A/N: I'm so sorry for the long delay since the last chapter, but SOOO much has happened! I took a few prompts from the everlark fic exchange, (to which I want to thank you guys for your amazing responses!)
Then, on my middle son's birthday, his papa, who has been battling cancer since I found out I was pregnant with (that same) middle son was hospitalized because of a bad reaction to one of his cancer meds. "Papa Pete" passed away Friday April 23 around 9 in the morning… So, needless to say, it has been a rough few weeks.
With that being said, this chapter is dedicated to "Papa Pete", the best, hands down "Papa" in the world . And once you read this chapter, you will see why it was such a struggle for me to write!
I hope you enjoy (in a weird kind of way, I guess)
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games. All mistakes are my own. Because of "everything" I did not read over this chapter as many times as I normally do, so there are probably tons of mistakes. Also, the next chapter will be out very shortly, this is kind of like Part 1. (Okay, enough ranting!) And finally . . .
Another Way Out
Chapter 7 – Waiting for the End
| Haymitch |
"Come on Trinkie, we've got somewhere to be."
"What— I wanted to watch Peeta's proposal," Trinkie wines from behind me.
"Why, it's not real," I huff indignantly as we scurry through the streets of the Capitol, slowly becoming exasperated with all her whining.
"Now Haymitch, you know as well as I do that just isn't so. Perhaps the televised version was planned out—"
Her voice grows smaller and smaller, so I turn around to see what the holdup is. She has stopped walking, her arms crossed indignantly over her chest while tapping the toe of her shoe condescendingly against the Capitol's fancy granite pavement.
"Oh, come on, you know what I mean," I gripe, craning my neck up as I look for the shop Plutarch told me to find.
"Can I help you find something?" I turn my head in the direction of the voice to see a woman dressed as a cat— actually, now that I have a closer look, I think she has surgically altered her appearance to mimic that of a cat. And then Plutarch's words echo in my head . . . a memory from a previously drunken stupor, "Go to Tigris' Shop on the corner of Main and Seventh Street and 'she' will guide you in the right direction."
"And how the hell will I know who this, 'she' is?"
"Trust me Haymitch, you can't miss her. She will be the only one with whiskers," Plutarch chuckled, giving me a wink.
"I'm uh . . . looking for Priscilla . . . and uh . . . something about recommending goats, or some shit like that," I spit the words out, the exact phrase getting lost on my tongue and hoping it's enough for her to let me through.
"Haymitch!" Effie shrieks, "Language! Seriously, must you be an arrogant— oh never mind," Effie nags, persistent as ever.
"Yes, I've been expecting you. Come, come, it's this way," the tiger lady trills, gracefully weaving through the rows of designer clothes and motioning for us to follow her into one of the dressing rooms. There is a life-sized mannequin in the oversized stall she leads us into. I cock my head to the side with curiosity as she twists its head around, which results in the floor opening up, revealing a hidden passage of stairs.
Without hesitation, I descend the steps and then look up to see Trinkie with her mouth agape, staring down at me.
"Well, you coming or what? We don't have all day, you know," she shakes her head to clear her confusion, which is followed up with a nod. Tigris extends her hand, offering to steady Effie as she descends the pathway down.
"Thank you, Madame Tigris," Effie says to the shopkeeper, as if she knows the woman personally.
I wait for the passage to close before I speak again. "Do you know her?" I ask her, pointing up, referring to the tiger-cat woman beyond the opening that is no longer there.
"Of course! Well . . . no, not personally. She was just one of the most brilliant stylists for the games many years back, but then she went a little overboard with her image which resulted in Snow banning her from the limelight. Rumor is," Effie says in a hushed whisper, leaning into my ear, "that they are related!"
"That who's related?" I ask, feeling the wrinkles of curiosity appear on my forehead. She can't possibly mean—
"The President and Madame Tigris, of course!" Effie affirms as we make our way through the darkened tunnels, until finally, we reach the end. I have to give Trinkie credit, not once has she questioned me on this little excursion of ours, having complete faith in me.
"Do you not know her, Haymitch? You just entered her shop and she led us to . . . whatever this ghastly place is—"
"I mean . . . I— I knew her name. And uh . . . I just went where they told me to go. They said it was secure."
