I stare down at my shoes, watching a fine layer of ash settle on them. This is where the bed I shared with Prim stood. Over there was the kitchen table. The bricks of the chimney, which collapsed into a charred heap, provide a point of reference for the rest of the house. How else could I organize myself in a sea of gray?
Almost nothing remains of District 12. A month has passed since Capitol's firebombs had obliterated the poor coal miner's houses in the Seam, the shops in town, even the Justice Building. The only place that escaped incineration was the Victor's Village. I don't know why exactly. Perhaps anyone forced to come here on Capitol business will have somewhere decent to stay. The odd reporter. A committee assessing the condition of the mines. A squad of Peacekeepers checking for returning refugees.
But no one is returning except me. And that's only a brief visit. The authorities of District 13 were against it. They viewed it as a costly and pointless venture, given there are at least a dozen invisible hovercrafts circling overhead for my protection and there is no intelligence to be gained. I had to see it, though. So much so that I made it of my condition cooperating with any of their plans.
Finally, Plutarch Heavensbee threw up his hands. "Let her go. Better to waste a day, than another month. Maybe a little tour of District Twelve is just what she needs to convince her we're on the same side."
The same side, huh? A pain stabbing my left temple makes me press my hand against it. Right on the spot where Johanna hit me with the coil of wire. The memories swirl as I try to figure out what's true and what is false. What series of events led me to be standing in the ruins of my city? This is hard because the effects of the concussion she gave me haven't completely subsided yet and my thoughts have a tendency to be jumbled. Also, the drugs they give me to help control my pain and mood sometimes makes me see things. I guess. I'm still not entirely convinced that I was hallucinating the night the floor of the hospital room transformed into a carpet of writhing snakes.
I use a technique one of the doctors suggested. I start with the simplest things I know to be true and work toward more complicated. The list just rolls in my head…
My name is Katniss Everdeen. I'm seventeen. My home is District 12. I was in the Hunger Games. I escaped. The Capitol hates me. Peeta was taken prisoner. He is thought to be dead. Most likely dead. It is probably best that he is dead…
"Katniss. Should I come down?" Gale's voicereaches me through the headset the rebels insisted that I wear. He's up in the hovercraft, watching me closely, ready to swoop in if anything goes amiss. I realize I'm crouched down, elbows on my thighs, my head braced between my hands. I must look on the verge of some kind of breakdown. This won't do. Not when they're finally weening me off the medicine.
I straighten up and wave his offer away. "No, I'm fine." To reinforce this, I begin to move away from my old house and in toward town. Gale asked to be dropped off in town with me, but didn't push it when I refused his company. He understands that I don't want anyone here with me today. Not even him. Some walks you have to do alone.
The summer's been scorching hot and dry as a bone. There's been next to no rain to disturb the piles of ash left by the attack. They shift here and there, in reaction to my footsteps. No breeze to scatter them. I keep my eyes on what I remember is the road, because when I first landed in the Meadow, I wasn't careful and I walked right into a rock. Only it wasn't a rock—it was someone's skull. It rolled over and over until it landed face up, and for a long time I couldn't stop looking at the teeth, wondering whose they were, and thinking of how mine would look the same under the same circumstances.
I stick to the road out of habit, but it's a bad choice, because it's full of remains of those who tried to flee. Some were incinerated entirely. But others, probably overcome with smoke, escape the worst of the flames and now lie reeking in various stages of decomposition, carrion for scavengers, blanketed with flies. I killed you. I think as I pass a pile. And you. And you.
Because I did. It was my arrow, aimed at the chink in the force field surrounding the arena, that brought on this firestorm of retribution. That sent the whole country of Panem into chaos. As horrible as it seems their problems are over. The Capitol can no longer harm them. Now to finish the job, and prevent the further loss of innocence. I thought.
In my head, I hear President Snow's word, spoke the morning I was to begin the Victory Tour. "Katniss Everdeen, the girl who was on fire, you have provide a spark that, if left unattended, may grow to inferno that could destroy Panem." It turns out that he wasn't exaggerating or simply trying to scare me. Perhaps President Snow was attempting to enlist my help to prevent this from happening. But I already set something into motion I had no ability to control.
Burning. Still burning, I think numbly. The fires at the coal mines belch black smoke in the distance. There's no one left to care, though. More than ninety percent of the population is dead. The remaining eight hundred are refugees are in District 13—which, as far as I'm concerned, is the same as being homeless forever.
