandages. But I know that deep down there, beneath the white bandages and his charred flesh, his heart is still beating. I follow them on the monitors, and it's strangely calming. Hearing the constant, steady beeping. Seeing the greenish lines as they move across the screen.

He goes into surgery. Again and again. I try to count the number of surgeries he undergoes at first, but I quickly give up. They take skin from his unharmed leg, the one that hasn't been amputated. It hurts me to know that even his uninjured body parts will now have scars on them, but they tell me they are taking skin from him to make new skin that they can transplant on his injuries. They don't touch the thigh of his amputated leg, though, as they want the skin near his prosthetic – he will need a new one when he wakes up – to be whole and uninjured. The prosthetic places so much strain on his skin, they don't want it to be scarred.

I watch the doctors and nurses closely. There are four doctors and seven nurses, and they take care of Peeta around the clock. I know the pressure they are under, but I don't care. I never leave his side, and I glare at them every chance I get. I'm a silent reminder of what will happen to them if he dies. Some of them try to befriend me. The only female doctor, a rather pretty green-skinned woman who looks like she is in her late thirties – or she could perhaps be in her sixties, it's hard to tell with these Capitol people – tries particularly hard to get to know me. I don't know why. I don't know if she genuinely cares, or if she just wants to tell her friends that she knows the infamous Katniss Everdeen. I tell her that if Peeta dies, I'll personally execute them all, and she'll be the last one to go. That way, she'll have to watch the rest of them die before it's her turn.

After that, she doesn't speak to me anymore. It's a relief.

I don't know if they do it despite of or because of they are under the constant threat of being executed, but the doctors work their magic on Peeta. Draping his rawness in new sheets of skin. Coaxing the cells into thinking they are his own. Manipulating his body parts, bending and stretching the limbs to assure a good fit. I hear over and over how lucky he is. His eyes were spared. Most of his face was spared. His lungs are responding to treatment. He will be as good as new.

Will he? I wonder. Will any of us?

On the second day, my mother comes, too. I can tell from her dull eyes that she's drugged, like me. She's probably talked to Dr Aurelius. But at least she's calm, at least she's not wailing anymore. I don't think I can stand listening to that horrible sound ever again. It's a sound from another world. She sits down on a chair next to me. She doesn't talk, she just stares at Peeta's unconscious face. He looks pale and slightly swollen. He's still intubated, his chest moves mechanically. His eyes are closed, two strips of white hospital tape make sure they stay shut. I've gotten used to all of this by now, but it must be new to my mother. Then I remember that she worked in the hospital in Thirteen. She's probably seen it all before.

To my surprise, she reaches out her hand and touches my belly. I flinch at the unexpected touch. "Please, Katniss?" She says, her voice flat. I recognize the voice – it's the same one I have. The one which is almost completely devoid of feelings, because the drugs take away the edge off them.

I nod slowly.

"I just need to remind myself that there is life, too," she whispers, and a small smile actually graces her lips as the baby rewards her with a kick.

"Her body has been identified," she says, after a long while, her hand still on my belly. "I asked that she be cremated." My immediate reaction is shock and anger. How can she give Prim's body to the flames, after all that's happened? When she died in them? How could she give what was left of her daughter's flesh back to the flames? I want to yell and curse at her, but nothing comes out. "There was… apparently not much left to bury, really," she continues. Her voice is strangled. "And if we do this, if she is cremated, then… we can spread her ashes over Twelve. Later, when we have the chance to go back. If I chose a burial, we'd have to bury her now – either here in the Capitol or in Thirteen. I think she'd like to rest in Twelve."

To my surprise, my eyes fill with tears. I didn't know I had any tears left.

"You're right," I croak. We hold each other as we cry.

I don't know how many days have passed when they tell me that they'll try to wake him up. "He may not recognize you," a nurse warns me. "He'll be heavily sedated because of the pain. He's on large doses of morphling." I nod. I know I'll never leave his side, no matter what.

When he slowly comes out of the fog, I see his eyes flutter open. First just a few seconds, then they close again. "Peeta?" I whisper. He blinks again, and I can't be sure, but I think he focuses on my face. His lips move, but nothing comes out. I've been told his throat is sore from the intubation and being on mechanical ventilation for so long. His face contorts as if in pain, and then they inject some more morphling into his one of his many intravenous catheters, and then he's gone again.

