Everything seems to erupt at once. The earth erupts into a shower of dirt and plant matter. Trees burst into flames. Even the sky fills with brightly colored blossoms of light. I can't think why the sky's being bombed until I realize that the Gamemakers are shooting off fireworks up there, while the real destruction occurs on the ground. Just in case it's not fun enough to watch the obliteration of the arena and remaining tributes. Or perhaps to illuminate our gory ends.

Will they let anyone survive? Will there be a victor of the Seventy-Five Hunger Games? Maybe not. After all, what is this Quarter Quell but … what was it that President Snow read from the card?

"… a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the Capitol…"

Not even the strongest of the strong will triumph. Perhaps they never intended to have a victor in these Games. Or perhaps my final act of rebellion forced their hand.

I'm sorry, Peeta, I think. I'm sorry I couldn't save you. Save him? More like I stole his last chance at life, condemning him by destroying the force field. Maybe, if we had—screw the rules! What exactly has playing by the rule done for anyone?

The hovercraft materialize above me without warning. If it was quiet, and a mockingjay close at hand, I would have heard the jungle go silent and the bird's call that precedes the appearance of the Capitol aircraft. But my ears could never make out anything so delicate in this bombardment.

The claw drops from the underside until it's directly overhead. The metal talons slide under me. I want to scream, run away, smash my way out of it but I'm frozen, helpless to do anything but fervently hope that I will die before I reach the shadowy figures awaiting me above. They have not spared my life to crown me victor but to make my death as slow and public as possible.

My worst fears are confirmed when the face that greets me inside the hovercraft belongs to Plutarch Heavensbee, Head Gamemaker. What mess I made of his beautiful Games with that ticking clock and field of victors. He will suffer for his failure, probably lose his life, but not before he sees me punished. His hand reaches out, I think to strike me, but he doesn't something worse. With his thumb and forefinger, he slides my eyelids shut, sentencing me to the vulnerability of darkness. They can anything to me now, and I will not even see it coming.

My heart begins to pound so hard that blood begins to stream from beneath my soaked moss bandage. My thoughts grow foggy. Possibly I can bleed to death before they can revive me after all. In my mind, I whisper a thank-you to Johanna Mason for the excellent wound as she inflicted as I black out.

When I swim back into semiconsciousness, I can feel I'm lying on a padded table. There's the pinching sensation of tubes in my left arm. They're trying to keep me alive, because if I slide quietly, into death, it will be a victory. I'm still largely unable to move, open my eyelids, and raise my head. But my right arm had regained a little motion. It flops across my body, like a flipper, no something less animated, like a club. I still have no real motor coordination, no proof that I even have fingers. Yet I manage to swing my arm around until I rip the tubes out. A beeping goes off but I can't stay awake to find out who it will summon.

The next time I surface, my hands are tied down to the table, the tubes back in my arm. I can open my eyes and lift my head slightly, though. I'm in a large room with low ceilings and silvery light. There are two rows of beds facing each other. I can hear the breathing of what I assume are my fellow victors. Directly across from me I see Beetee with about ten different machines hooked up to him. Just let us die! I scream in my mind. I slam my head back hard on the table and go out.

When I finally, truly, wake up, the restraints are gone. I raise my hand and find I have fingers that are under my command. I push myself to a sitting position and hold onto the padded table until the room settles into focus. My left arm is bandaged but the tubes dangle off the stands near the bed.

I'm alone, except for Beetee, who still lies in front of me, being sustained by an army of machines. Where are the others, then? Peeta, Finnick, Enobaria, and… and… one more, right? Either Johanna or Chaff or Brutus was still alive when the bombs began. I'm sure they'll want to make an example of us all. But where have they taken them? Moved them from the hospital to the prison.

"Peeta…" I whisper. I so want to protect him. Am still resolved to do so. Since I failed to protect him in the arena, I must find him now, kill him now before the Capitol gets to choose the agonizing means of his death. I slide my legs off the table and look around for a weapon. There are a few syringes sealed in sterile plastic on a table near Beetee's bed. Perfect. All I need is air and a clear shot at his veins.

I pause for a moment, consider killing Beetee. But if I do, the machines will start beeping and I'll be caught before I get to Peeta. I make a silent promise to return and finish him off if I can.