"Who is—"
"Ah! Miss Trinket, what a lovely surprise!" Effie's unfinished question is partially answered when Plutarch's cheerful voice reverberates off the walls of the tunnels, which startles her, causing her to jump. "Oh, and it's nice to see you as well, Haymitch," he adds, not nearly as chipper.
"P-Plutarch? W-what on heavens?" Effie asks, stupefied by Plutarch's presence.
"Are we late?" Another familiar voice joins us in the darkened tunnels and then suddenly, there is light.
"Shall we?" It is Cinna and Portia, who we learn are responsible for granting us light when we see them carrying small torches in their hands.
"Shall we?" Plutarch waves toward the opening of the entrance, and then pulls his pocket watch out, runs his thumb across the face, which results in a sliding door opening up into a room.
'Damn, if 12 only had a fraction of the technology the Capitol has at its fingertips,' I think to myself as we enter the secret room.
Said room is dimly lit by evenly spaced torches from one of Cinna and Portia's immaculate creations. I don't have time to comment on their brilliance— or even ponder where they came up with the idea before Effie is complaining again.
"Will someone please explain what in crimney's sake is going on here, because my head is spinning in circles!" Effie demands.
"This is a rebel meeting sweetheart; didn't you say you wanted to be included?" I ask her with a raise of my brow.
"Plutarch— you're a r-r—" Effie gasps, reaching up to cover her mouth and for some reason, it amuses me.
"A rebel, and yes indeed I am. And a proud one, at that!" Plutarch replies pompously, a hint of arrogancy grazing his features.
"His daughter is actually the new mayor of 12," I lean into Effie's ear to inform her when another person enters the room.
"Yes, that would be my lovely wife, but Miss Trinket, if you wouldn't mind keeping a tight lid on that— it would be greatly appreciated, as no one is aware of their lineage," the booming voice comes from Raven Kadinski.
"R-raven K-kadinski— but you're a . . . a sponsor. What ever reason would you have to be a rebel?"
"It's a long story Miss Trinket, but . . . my family, our entire empire is built upon a lie. Well, not exactly a lie, but that is a story for another time. I believe it was my grandfather who was once classmates with Snow's father . . . and after certain events came to pass, he secretly despised Snow— Snow Senior, and everything he stood for. But that is beside the point. When my father got word of an opportunity to bring Snow down, he um . . . well . . . here I am."
"Okay, we do not have time for storytelling at this time, we must get down to business Haymitch," Plutarch huffs. "Snow is beginning to lose it; but I fear it will not be any time in the foreseeable future. I have an inkling as to his plans for the Quell, but his right-hand man is blocking me from learning anything concrete," Plutarch pauses, his face contorting into a grimace as he says the name, 'Proctor Bickerdyke.'
"I'm glad to see you've joined our ranks, Effie," Cinna croons, extending his hand out to Effie.
"What does Proctor have to do with Snow?" Effie blurts this, 'Proctor's' name out casually . . . almost with a familiarity—oblivious to Cinna's greeting.
"He is Snow's right-hand man. The guy who knows all his secrets. The man who arranges all Snow's meetings and executes all his ah . . . demands. If we could just distract him— even in just the slightest bit, I am certain I could gain Snow's ear," Plutarch explains. "You see, I came across some rather curious information. Did you guys know that the 10th Hunger Games is nowhere to be found . . . it was completely eradicated from the filing system."
"I— I think I may be of use after all," Effie affirms, her voice quivering with trepidation which sends a shiver up my spine . . . as if someone just walked over my grave.
"How is that . . . do you know him?" Cinna asks while I try to shake this daunting feeling in the pit of my stomach. Something tells me I am not going to like what Effie is about to propose.
Trinkie rolls her eyes, "Do I know him. Blech, that man has been trying to court me for ages. If someone could arrange it so that we are in the same room again, I could . . . I could feign interest in the slimeball. I will do my part and um . . . offer up a distraction," she says with obvious disgust.
"No. Absolutely not. It's too dangerous." I tell her, but I can tell from the look in her eyes; from the years of her incessant nagging that her mind is made up. And nothing that I, or anyone could say— or do will sway her decision.
0 – 0 – 0 – 0
| Peeta |
President Snow's warning was all but forgotten as our prep teams over-enthusiastically prepared us for the extravagant event tonight. Apparently, they have never been high enough in the popularity ranks to have ever received an invitation to something as 'spectacular' as this.