Slowly, he comes back to life. The first thing he says to me, that I can understand, is: "I'm so sorry."

"What for?" I ask him.

"For… Prim."

"Did you… See her?" I ask him. I'm not sure if I want to hear his answer.

He tries to nod, but his eyes roll back into his head from the pain when he does. He nearly loses consciousness, again. I can tell how hard he fights to stay with me. Finally, he answers: "Yes. I saw her. And I saw the bombs, and… I recognized them." Recognized them? I don't understand quite what he means. There's something there, something I've been trying to keep hidden, deep inside, ever since the bombing. "I tried to shout her name above the roar. Through the barricade. I think she heard me, because for just a moment, when she looked straight at me, her lips formed my name. And then… the rest of the parachutes went off."

He saw her die, I realize. I don't know whether to be grateful that at least someone she knew and loved was there – or to feel sorry for Peeta, that he had to witness it. Perhaps both.

"They say you'll live, Peeta," I murmur. "That you'll be able to walk again, live a more or less normal life." As I say the words, I realize that our lives will never be normal. We have been through far too much for that. We'll never be normal. "We could go back to Twelve. We could go home."

He's drifted off. I don't know how much he heard.

The next time he wakes up, the first thing he says, is: "I'm sorry about Johanna, too."

I gasp. "Is she…"

"You didn't know?"

I shake my head. How could I not have asked about her? I suppose I just assumed that when no one told me anything, she would be okay. There are thousands of soldiers from several districts, all over the Capitol. For how long did they think they would be able to hide the truth from me?

"She was shot, an hour or so before what… happened in the City Circle. She was dead by the time I found her. She was… It was fast, I think."

In the end, I suppose it was all I could hope for for Johanna. That if she had to go, she would go fast. That she didn't become a human torch, like so many others. Like Peeta. Like Prim.

He closes his eyes, and I can tell he's drifted off again, to that dreamless morphling land where not even the nightmares can find him.

Real or not real?

Who can tell?

Haymitch confirms Peeta's story when I confront him about it that evening. He looks older than I've ever seen him. "I'm sorry, Katniss," he says. He tries to take my hand, but I won't let him.

"Why?" I hiss at him. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"We didn't think you would be able to handle it," he confesses. "We were trying to protect you."

"You have to stop trying to protect me!"

We are Seam against Seam. Victor against victor.

"I'll never stop trying to protect you, Katniss."

Then he leaves. I'm left to grieve Johanna on my own.

Johanna. Prim. My father. Rue. The list goes on and on. I've lost so many, and so many have died because of me. I will have to spend the rest of my life grieving, I realize. Or repaying debts because I'm alive, against all odds, and they are not. I don't know which is worse.

One afternoon, Coin unexpectedly comes to visit Peeta. Or me. Or us, I'm not sure. I'm so caught up in watching the last sunrays on Peeta's eyelashes as he sleeps his deep, morphling-induced sleep, that I don't notice at first. Only a discreet cough alerts me of her presence.

Immediately, I'm back in the arena. I turn around like a predator, ready to kill. Only there is nothing to kill the intruder with but my own hands. I stand in front of Peeta's bed, ready to do just that, when – slowly – I realize who it is. Where I am. I also see the guards standing on either side of her.

"Mrs Everdeen," Coin says, and it takes a few seconds to realize that she's talking to me, not my mother.

I'm still panting, adrenaline flowing through my veins. I straighten my back, trying to give her my best unforgivable look. I know she sees my unkempt hair, my pale skin and the dark rings under my eyes. Her eyes drift to the "mentally disoriented" bracelet they're making me wear here in the Capitol. "President Coin."

We're so formal. Much has changed since the last time we saw each other back in Thirteen. She is a president. What exactly am I to her now? I wonder.

"Don't worry," she says. "I've saved him for you."

Then she leaves, without another word. I still don't know what my position as the Mockingjay means now – to her, to me, to Panem. But it seems, at least, like she will honor our agreement, such as it was.

I don't know how that makes me feel. I'm not sure if I can feel anything anymore.