I'm naked except for a thin nightgown, so I slip the syringe under the bandage that covers the wound on my arm. There are no guards at the door. No doubt I'm miles beneath the Training Center or in some Capitol stronghold, and the possibility of escape is nonexistent. It doesn't matter. I'm not escaping, just finishing a job.

I creep down a narrow hallway to a metal door that stands slightly ajar. Someone is behind it. I take out the syringe and grip it in my hand. Flattening against the wall, I listen to the voices inside.

"Communications are down in Seven, Ten, and Twelve. But Eleven has control of transportation now, so there's hope of getting food out."

Plutarch Heavensbee. I think. Although I've only really spoken with him once. A hoarse voice asks a question.

"No, I'm sorry. There's no way I can get you into Four. But I've given special orders for her retrieval if possible. It's the best I can do, Finnick."

Finnick. My mind struggle to make sense of this conversation, of fact that it's taking place between Plutarch Heavensbee and Finnick. Is he so near and dear to the Capitol that he'll be excused for his crimes? Or did he really have no idea what Beetee had planned? He croaked out something else. Something heavy with despair.

"Don't be stupid. That's the worst thing you could do. Get her killed for sure. As long as you're alive, they'll keep her alive for bait," says Haymitch.

Says Haymitch! This gets my attention. I bang through the door and stumble into the room. Haymitch, Plutarch, and a very beat up Finnick sit around a table with a meal laid out that no one is eating. Daylight streams in the curved window, and in the distance I see the top of a forest of trees. We are flying.

"Done knocking yourself out, sweetheart?" Haymitch says, the annoyance clear in his voice.

"Shut up Haymitch." I said, as I made my way to join them at the table.

Haymitch gets up to help me, but I ward him off with my eyes. He then notices a syringe in my hand. "So it's you and a syringe against the Capitol? See, this is why no one lets you make the plans." Haymitch said.

"Given your track record for keeping people alive and coming up with sound plans yourself, that's the pot calling the kettle black." I counter with a scathing accusation, but seeing as how Peeta isn't here I drop the syringe and join them at the table sitting next to Finnick.

Plutarch puts a bowl of broth in front of me. A roll. Slips a spoon into my hand. "Eat," he says in a much kinder voice than either Haymitch and I used.

Haymitch sits directly in front of me. "Katniss, I'm going to explain what happened. I don't want you to ask any questions until I'm finished. Do you understand?"

I nod. And this is what he tells me.

There was a plan to break us out of the arena from the moment the Quell was announced. The victor tributes from 3, 4, 6, 7, 8, and 11 had varying degrees of the plan of knowledge about it. Plutarch Heavensbee has been, for several years, a part of an undercover group aiming to overthrow the Capitol. He made sure the wire was among the weapons. Beetee was in charge of blowing a hole in the force filed. The bread we received in the arena was code for the time of the rescue. The district where the bread originated indicated the day. Three. The number of rolls the hour. Twenty-four. The hovercraft belongs to District 13. Bonnie and Twill, the women I met in the woods from 8, were right about its existence and its defensive capabilities. Meanwhile, most of the districts in Panem are in full-scale rebellion.

Haymitch stops to see if I'm following. Or maybe he is done for the moment.

It's an awful lot to take in, this elaborate plan in which I was a piece, just as I was meant to be a piece in the Hunger Games. Used without consent, without knowledge. At least in the Hunger Games, I knew I was being played with.

My supposed friends have been a lot more secretive.

"Why didn't you tell me?" My voice as ragged as Finnick's.

"Neither you or Peeta were told. We couldn't risk it," says Plutarch. "I was even worried that you might mention my indiscretion with watch during the Games." He pulls out his pocket watch and runs his thumb across the crystal, lighting up the mockingjay. "Of course, when I showed you this I was merely tipping you off about the arena. As a mentor. I thought it be the first step towards gaining your trust. I never dreamed you be tribute again."

"I still don't understand why Peeta and I weren't told the plan," I say.

"Because once the force filed blew you'd be the first ones they'd try and capture, and the less you knew the better," says Haymitch.

"I'm pretty certain that the Capitol wanting to capture me had nothing to do with the rebel plan. But I'll bite, why?" I ask.