Portia is adding her final touches to my costume when Katniss enters the room, and my jaw nearly plummets to the floor when my eyes land on her. She is wearing one of Cinna's dresses— and the phrase 'Sexy Black Dress' enters my mind as I take in its charcoal-smudged hue, with swirls of deep, dark blue and a purple so intense, it's almost black. The quarter inch sleeved dress hovers a mere breadth from the ground and with each step she takes, it seems to produce a glowing ember at the seams. Once again, Cinna has outdone himself.
Though I do not particularly appreciate it when Cinna conceals her natural beauty with Capitol makeup, it's clear as to what he wants to accomplish tonight— or at least to me it is. I almost do not recognize her, but she is Katniss, and I would know her anywhere, no matter what costume she is in. Cinna has disguised her innocent, natural beauty with heavy layers of makeup and deep, intense, smokey eyes that make a statement— and a bold one at that. She is telling President Snow that she is done playing his game; that the tables have turned, and it is now his turn to play by her rules. Who knew a simple dress had such an immaculate vocabulary?
Effie leads us to the last event we are forced to endure before finally going home— the formal dinner in our honor— hosted by only the most elite at the banquet room of the President's mansion. It isn't long before we realize the word dinner is nothing but a formality. No, this is clearly a feast. It is a feast in every sense of the word and most definitely not the kind out of our arena.
Katniss and I enter the banquet room hand-in-hand and are instantly frozen in place when we look up to see that the forty-foot-high ceiling has been transformed into the night sky. I'm not sure how they did it— or maybe, somehow, they opened the ceiling and it's the real thing, but the stars look just like the ones in 12.
Halfway between the ceiling and the floor, musicians float on something that looks like puffy white clouds. The room is immaculate; there are ponds with exotic fish, lavish sofas and chairs surrounding a fireplace. In the center of the room, there is a large, tiled area for dancing, and a few people have taken to performing.
Standing— or perhaps he's sitting is a man, who I wonder if he has any bones in his body, because he is down on the floor, propped up by his forearms, his body twisted around so that the soles of his feet are balanced on his head. There is another man next to him in a similar position, his body twisted up like a pretzel.
'Flexible,' Katniss smirks indignantly.
'I'll say,' I respond to her as we continue shuffling behind Effie, like little ducks herding alongside their mother.
But the real star of the evening is the food. There is everything you can think of and things you have never even dreamed of. Whole roasted cows, pigs, and goats, still turning on their spits. Ocean creatures drizzled in decadent sauces. Cheeses with strange names that smell funny, cold and cooked vegetables, and platters upon platters of fruit cut into all sorts of sizes, held together by toothpicks— in shapes that I can only guess are supposed to reflect me and Katniss.
There is an entire buffet dedicated to cookies, cakes, and pastries; some in which I have never seen before in my life. And as a baker, that's really saying something. There is one cake in particular that catches my attention at the center of the table that must reach twenty feet high. It has tiers upon tiers upon tiers that become smaller and smaller the higher it ascends— and the intricate frosting designs are immaculate. I am frozen in place, in awe of the delectable creation. While I watch various people approaching the table and walking away with tiny pieces of the masterpiece, all I can think is that it must be a crime— because it's just too beautiful to eat.
Katniss tugs my arm, pulling me along and we pass by a wine-stream, which is positioned adjacent to a waterfall of spirits that flicker with flames— kind of reminding me of our tribute costumes in the parade just before our games.
"We should probably keep an eye on Haymitch around that one," Effie chuckles ahead of us and I can't help but follow suit. When Effie notices my reaction to her comment, she immediately goes to rectify her statement by saying, "Oh, how terribly rude of me! I . . . I am sorry!" But out of the corner of my eye, I see her wink.
"It's okay Effie," I tell her, offering a gentle smile.
"Holy cow! This is amazing! I want to taste everything!" Katniss exclaims, wide-eyed and innocently, making Effie's comment all but forgotten. I turn my head to meet Katniss's gaze and notice the sparkle in her eye— which causes me to wonder if perhaps her appetite is not the only thing to have returned . . . and that maybe . . . is that a . . . is it too hopeful of me to think it is a desire to fight back?
"This is all for you children," Effie says, turning around and raising her arms in the air— as if she means everything around us, "Go on now, enjoy it, you earned it!" She croons before disappearing into the other direction.