One day, Peeta awakes to expectations. He must start to eat his own food. Move his limbs. A new prosthetic is fitted to his leg, the plastic of the old one had melted from the heat. He has to learn to walk again. It's hard, agonizing work, but I'm sure he deals with it much better than I would have if I were in his shoes. Every time he has to do something that's particularly painful or difficult, he fixes his eyes on my ever-growing belly as he does it. One day I ask him why. "It's my other reason to go through this," he says.

I don't have to ask him what the first reason is.

Peeta finds it hard to look at his new body in the mirror. He calls it his "fire-mutt body", but I try to tell him that it isn't. The Capitol has outstanding medical technology, but not even they can make third and fourth degree burns disappear without a trace. The skin grafts still retain a newborn-baby pinkness. The skin deemed damaged but salvageable looks red, hot, and melted in places. Patches of his former self gleam white and pale. It's like a bizarre patchwork quilt of skin. It's hard for me, too. I wouldn't much care except the sight of his body brings back the memory of seeing his pain. And why he was in pain. And how he watched my little sister become a human torch.

The weeks pass. I only notice because I have to have a weekly checkup with an OBGYN. After Peeta woke up, the OBGYN, an elderly man called Dr Santor, started coming to his room for my checkups, so Peeta could take part in them, too. As they wean him off the morphling, he starts to become more involved in the checkups.

He's more involved than I am, certainly.

My nightmares are different now, but they are not less terrifying. Not surprisingly, the majority of them star Prim. And flames. Dr Aurelius has to increase my drug dosage.

The time draws near, although I could not give you exact hours and minutes. My time to give birth too, perhaps. Days and weeks have no meaning to me anymore. All I know is that my body keeps growing and swelling. President Snow's time grows near, too. He has been tried and found guilty, sentenced to execution. It is, of course, not a surprise. The verdict was clear before the trial even started. My Mockingjay suit arrives in my room. Also my bow, but no sheath of arrows. They probably don't think I should have weapons. I suppose they are right about that. I wouldn't trust myself either, in my current state. I vaguely wonder if I should be preparing for the event in some way, but nothing comes to mind.

Then, one day, I wake and find that it is time. I don't know how I know, but it is. I tell Peeta that I'm going outside for a walk for a few hours. He must see that something is up, besides I never take walks just to get some fresh air. I could never spare the energy for it before the Hunger Games. My walks needed to have a purpose. He knows all this, of course, but he doesn't question me. He just tells me to stay safe. I nod.

I'm escorted by a psychiatric nurse – there is still at least one following me at all times – and three soldiers in an armored car. No one questions my right to the car. Being the Mockingjay does have its perks, I guess. I tell the driver to go to the President's mansion.

Once I'm there, all I have to do is follow the smell.

Roses.

The smell can't be very strong at first, but I'm so sensitive to it. I could detect it through almost any other smell. As I walk down the hall, the odor becomes overpowering. I turn a corner and find myself staring at two surprised guards. No Peacekeepers, of course. There are no more Peacekeepers. But not the trim, gray-uniformed soldiers from 13 either. These two, a man and a woman, wear the tattered, thrown-together clothes of actual rebels. Still bandaged and gaunt, they are now keeping watch over a doorway to the roses. When I move to enter, their guns form an X in front of me.

"You can't go in, miss," says the man.

"Mrs," the woman corrects him. "You can't go in, Mrs Everdeen. President's orders."

I just stand there patiently waiting for them to lower their guns, for them to understand, without my telling them, that behind those doors is something I need. Just a rose. A single bloom. To place in Snow's lapel before I shoot him. My presence seems to worry the guards. They're discussing calling Haymitch, when a woman speaks up behind me. "Let her go in."

I know the voice but can't immediately place it. Not Seam, not 13, definitely not Capitol. I turn my head and find myself face to face with Paylor, the commander from 8. She looks even more beat up than she did at the hospital, but who doesn't?

"On my authority," says Paylor. "She has a right to anything behind that door." These are her soldiers, not Coin's. They drop their weapons without question and let me pass.

At the end of a short hallway, I push apart the glass doors and step inside. By now the smell's so strong that it begins to flatten out, as if there's no more my nose can absorb.

The roses are glorious. Row after row of sumptuous bloom, in lush pink, sunset orange and even pale blue. I wander through the aisles of carefully pruned plants, looking but not touching, because I have learned the hard way how deadly these beauties can be. I know when I find it, crowning the top of a slender bush. A magnificent white bud just beginning to open. I pull my left sleeve over my hand so that my hand won't actually have to touch it, take up a pair of pruning shears, and have just positioned them on the stem when he speaks.