I should be grateful that District13 welcomed us with open arms. It's better to be a refugee in District 13, than dead and buried, or decomposing here. I also can't get around the fact that District 13 was instrumental in 12's destruction. This doesn't absolve me of blame—there's plenty of blame to go around. But without them, I would not have been part of a larger plot to overthrow the Capitol or had the wherewithal to do it.
The citizens of District 12 had no organized resistance movement of their own. No say in any of this. They only had the misfortune to have me. Some survivors think its good luck, though, to be finally free off District 12. To have escaped the endless hunger and oppression, the perilous mines, the lash of our final Head Peacekeeper, Romulus Thread. To have a new home at all is seen as a new wonder since, up until a short while ago, most hadn't known District 13 still existed. I had my doubts, though. I thought.
The credit for the survivor's escape has landed squarely on Gale's shoulder, although he's loath to accept it. As soon as the Quarter Quell was over—as soon as I was lifted from the arena—the electricity was cut in District 12 was cut, the televisions went black, and the Seam was so quiet, people could one another's heartbeats. No one did anything to protest or celebrate what had happened in the arena. Yet within fifteen minutes, the sky filled with hoverplanes and the bombs were raining down.
It was Gale who thought of the Meadow, one of the few places not filled with old wooden homes embedded with coal dust. He herded those he could in its direction, including my mom and Prim. He formed the team that pulled down the fence—now harmless chain-linked barrier, with the electricity off—and led people into the woods. He took them to the only place he could think of, the lake my dad had shown me as a child. And it was from there the watch the distance flames eat up everything thing they knew in the world.
By dawn the bombers were long gone, and the fires dying, and the last of the stragglers had been rounded up. My mom and Prim had set up a medical area for the injured and were attempting to treat them with whatever they could glean from the woods. Gale had two sets of bows and arrows, one hunting knife, one fishing net, and over eight hundred terrified people to feed. With the help of those who were able-bodied, they managed for three days. And that's when the hovercraft arrived unexpectedly to evacuate them to District 13, where there were more than enough clean, white living compartments, clean clothes, and three meals a day. The compartments had the disadvantage of being underground, the clothing identical, and the food was relatively tasteless, but for the refugees from 12, these were minor considerations. They were safe. They were being cared for. They were alive and eagerly welcomed.
The enthusiasm was interpreted as kindness. But a man named Dalton, a refugee from District 10 who made it to 13 on foot a few years ago, leaked the real motive to me. "They need you. Me. They need us all. Awhile back, there was some sort of pox epidemic that killed a bunch of them a left a lot more infertile. New breeding stock. That's how they see us." Back in 10, he worked one of the beef ranches, maintaining the genetic diversity of herd with the implantation of long-frozen cow embryos. He's very likely right about 13, because there don't seem to be nearly enough kids around. But so what? We're not being kept in pens, we're being trained for work, the children are being educated. Those over fourteen have been given entry level ranks in the military and address respectfully as. "Soldier." Every single refugee was granted automatic citizenship by the authorities of 13.
Still, I hate them. But, of course, I hate almost everybody. Myself more than anyone.
The surface beneath my feet to hardens, and under the carpet of ash, I feel the paving stones of the square. Around the perimeter is a shallow border of refuse where the shops stood. A heap of blackened rubble replaces the Justice Building. I walk to the approximate site where the bakery that Peeta's family owned. Nothing much left but the melted lumped of the oven. Peeta's parents, his two older brothers—none of them made it. Fewer than a dozen of what passed for District 12's well-to-do escaped the fire. Peeta would have nothing to come home to. Except me…
I back away from the bakery and bump into something, lose my balance, and find myself sitting on a hunk of sun-heated metal. I puzzle over what it might have been, then I remember Thread's recent renovations of the square. Stocks, whipping post, and this, the remains of the gallows. Bad. This is bad. It brings on a flood of images that torment me, awake or asleep. Peeta being tortured—drowned, burned, lacerated, shocked, maimed, beaten—as the Capitol tries to get information about the rebellion he doesn't know. Or they could just be torturing Peeta, who knows? I squeeze my eyes shut to reach him across hundreds and hundreds of miles, to let him know that he's not alone. But he is. And I can't help him.