"Well, then you'd better pace yourself," I respond to Katniss's previous statement before she has the opportunity to make any snarky retorts to our escort's comment. And then I give her a smile in hopes or eradicating the scowl on her face caused by Effie's remark. It seems to work because she takes my hand and drags us to the closest table, which is laden with so many soups.
'Katniss, look. Seems like you're mockingjay is a hit here too,' I tell her silently while we share a bowl of soup that she describes as 'springtime'.
'Good.' She huffs condescendingly, an arrogant expression envelops her face knowing that President Snow is once again reminded of her— of us, no matter where in the Capitol he is. 'Peeta . . . what do you think he meant?' She questions. She doesn't need to elaborate on who the 'he' is, I know exactly who she is talking about.
"I don't know," I tell her frankly, "but it can't be good."
Even though we have limited ourselves to one bite of each dish, by the tenth table we are beyond stuffed. So, I am helpless to control the roaring belch that escapes from my body.
"Oh God, I . . . excuse me," I blurt out, overcome with embarrassment and my hand instinctually snaps up to cover my mouth just as our eyes lock on the other's.
"PEETA! Manners!" Katniss chastises, waggling her finger in front of me, like we have seen our escort do on many occasions.
"Don't make fun of Effie, Katniss. She's really done a lot for us."
"I know Peeta, it's just . . . that was really loud!" She giggles, and then she, herself lets out a huge, manly burp, which results in both of us doubling over in a hysterical fit of laughter.
"What's so funny . . . and why aren't you eating?" Octavia shrills, seeming to appear out of nowhere with all the members of each of our prep teams by her side.
"I . . . I want to, but I can't fit another bite inside or I might combust," Katniss explains, turning to me for reassurance, to which I nod in agreement to the members of our prep teams.
They all burst into their own round of ostentatious giggles and then Sapphire waggles a finger in front of our faces— her other hand resting on her hip as she says scoldingly, "No one lets that stop them at a feast! Here," she walks over to a table filled with tiny, stemmed wine glasses containing some kind of clear liquid, "drink this," she commands, handing me the wine glass.
Knowing the Capitol has magical creams that can instantly heal a scratch, it doesn't even cross my mind to question how this magical 'elixir' works as I accept the glass from Sapphire and bring it up to my lips— which must have been the wrong thing to do because this action sends them into a hysterical frenzy.
"What are you doo-ooing!" Artemis screeches, elongating her "o's".
"NO! No, no, no, no, no. Not here!" Henna caterwauls, flailing his arms in the air and slipping his hands in between my lips and the glass to prevent me from taking a sip.
"Silly boy, you have to do it in there," Vennia explains, turning my body and pointing me in the general direction of the restrooms.
My brows furrow and I meet Katniss's eyes in confusion. What do they— and then it hits me.
"You mean . . . this will make me . . . puke?" I surmise, trying to hide my disgust.
"Of course! So you can go on eating. How else would you have any fun at a feast?" Octavia snickers, joining the others in their laughter.
"I've already been in there twice!" Henna shrills proudly.
"Uh . . . Thanks guys, but . . . but I think Katniss and I are going to dance," I gently decline their offer and return the wine glass back to the table.
There is just no way I can, in good conscious, drink something that will make me barf, only for the sake of making room for more food when there are children in 12; hell, there are entire families in 12 who are nearly starving to death. Since returning home from the games and being Katniss's neighbor, I have borne witness to more than my share of emaciated parents bringing their near skeletal children over to Lilly, seeking her care. She usually sends them home with a care package of hearty, high in protein and fatty foods, but there isn't enough food to do that with every family. Everyone in 12 is starving, even those of us who are more well off than the others. I'm sure it's like that in some— or most of the other districts too, while these people . . . these privileged, entitled, naive citizens of the Capitol just— ugh, it makes me sick.
Katniss and I sway to the music on the dance floor, both of us trying to hide how appalled we are by what we just witnessed.
"You go along thinking you can deal with it, thinking they're not so bad. And then you—"
"Peeta, they bring us here to fight to the death for their entertainment. Really, this is nothing by comparison," Katniss says unfazed.
'Is that supposed to make it okay?' I ask her, switching to our unspoken language.
'No Peeta, I just . . . I meant—"
"I know, I know. I have an idea, come with me," I tell her as I spot a door in the corner of the room. I manage to sneak us through it unnoticed, where it empties into a hallway. We press our backs against the wall, savoring the moment of quiet.
"Do you hear that?" Katniss asks, grinning mischievously and taking my hand.