"That's a nice one."

My hand jerks; the shears snap shut, severing the stem.

"The colors are lovely, of course, but nothing says perfection like white."

I still can't see him, but his voice seems to rise up from an adjacent bed of red roses. I move slowly around the corner and find him sitting on a stool against the wall. He's as well groomed and finely dressed as ever, but weighted down by manacles, ankle shackles, tracking devices. In the bright light, his skin's a pale, sickly green. He holds a white handkerchief spotted with fresh blood. Even in his deteriorated state, his snake eyes shine bright and cold. "I was hoping you'd find your way to my quarters."

His quarters. This greenhouse is one of his rooms, perhaps is favorite; perhaps in better times he tended the plants himself. But now it's part of his prison. That's why the guards halted me. And that's why Paylor let me in.

I'd supposed he would be secured in the deepest dungeon that the Capitol had to offer, not cradled in the lap of luxury. Yet Coin left him here. To set a precedent, I guess. So that if in the future she ever fell from grace, it would be understood that presidents – even the most despicable – get special treatment. Who knows, after all, when her own power might fade?

"There are so many things we should discuss, but I have a feeling your visit will be brief. So, first things first." He begins to cough, and when he removes the handkerchief from his mouth, it's redder. "I wanted to tell you how very sorry I am about the baby." He gestures towards my belly. "I knew exactly how hard it would be for you, how much you would hate being pregnant." He pauses slightly. "How much you still hate it, I suppose. You're not exactly glowing. I am however hopeful that you will, in time, find it a blessing." He chuckles, and as he does, I can hear a low, but distinct gurgling from his chest. I think it might be blood. The stench of death that surrounds him grows more intense. I have to take a step back. "It's ironic, isn't it? That every day, for as long as you live, you'll look into the face of your daughter, who I'm sure you will grow to love – and you will think of me. I'm just as responsible for making her as Peeta was the day he impregnated you."

I'm speechless. I just stare at him.

"I'm also very sorry about your sister."

Even in my deadened, drugged condition, this sends a stab of pain through me. Reminding me that there are no limits to his cruelty. And how he will go to his grave trying to destroy me.

"So wasteful, so unnecessary. Anyone could see the game was over by that point. In fact, I was just about to issue an official surrender when they released those parachutes." His eyes are glued on mine, unblinking, so as not to miss a second of my reaction. But what he's said makes no sense. When they released the parachutes? "Well, you really didn't think I gave the order, did you? Forget the obvious fact that if I'd had a working hovercraft at my disposal, I'd have been using it to make an escape. But that aside, what purpose could it have served? We both know I'm not above killing children, but I'm not wasteful. I take life for very specific reasons. And there was no reason for me to destroy a pen full of Capitol children. None at all."

I wonder if the next fit of coughing is staged so that I can have time to absorb his words. He's lying. Of course, he's lying. But there's something struggling to free itself from the lie as well.

"However, I must concede it was a masterful move on Coin's part. The idea that I was bombing our own helpless children instantly snapped whatever frail allegiance my people still felt to me. There was no real resistance after all. Did you know it aired live? You can see Plutarch's hand there. And in the parachutes. Well it's that sort of thinking that you look for in a Head Gamemaker, isn't it?" Snow dabs the corners of his mouth. "I'm sure he wasn't gunning for your sister, but these things happen."

I'm not with Snow now. I'm in Special Weaponry back in 13 with Gale and Beetee. Looking at the designs based on Gale's traps. That played on human sympathies. The first bomb killed the victims. The second, the rescuers. Remembering Gale' words.

"Beetee and I have been following the same rule book the Capitol used when they came up with the idea of forcing children to fight to the death in the Hunger Games."

"My failure," says Snow, "was being so slow to grasp Coin's plan. To let the Capitol and the districts destroy one another, and then step in to take power with Thirteen barely scratched. Make no mistake, she was intending to take my place right from the beginning. I shouldn't be surprised. After all, it was Thirteen that started the rebellion that led to the Dark Days, and then abandoned the rest of the districts when the tide turned against it. But I wasn't watching Coin. I was watching you, Mockingjay. And you were watching me. I'm afraid we have both been played for fools."