"The same reason the rest of us agreed to die to keep you alive," says Finnick.

"Johanna's actions are up for debate." I said.

"Johanna knocked you out to cut the tracker from your arm and lead Brutus and Enobaria away you," says Haymitch.

"Stop talking in circles! Speak plainly." I said.

"We had to save you because you're the mockingjay, Katniss," says Plutarch. "While you live, the revolution lives."

And there it is. The bird, the pin, the song, the berries, the watch, the cracker, the dress that burst into flames. I am the mockingjay. The one who survived despite the Capitol's plans. The symbol of the rebellion.

It's what I expect when I found Bonnie and Twill escaping. Though I never really understood the magnitude. But then. I wasn't meant to understand. I think of Haymitch's doubts of the total destruction of District 13, and its continued existence. Skepticism, subterfuge, and deception. And if he could do that behind a mask of sarcasm and drunkenness, so convincingly and for so long, what else has he lied about? I know what else.

"Peeta," I whisper, my heart sinking.

"The others kept Peeta alive because if he died, we knew there'd be no keeping you in an alliance," says Haymitch. "And we couldn't risk leaving you unprotected." His words are a matter-of-fact, his expression unchanged, but he can't hide the tinge of gray that colors his face.

"Where is Peeta?" I hissed at him.

"He was picked up by the Capitol along with Johanna and Enobaria," says Haymitch. And he finally had the decency to drop his gaze.

Technically, I am unarmed, save for my finger nails. But what is that going to do for me. When he said that Peeta was capture by the Capitol I close my eyes. I can feel the fury building inside me. All my plans to keep Peeta alive were thwarted, but by neither of us. But by the man who had promised, and lied, to make sure one of us was to come out of this alive. The moment I open my eyes, I start to see red in my vision. But instead of acting on my emotions, I lay the spoon down and exit the room.

Before I exit, I look back and say. "I don't want to be disturbed unless it's a food or medical-related." And then I exit the room.

To my great surprise, the three of them respect my wishes and do not bother me for the rest of the ride. I eat my meals, but I seem to be losing my appetite. I eat anyways because I have other reasons to survive. The only thing that I took away from the conversation was Haymitch's accusation. "See, this is why no one lets you make the plans," he said. And he's right. No one in their right mind would let me make the plans. Because I can't obviously tell a friend from an enemy.

The days seem to blur together, and I begin to lose track of time. That is until one day I open my eye and find someone I can't block out looking down at me. Someone who will not plead, or explain, or think he can alter my design with entreaties, because he only really knows how I operate.

"Gale," I whisper.

"Hey, Catnip." He reaches down and pushes a strand out of my hair out of my eyes. His gesture is strangely comforting, just barely though. I wonder if Gale has been told that Peeta was captured by the Capitol. And if he has, I'm wondering if Gale thinks this is his chance to try to win my heart. I put that thought out of my head when I noticed that one side of his face has been burned recently. is areHis arm in a sling, and I can see bandages under his miner's shirt. What has happened to him? How is he even here? Something very bad has happened back home.

It's not so much a question of forgetting Peeta, which will never happen, as much about as remembering the others. All it takes is one look at Gale and they come surging into the present, demanding to be acknowledged.

"Prim?" I gasp.

"She's alive. So is your mom. I got them out in time," he says.

"They're not in District Twelve?" I ask.

"After the Games, they sent in planes. Dropping fire bombs." he hesitates. "Well, you know what happened to the Hob."

I do. I saw it go up. The old warehouse embedded with coal dust. The whole district's cover with the stuff. A new kind of horror begins to arise inside me as I imagine firebombs hitting the Seam.

"They're not in District Twelve?" I repeat. As if saying it will fend off the truth.

"Katniss," Gale says softly.

I recognize the voice. It's the same one he uses to approach a wound animal before he delivers a death blow. I instinctively raise my hand to block out his words but he catches it and holds on tightly.

"Don't," I whisper.

But Gale is not one to keep secrets from me. "Katniss, District Twelve is no more."

A/N: I haven't had time to work on it, and I was told by a previous reviewer that the first chapter is the weakest one. So I decided to do a complete and total rewrite, and make it closer to the book.