"Hear what?"
'The sound of silence—'
"It's a welcome sound," I whisper, unmoving as we relish in this rare moment.
"I love you Katniss," I finally say, breaking the silence after a moment and mounting her against the wall, kissing her hard and flush on the lips. Finally, I think to myself, I can kiss her like I want to . . . without an audience.
So many times, we have faked sneaking off together, only to be caught making out in some obvious corner, or even a closet . . . in hopes of word getting back to President Snow. The truth is, when we really want to escape for some solidarity . . . no one finds us.
"What was that?" Katniss's body tenses beneath me as she whispers anxiously into my lips.
"What? More silence, or do you mean the sound of my heart pounding in my chest?"
"Someone's coming Peeta, we have to get out of here!"
I scan our surroundings to see what we have to work with and relief washes over me when I spot a door not that far away. I twist the knob and we duck into what I hope is a coat closet and not someone's bedroom just as we see two Capitol guards coming this way. Whatever this room is, it's dark— and cramped; and if that isn't bad enough, I can't see my hands. Traumatized beyond belief from our blindness in the arena, both Katniss and I tense up, overcome with anxiety by our temporary lack of sight. But the reassurance of Katniss's body pressed up against me eases my mind— however slightly, and I crouch down to my knees, pulling her into my lap while we wait for the Capitol men to disperse. And for perhaps the first time ever, I am thankful for my Capitol-crafted leg.
"This is bad Egeo, if things are this way in 8, it won't be long before the other districts are following suit," one of the men mumbles with a mouthful of food.
"Oh, come on Hal. You're exaggerating; it was just a riot. Just a handful of idiots chucking bricks at some Peacekeepers."
"A couple? There were hundreds of factory workers in that square. And, as if that wasn't bad enough, there are rumors of a strike in 8. The mood is already uneasy in 3 and 4, all it would take was for word to get out that there is unrest, and the others will surely follow. District people aren't the smartest, ya know?" The first man, Hal, gripes as he continues to munch on something crunchy.
Even without a single spec of light, I can literally feel Katniss scowling in response to these two idiots chattering away.
"Tell me about it! They don't realize how good they've actually got it—"
'GOOD?' Katniss's irate voice shouts in my head. I give her hand a squeeze, telling her to be quiet so we can listen.
"I mean, seriously! The president allows them a Victor every single year, and he showers them with riches. You would think they'd be thankful for all that; I mean, the president could just have ALL the tributes killed in one fell swoop each year. But for real man, you need to stop worrying or you're going to end up with diabetes or something. Does that even exist anymore?" Egeo chuckles at Hal before he continues, "That's like your seventh pastry. Listen Hal, the president will have everything back under control before you know it. You know how he'll fix this, it's simple."
Katniss and I are still as statues, afraid that even breathing could away give our location.
"What? You mean by getting rid of Everdeen and Mellark?" Now, it's my turn to tense up anxiously when I hear our names. Katniss grabs onto my other hand as we continue to listen.
"I don't think it's going to be that simple this time," Hal continues, still munching on more food. He must be a nervous eater . . . too bad no one in 12 has the luxury of forming that bad habit. "They're too caught up in everything. Killing them would just turn them into martyrs, which would only add fuel to the flames."
'This time?' Katniss repeats the Capitol man's words.
"Yeah, I guess you're right. It would be better if we could get them to show their allegiance to the Capitol. You know, propos or whatever. Get the boy to say something. Kid really knows how to use his voice."
Katniss fists her hands in my shirt, as if she is afraid someone could snatch me away at any second. I reach up, entwining our fingers and give her hand a gentle squeeze as we continue to listen to these two idiots talk about us.
"Nah, I think Everdeen would be better. She's the one who started this whole mess; and besides, she's the one with the symbol."
'Symbol?' Katniss repeats: and— this is not the first time, as I'm sure it won't be the last either, that I have been more than grateful for whatever powers greater than us have bestowed us with the ability to communicate without our voices.
'I think . . . I think they're talking about your mockingjay pin.'
"Yeah, but have you seen the other symbol? The mockingjay with the jabberjay?"
"Oh yeah . . . what's the deal with the jabberjay, anyway?"
"I don't know, but hey— aren't we supposed to be manning the entrance?"
"Yeah, we should probably head back before our absence is noticed. Probably shouldn't even be talking about this back here anyway."