I refuse for this to be true. Some things even I can't survive.

I drop the pruning shears. They hit the ground with a clang. Then I turn around and run.

Out in the hall, I find Paylor standing in exactly the same spot. "Did you find what you were looking for?" she asks.

I hold up the white bud in answer and stumble past her.

What do I do now? Whose version do I trust? Is there anyone I can believe at all? I can hardly breathe. I zigzag though the mansion, and somewhere along the way I must manage to lose my guards, because suddenly, I'm alone. I disappear into a wardrobe full of silken things. I yank them from hangers until I have a pile and then burrow into it. In the lining of my pocket, I find a stray tablet of something or other that Dr Aurelius has prescribed to me. I swallow it dry, hoping it will head off my rising hysteria. It's not enough to right things, though. I hear the guards calling for me in the distance, but the mansion is full of closets, full of hiding places. Swathed in silk, I feel like a caterpillar awaiting metamorphosis. I always supposed that to be a peaceful condition. At first it is. But as I journey into the night, I feel more and more trapped, suffocated by the slippery bindings, unable to emerge until I have transformed into something of beauty. I squirm, trying to shed my pregnant body and unlock the secret to growing flawless wings. Despite enormous effort, I remain a hideous creature. Swollen. Large. It's not my body. It's not me.

The encounter with Snow opens the door to my old repertoire of nightmares. It's like being stung by tracker jackers again. A wave of horrifying images with a brief respite I confuse with waking – only to find another wave knocking me back. When the guards finally locate me, I'm sitting on the floor of the wardrobe, tangled in silk, screaming my head off. I fight them at first, until they convince me they're trying to help, peel away the choking garments.

I expect them to escort me back to the hospital, but to my surprise, they don't. We pass a window and I see a gray, snowy dawn spreading across the Capitol. Only when I'm met by Haymitch dressed in a suit, do I realize this must be it, the day of the execution. He introduces me to yet another prep team. Their names are instantly forgotten. I don't look at them, I look through them. Without questions, I allow them full access to my body – I'm lying on their table as if I'm a corpse. They've come to prep me for the cameras. Remake me to Beauty Base Zero.

After they are done with my naked body – waxing me, plucking me, polishing my skin – I'm swathed in a silk robe and told to go the next room. There, I find another surprise. Sitting upright in a chair. Polished from her metallic gold wig to her patent leather high heels, gripping a clipboard. Remarkably unchanged except for the vacant look in her eyes.

"Effie," I say.

"Hello, Katniss." She stands and kisses me on the cheek as if nothing has changed. As if we're still escort and victor, getting ready for the Victory Tour. Or a TV shoot. Or a Capitol party full of prominent guests. That we're not two broken people in a world that has been torn apart. "Well, it looks like we've got another big, big day ahead of us. So why don't you start your prep and I'll just pop over and check on the arrangements."

"OK," I say to her back.

"We had a hard time keeping her alive," Haymitch mutters under his breath. "She was imprisoned after your escape to Thirteen, so that helps."

It's quite a stretch. Effie Trinket, a rebel. But I don't want Coin killing her, so I make a mental note to present her that way if asked.

I wonder what they did to her. She doesn't look like she has any physical injuries. But that look in her eyes… They did something to her. Something unspeakable.

I let my new prep team do whatever they want with me. They must be pretty good, because they do manage to make me look at least somewhat presentable. There's not much to be done about the dull look in my eyes, but they do manage to make my hair shine. They even braid it – like I wore my hair in the arena, so long ago.

I find it somewhat ironic, because I'm not that person anymore.

I'm to wear my Mockingjay suit, and I put it on, wordlessly. The fabric hugs my curves, and makes me look very obviously pregnant. How many weeks am I now? I try to remember what the OBGYN said. 32? 33? I have no idea.

When they are done, I look at myself in the mirror. I can't believe how normal they've made me look on the outside when inwardly I'm such a wasteland.