Running. Away from the square and to the place the fire did not destroy. I pass the wreckage of the mayor's house, where my friend Madge used to live. No word of her or her family. Were the evacuated to the Capitol because of her father's position, or left to the flames? Ashes billow up around me, and I pull the hem of my shirt up over my mouth. It's not wondering what I breathe in, but who, that threatens to choke me.
The grass is scorched and gray snow falls here as well, but the twelve fine houses of the Victor's Village remain unscathed. I bolt to the house I lived in for the past year, slam the door shut, and lean back against it. The place seems untouched. Clean. Eerily quiet. Why did I come back to 12? How can this visit help answer the question I can't escape?
"What am I going to do?" I whisper to the walls. Because I really don't know.
People keeping talking to me, talking, talking, talking, Plutarch Heavensbee. His calculating assistant, Fulvia Cardew. A mishmash of district leaders. Military official. But not Alma Coin, the president of District 13, who just watches. She's fifty or so, with gray hair that falls in an unbroken sheet to her shoulders. I'm somewhat fascinated by her hair, since it's so uniform, so without a flaw, a wisp, even a split end. Her eyes are gray, but not like the people in the Seam. They're very pale, as if almost all the color has been sucked out of them. The color of slush that you wish would melt away.
What they want is for me to truly take on the role they designed for me. The symbol of the revolution. The Mockingjay. It's not enough, what I've done in the past, defying the Capitol in the Games, providing a rallying point. I must become the actually leader, the face, the voice, the embodiment of the rebellion. The person who the districts—most which are now openly at war with the Capitol—can count on to blaze a path to victory. I won't have to do it alone. They have a whole team to of people to make me over, dress me, write my speeches, orchestrate my appearances—huh, that sounds vaguely familiar—and all I have to do is play my part. Sometimes I listen to them and sometimes I just watch the perfect lines of Coin's hair and try to decide if it's a wig. Eventually, I leave the room because my head starts to ache or it's time to eat or if I don't get aboveground I might start screaming. I don't bother to saying anything. I simply get up and walk out.
Yesterday afternoon, as the door was closing behind me, I heard Coin say, "I told you we should have rescued the boy first." Meaning Peeta. I couldn't agree more. He would have made an excellent mouthpiece. But how much of this would Peeta have put up with? Peeta could probably see things quicker than me. So he would be just as defiant as me or worse, maybe. I thought.
And who did they fish out of the arena first? Me, and I don't want to cooperate. Beetee who I rarely see because he was pulled into weapons development the minute he could sit up right. Literally, they wheeled his hospital bed into some top secret area and now he only occasionally shows up for meals. He's very smart and very willing to help the cause, but not really firebrand material. Then there's Finnick Odair, who kept Peeta alive in the arena when I couldn't, who the leadership wants to turn into a rebel leader as well, but first they'll have to get him to stay awake for more than five minutes. Even when he's conscious, you have to say things to him at least three times to get through to his brain. The doctors say it's from the electrical shock he received in the arena, but I know it's more complicated than that. I know that Finnick can't focus on anything in District 13 because he's trying so hard to see what's happening in the Capitol to Annie.
What a group we are. The victors. One of us is doing what he can to too help take down the Capitol. The second is trying to figure out what is happening to his girlfriend. And the last of us, me, wants nothing at all to do with this. I think.
Despite serious reservations, I had forgiven Finnick for his role in the conspiracy that landed me here. He, at least, had some idea of what I'm was going through. And it's a waste of energy to stay angry with someone who cries so much.
I move down the stairs on hunter's feet, reluctant to make any noise. I pick up a few remembrances: a photo of my parents on their wedding day, a blue hair ribbon for Prim, the family book of medicinal and edible plants. The book falls open to the page of yellow flowers and I shut it quickly because it Peeta's brush that painted them.
What am I going to do?
Is there any point in doing anything at all? My mom, my sister, and Gale's family are finally safe. As for the rest of 12, people are either dead, which is irreversible, or protected in 13. That leaves the rebels in the districts. Of course, I hate the Capitol, but I have no confidence that my being the Mockingjay will benefit those who are trying to bring it down. How can I help the districts when every time I make a move, it results in suffering and loss of life? The old man shot in District 11 for whistling. The crackdown in 12 after I intervene in Gale's whipping. My stylist, Cinna, being dragged, bloody and unconscious, from the Launch Room before the Games. Plutarch's sources believed he was killed during interrogation. Brilliant, enigmatic, lovely Cinna is dead because of me. I push the thought away from me because it's too impossiblly painful to dwell on without losing my fragile hold on the situation entirely.