0 – 0 – 0 – 0
| Madge |
I have been camped out at the Everdeen's house ever since the day Prim found me and Rye by the fence— the day we watched Mr. Mellark carrying a near-comatose Dylan into their house. And I have not left their side for any longer than an hour or so at a time. Lilly thinks that, judging by Dylan's symptoms, that Dylan has a ruptured aneurism. But I know better— firsthand actually, and it is too much of a coincidence for it to have just happened. No, I am certain that this is Snow's doing. Retaliation for something. I'm just not sure what yet.
After experimenting with several upon several homeopathic remedies, I think Lilly has finally come to the realization that there is nothing that she, or any of us can do but wait. We are waiting for the end.
On more than one occasion I have wanted to tell her that at least she gets to say goodbye. That at least when Dylan's gone she will have a body to bury— a grave to visit, because I was never granted either of those things with my parents. All I was left with was a headstone with their names engraved in them, their bodies scattered somewhere throughout District's 11 and 10 in teeny, tiny little pieces. But I think that might be a bit too harsh for her to hear, so I silently stew on my cushion of the sofa and keep my thoughts to myself. I'm just here for moral support.
Hazelle came as soon as she got word about Dylan, but she couldn't stay because she has three small children at home that she has to take care of. But every single day, like clockwork she stops by once in the morning before fetching her round of soiled linens from the townspeople, always dropping off one of her delicious casseroles, and then again on her way home, just to check up on us and see if we need anything for the next day.
Tonight is the last event of the Victory Tour before Katniss and Peeta will be coming home. Well, it is the last televised event. They have their final interview with Caesar and then the dinner at the president's mansion. I wonder if either of them knows what's going on with Katniss's dad. Every time I have tried to reach out to Haymitch through my book, it is always Annie who responds. Neither of us are sure how, or why it has happened. And as much as I enjoy talking to Annie, I really wish I could reach Katniss. To at least warn her so she isn't blindsided when she gets home.
"So, you really don't think it is an aneurysm like Katniss's mom says?" I feel my pen vibrate and then scan the room to see if anyone is paying me any attention. They are solely focused on Dylan right now, so I feel like it is safe enough for me to read the incoming message in broad daylight from Annie and respond back to her.
"Absolutely not. It's too much of a coincidence and my daddy always said there is no such thing as an unlucky coincidence. Dylan's symptoms began the very next day after Katniss and Peeta's visit to 11. And . . . after Peeta's speech— after offering his money, AND showing genuine remorse and sympathy for the fallen tributes, I just . . . I just— I don't know, I just had this bad feeling. And Katniss— the song she sang touched so many people, and I'm pretty sure there were no 'technical difficulties' when the screens went black, but rather some of the citizens of 11 got executed."
My senses are on high alert; so, as I look up, I'm not surprised when I see Rye walking this way.
"NS" I scribble quickly in my book before slamming it shut. It stands for "Not safe", a simple little code Annie and I came up with to let the other know if we have to bolt quickly. As Rye begins his walk over to me, I discreetly stick my pen in my bra— it's my pen's new home when I'm not using it ever since I almost lost it in my hair.
"Hey, you okay?" Rye asks, plopping down on the couch beside me and rubbing his hands nervously against his jeans.
"Yeah. I guess. What about you?" I respond with a shrug of my shoulders.
"This can't be easy for you. I mean— with your parents— I mean— crap, I'm sorry, that was kinda douchey of me. What I mean is that I can't even imagine all the different feelings you're juggling right now. And yeah, I guess I'm okay," Rye chatters nervously.
"It's okay Rye, I get it. But yeah, it's bringing up a lot." I answer, not sure what else to say.
So, um . . . you uh, wanna take a walk? Get some fresh air?" He asks me after a moment of uncomfortable silence.
"Sure," I say, shrugging my shoulders and then I slide my book into my bag and sling it over my shoulder. I'm sure everyone thinks I'm crazy for obsessively carrying around my pen and book as if my life depends on it. If they only knew.
Rye tells his dad where we are going so no one worries— not that they would even notice. Everyone is so focused on Dylan right now— and rightfully so, that I think Rye and I could disappear for days before anyone noticed our absence.
We walk along the snow-covered grass along Victor's Village, not wanting to venture out too far; just in case we need to return quickly. Rye shoves his hands into his pockets and kicks at a rock on the ground, but the snow holds it in place.