There's a tap on the door and Gale steps in. "Can I have a minute?" he asks. In the mirror, I watch my prep team. Unsure of where to go, they bump into one another a few times and then closet themselves in the bathroom. Gale comes up behind me and we examine each other's reflection. I'm searching for something to hang on to, some sign of the girl and boy who met by chance in the woods seven years ago and became inseparable. I'm wondering what would have happened to them if the Hunger Games had not reaped the girl. If she would have fallen in love with the boy, married him even. And sometime in the future, when the brothers and sisters had been raised up, escaped with him into the woods and left 12 behind forever. Would they have been happy, out in the wild, or would the dark, twisted sadness between them have grown up even without the Capitol's help?

"I brought you this." Gale holds up a sheath. When I take it, I notice it holds a single, ordinary arrow. "It's supposed to be symbolic. You firing the last shot of the war."

"What if I miss?" I say. "Does Coin retrieve it and bring it back to me? Or just shoot Snow through the head herself?"

"You won't miss." Gale adjusts the sheath on my shoulder.

We stand there, face to face, not meeting each other's eyes. "You didn't come to see Peeta in the hospital. Or me." He doesn't answer, so finally I just say it. "Was it your bomb?"

"I don't know. Neither does Beetee," he says. "Does it matter? You'll always be thinking about it."

He waits for me to deny it; I want to deny it, but it's true. I will never be able to separate the flames, Prim's ashes and Peeta's scars from Gale. My silence is my answer.

"That was the one thing I had going for me. Taking care of your family," he says. "Shoot straight, OK?" He touches my cheek and leaves. I want to call him back and tell him that I was wrong. That I'll figure out a way to make peace with this. To remember the circumstances under which he created the bomb. Take into account my own inexcusable crimes. Dig up the truth about who dropped the parachutes. Prove it wasn't the rebels. Forgive him. But since I can't, I'll just have to deal with the pain.

Effie comes in to usher me to some kind of meeting. I'm expecting a production meeting in which Plutarch instructs me where to stand and gives me my cue for shooting Snow. Instead, I find myself sent into a room where four people sit around a table. Beetee, Haymitch, Annie and Finnick. They all wear the rebel uniforms from 13. No one looks particularly well. "What's this?" I ask.

"The price of celebrity," says Beetee. "We are all the victors that are left. Plus Peeta, of course. The doctors didn't allow him to leave the hospital yet." It's a shock to see how few we are. Back when we were mentoring, we were so many, I didn't even know them all. We must have been forty or more. Every single one was a victim of the Capitol, and now we've apparently become victims again. "We were targeted from both sides. The Capitol killed the victors they suspected of being rebels. The rebels killed those thought to be allied with the Capitol. Of those who were left, most died in the final battle of the Capitol." Johanna, I know. Chaff, Haymitch's friend. There were more victors in Thirteen, who had been been involved with the rebellion and been rescued to 13 when all hell broke loose in the districts. I never bothered to talk much to them while we were in Thirteen, and now I can't even remember their names. I feel immensely guilty for how self-centered I've been. And still am.

"Sit down, please, Katniss," says Coin, closing the door. I take a seat between Annie and Beetee, carefully placing Snow's rose on the table. As usual, Coin gets right to the point. "I've asked you here to settle a debate. Today we will execute Snow. In the previous weeks, hundreds of his accomplices in the oppression of Panem have been tried and now await their own deaths. However, the suffering in the districts has been so extreme that these measures appear insufficient to the victims. In fact, many are calling for a complete annihilation of those who held Capitol citizenry. However, in the interest of maintaining a sustainable population, we cannot afford this."

You'd think she was talking of cattle. Or sheep. Or perhaps a bird species threatened by extinction.

Are we?

It would seem that victors, at least, are under imminent threat of extinction.

"So an alternative has been placed on the table. Since my colleagues and I have come to no consensus, it has been agreed that we will let the victors decide. A majority of three will approve of the plan. No one may abstain from the vote," says Coin. "What has been proposed is that in lieu of eliminating the entire Capitol population, we have a final, symbolic Hunger Games, using the children directly related to those who held the most power."

All five of us turn to her. "What?" says Annie.

"We hold another Hunger Games using Capitol children, says Coin.

"Are you joking?" asks Finnick.

"No. I should also tell you that if we do hold the Games, it will be known it was done with your approval, although the individual breakdown of your votes will be kept secret for your own security," Coin tells us.

"Was this Plutarch's idea?" asks Haymitch.

"It was mine," says Coin. "It seemed to balance the need for vengeance with the least loss of life. You may cast your votes."