What am I going to do?
To become the Mockingjay… could any good I do possible outweigh the damage? Who can I trust to answer that question? Certainly not the crew in 13. I swear now that my family and Gale's are out of harm's way, I could run away. Except for one piece of business. Peeta. If I knew for sure he was dead. I could just walk away, disappear into the woods without a backwards glance and never look back. But until Peeta and the others have been rescued I'm stuck.
I spin on my heels at the sound of a hiss. In the kitchen doorway, back arched, ears flatten, stands the ugliest tomcat in the world. "Buttercup," I say. Thousands of people are dead, but he has survived and looks well fed. On what? He can get in and out of the house through the window we leave ajar in the pantry. He must have been eating field mice. You got do, what you got to do. I thought.
I squat down and extend my hand. "Come here, boy." Not likely. He's angry at his abandonment. Besides, I'm not offering food, and my ability to offer scraps has always been my redeeming quality to him. For a while, when we used to meet up at the old house because we both disliked the new one, we seemed to be bonding a little. That's clearly over now. He blinks those unpleasant yellow eyes.
"Want to see Prim?" I ask. Her name catches his attention. Besides his own, it's the only word that means anything to him. He gives a rusty meow and approaches me. I pick him up, stroking his fur, then go to the closet and dig out my game bag and unceremoniously stuff him in. There's no other way I will be able to carry him on to the hovercraft, and he means the world to my sister. Her goat, Lady, an animal of actual value, has unfortunately not made an appearance.
In my headset, I hear Gale saying that we must go back. But the game bag has reminded me of one more thing that I want. I sling the strap over the back of the chair and dash up the stairs to my bedroom. Inside the closet hangs my dad's hunting jacket. Before the Quell, I brought it here from the old house, thinking its presence might be of comfort to my mom and sister when I was dead. Thank goodness, or it'd be ash now.
The soft leather feels soothing and for a moment I calmed by the memories of the hours spent wrapped in it. Then, inexplicably, my palms being to sweat. A strange sensation begins to creep up the back of my neck. I whip around to face the room and find it empty. Tidy. Everything in its place. There was no sound to alarm me. What, then?
My nose twitches. It's the smell. Cloying and artificial. A dab of white peeks out of a vase of dried flowers on my dresser. I approach it with cautious steps. There, all but obscured by its cousin, is a fresh white rose. Down to the last thorn and silken petal.
And I know immediately who's sent it to me.
President Snow.
When I begin to gag at the stench, I back away and clear out. How long has it been here? A day? An hour? The rebels did a security sweep of Victor's Village before I was cleared to come here, checking for explosives, bugs, anything unusual. But perhaps the rose didn't seem noteworthy to them. Only to me.
Downstairs I snag the game bag off the back of the chair, bouncing it along the floor until I remember it's occupied. On the lawn, I frantically signal for the hovercraft while Buttercup thrashes. I jab him with my elbow, but this infuriates him more. A hovercraft materializes and a ladder drops down. I step on and the current freezes me until I'm lifted on board.
Gale helps me from the ladder. "You alright?"
"Yeah," I say, wiping the sweat off my face with my sleeve.
He left me a rose! I want to scream, but it's not information I'm sure I share with someone like Plutarch looking on. First of all, because it will make me sound crazy. Like I either imagined it, which is quite possible, or I'm overreacting, which will buy me a trip back to drug induced dreamland I'm trying so hard to escape. No one will fully understand—how it's not just a flower, not even just President Snow's flower, but a promise of revenge—because no one else sat in the study with him when he threatened me before the Victory Tour.
Position on my dresser, that white-as-snow rose is a personal message to me. It speaks of unfinished business. It whispers, I can find you. I can reach you. Perhaps I'm watching you now.
A/N: I apologize for making you wait so long for this update. I had a busy two weeks as I was finishing up school. That being said I have two things to point out. 1: After two years we're nearing the finish line. So let's see what I have up my sleeve in these last twenty-seven chapters. 2) If you haven't read it yet, the chapter one rewrite was posted a week ago.