"No!" bursts out Finnick. "I vote no, of course! We can't have another Hunger Games!"

"Why not?" Beetee retorts. "It seems very fair to me. Snow even has a granddaughter. I vote yes. Let them have a taste their own medicine. Besides, if this satisfies the districts' need for revenge, like the President said, then it's a small loss of life that has to be weighed against continued uprisings and fighting, which could cost thousands of lives. I agree it may not be ideal, but it would be a powerful symbol. I think that in light of the possible consequences if we don't, I think the loss of 23 lives is acceptable, although unfortunate."

Coin turns to the next person around the table. "Annie?"

"I vote no with Finnick," she says. "So would Peeta if he were here."

"But he isn't, because Snow's fire bombs almost killed him," Beetee reminds her.

Hearing Beetee, of all people, talk about the fire bombs is a shock. Gale said Beetee doesn't know if the bombs were theirs or not. Perhaps he's desperately holding on to the hope that they weren't. Or perhaps he thinks that because he didn't authorize their use, he's innocent?

"We're down to Katniss and Haymitch," says Coin.

All eyes are on Haymitch, but Haymitch is looking at me. In many ways, we are the same, he and I. We are both from the Seam, and our shared background means he understands me in ways that Peeta doesn't. We are also both victors, and I know I'm one because of him. He's saved my life time and again. I'm not sure if I've saved his, or if all I've done is endanger it.

There's a glass of water in front of me. Instead of drinking it, I carefully place the rosebud in it. I need to keep it alive for a while longer.

"I'm with the Mockingjay," he says. "Whatever Katniss decides, I'm with her. She has suffered more than anyone because of the Hunger Games and Snow's regime of horror. She's carrying a child because of it. I think the decision should be hers. Whatever she decides, I'm with her."

And then they all turn to me. Their Mockingjay.

Was it like this then? Seventy-seven years or so ago? Did a group of people sit around and cast their votes on initiating the Hunger Games? Was there dissent? Did anyone make a case for mercy that was beaten down by the calls for the deaths of the districts' children? All those people I have loved, dead, and we are discussing the next Hunger Games in an attempt to avoid wasting life. Nothing has changed. Nothing will ever change now.

I could vote yes. For Prim. To start to pay back the debt the Capitol owes me for taking her life. For taking the lives of so many young tributes, who died pointless deaths in the arena. All for the sake of entertainment, in an attempt to bind the country together by blood. I could vote yes for the baby. The baby I was forced to conceive in terror and fear. The child I have hated at times. The child I'm still terrified of having. I'm just a few short weeks away from what I can only assume will be a total failure on my part. I'm broken, and I'll have to try to take care of someone who's whole. I can only see one possible outcome - that I'll destroy that new, little person as well. She'll be broken, too, because of Snow.

My daughter.

I think of the revolting things Snow told me – but most of all, how he said that every time I'll look at her, I'll be reminded of him. Perhaps voting yes, getting some kind of revenge against the Capitol, would help?

I look down at my belly. She's been quiet for a while now, but she chooses this exact moment to wake up. To give me hard kick in the rib, then another, making my belly jump visibly under my mockingjay suit.

"I vote no," I say. "For the children." I look into Annie's eyes as I say it.

Then I look over at Coin. She's so good at hiding her emotions, but I think I see a brief trace of something in her almost colorless eyes – is it surprise? Anger? Disappointment? Then the mask is up again. "Excellent. That carries the vote," says Coin. "Now we really must take our places for the execution."

As she passes me, I hold up the glass with the rose. "Can you see that Snow's wearing this? Just over his heart?"

Coin smiles. "Of course."

"Thank you," I say.

People sweep into the room, surround me. The last touch of powder, the instructions from Plutarch as I'm guided to the front doors of the mansion. The City Circle runs over, spills people down the side streets. The others take their places outside. Guards. Officials. Rebel leaders. Victors. I hear the cheers that indicate Coin has appeared on the balcony. Then Effie taps my shoulder, and I step out into the cold winter sunlight. Walk to my position, accompanied by the deafening roar of the crowd. As directed, I turn so they see me in profile, and wait. When they march Snow out of the door, the audience goes insane. They secure his hands behind a post, which is unnecessary. He's not going anywhere. There's nowhere to go. This is not the roomy stage before the Training Center but the narrow terrace in front of the president's mansion. No wonder no one bothered to have me practice. He's ten meters away.

I feel the bow purring in my hand. Reach back and grasp the arrow. Position it, aim at his chest. To where I know his sick, beating heart is. But instead of focusing on his chest, as I should be, I watch his face. He coughs and a bloody dribble runs down his chin. His tongue flicks over his puffy lips. I search his eyes for the slightest sign of anything, fear, remorse, anger. But there's nothing.

I release the string. The arrow shoots through the air like a lightening fast silver bird and burrows into Snow's chest. There's a spray of blood. It's reflected by the midday sun, it almost… sparkles. There's a low, gurgling sound, and his body falls to the ground. His head rolls to one side. His eyes are vacant. I've seen that vacant look before. I know it was a perfect shot. Snow is dead.

I never miss.

The arrow pierced through the stem of the rosebud on his chest, severing it. The upper part of the stem, with the rosebud intact, falls to the marble floor. I see it land as if in slow motion, then roll and fall to rest near Snow's right hand.

The roar from the crowd is deafening. They cheer as if this is a parade. As if this is the Hunger Games, perhaps? It's eerily similar. Have they been betting on this, too? I wonder. Have they been betting on where I'd shoot him? If I'd miss? If I'd have a mental breakdown on national television?

I walk over to Snow's body. It's only ten yards away, I guess they wanted to minimize the risk of me missing my target.

The shot is perfect, straight through the heart. I can't see any blood oozing out from underneath him, and I know that the arrow can't have gone straight through his chest. It must have stopped against his spinal column or ribs. His eyes are lifeless and glazed over. There's blood coming out from his mouth and nose, he must've bled into his chest.

This man, who has threatened me on so many occasions, who has frequented my nightmares and made my life nearly unbearable for years, is now reduced to just lifeless flesh. With one arrow.

I know I'm being filmed. Every single citizen of Panem is watching me right now. Watching me say goodbye to my tormentor, to their dictator.

Oddly, I can't hear the cheering anymore. Everything is so quiet around me, although I see from the corner of my eye that people are still cheering and celebrating. I, however, live in a vacuum. So this is what it's come down to – people celebrating death.

I bend forward over his body, searching his face for – what? Humanity? Regret? Hatred? I find nothing. It's all gone.

With one swift movement, I reach down and retract the arrow from Snow's chest. It happens so quickly. The arrowhead snags against his broken ribs on its way out, and I have to twist the arrow to get it through. I've done it so many times before when shooting deer, it's nothing new. His blood has an unfamiliar color, though. It's too dark, it has an almost bluish or purplish hue. I've never seen anything like it – be it in an animal or a human. I knew he was ill, but he must've been in even worse health than I realized. Perhaps this spectacle could've been avoided if Coin had just waited a month or two. But then again, this spectacle is exactly what she wants.

It's all a big show.

I turn around, and there she is, up on the balcony. She's not cheering along with the crowd, instead she accepts the congratulations she is getting from the people around her with a dignified grace. Her gray hair is perfect, like always. She is smiling – I think I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen her smile. She's only thirty or so yards away. Plutarch shakes her hand, no doubt offering her his congratulations. Plutarch, who has planned this media event down to the smallest detail.

Plutarch, who has not installed a power field between me and Coin. Plutarch, who watched me shoot the apple from the pig's head.

Snow's blood stains my fingers as I draw the bow, but it doesn't make my fingers slip. The bow hums under my fingers. We are one being. And in that exact moment, Coin turns her head to look at me. Her eyes meet mine, and she opens her mouth as if to say something. Anything.

But there is no time. My arrow is not a Mockingjay. It does not sing. I, on the other hand, am a huntress. I move stealthily, bringing only death. Coin should've known that by now.

The arrow pierces through her right eye. Like a squirrel.

And President Coin collapses over the side of the balcony and plunges to the ground. Dead. Her body falls as if in slow motion. And this, the thump of her body hitting the ground, is a sound I can actually hear through the silence in my head. The sound is all there is.

Today, for the last time, I am the Mockingjay.

Thank you so much for all your reviews! We're past 850 reviews now, so perhaps we'll make it to 1000? Please let me know what you think about this chapter - it's obviously a very important chapter. What did you think about the changes I made?