"I feel really guilty," Rye blurts out.
"Why?"
"Because Mr. Everdeen is— he's a good man. I mean . . . he's a good dad. I mean, I never knew him all that well, but it's clear— I mean, you haven't left the house once. Prim and Mrs. Everdeen are a mess, and Peeta has never had a single bad thing to say about him. And then . . . well, then there's my mother. If those people lose that man in there," Rye says, pointing to the house, "it's gonna break them. They will lose a part of themselves that I'm not sure they will ever get back. But . . . on the other hand if it was my mother . . . I mean, you know how she is. She's a witch. She's mean. She has used Peeta as a punching bag for all these years. If . . . if it were her instead of Mr. Everdeen, it wouldn't— I wish— if I could trade— if I could switch—"
"It's okay Rye, it's normal to feel guilty," I stop him from continuing, sensing the discomfort it's causing him and place my hands on top of his. "well, at least I think it is. I thought the same thing when my parents died. Why couldn't it be someone else's parents. Why did it have to be mine? It's not fair. But you do know that this isn't just some . . . random . . . unfortunate event, right?"
Curiosity piques his interest— he lifts his brow, turns his head to meet my stare and says, "What are you saying Madge?"
Realizing I've said too much, I shake my head and apply a bright smile to my face, "We should probably head back. Check up on them, you know?" He nods his head, understanding my meaning. It's not safe to speak out here.
0 – 0 – 0 – 0
| Katniss |
"Where have you guys been? I have been looking everywhere for you!" Effie shrills, prancing over to us when she spots me and Peeta on the dance floor. I begin to wonder if she was even aware that we ever left when I notice a man keeping up with her stride.
Once Peeta and I managed to regain function in our limbs, we slipped back into the banquet room and filtered onto the dance floor— as if we never left in the first place.
"Oh Katniss, darling! This is Plutarch— Plutarch Heavensbee, the new Head Gamemaker," Effie squeals, patting the man on his shoulder while nodding her head vigorously with a huge grin painted on her face. There is something familiar about him, but I can't quite place my finger on it.
'Plutarch Heavensbee . . . Katniss, isn't that the man we saw in 4? I mean . . . the hologram of him?' Peeta silently asks me, and that's when I realize why he looks so familiar.
"Hello Miss Everdeen, what a pleasure it is to finally meet you, and you too, Mister Mellark," the rather large man says from Effie's side.
"May I have a dance?" Plutarch asks after a few moments of small talk, to which Effie gives me a little nod, making it the only reason I agree. She whisks Peeta off in the other direction, leaving me alone with this . . . Gamemaker. The word filters through my mind with so much . . . disgust. The knowledge of who this man is and what he does sends a rage surging through my body. I so badly want to hate him, yet something deep inside me is telling me to give him a chance. He was with the group of rebels in 4, so . . .
I don't like anyone touching me except for Peeta and my family, and I rank Gamemakers somewhere below maggots in terms of creatures I want coming in contact with my skin. He seems to pick up on my discomfort because he keeps a reasonable distance between us as we sway to the music.
We chit chat about the dance, the food, and then, as we pass by the "Virgin Refreshments" station, he makes a comment about not being able to look at a punch bowl the same way ever since my private session. I frown, thinking maybe he's lost his mind when it hits me.
"OH!" I exclaim, "That was . . . you? The man who fell into the punch bowl?"
"Yes. And you'll be pleased to know I never recovered."
I smile and nod at his comment, finding that it does somehow please me; all the while thinking, there are twenty-two kids who will never recover. And then I say, "Good. So, you're the head Gamemaker this year. That must be such an honor," I hope he doesn't pick up on my sarcasm— or actually . . . maybe I do . . .
If he picks up on it he doesn't show it as he leans in a little closer to me and whispers, "Between you and me, there weren't many takers for the job. So much responsibility as to how the Games play out."
"So, are you planning the Quarter Quell Games already?" I ask him, trying to make conversation, and to see if I can get some insight as to what Peeta and I will be facing come summer.
"Oh. Yes, yes. Well, they've been in the works for years, of course. Arenas aren't built in a day. But the, shall we say, flavor of the Games is being determined as we speak. Believe it or not, I've got a strategy meeting tonight with Lexie," he admits sheepishly, giving me a wink.
Lexie? I repeat the name to myself, ready to ask what he means when he takes a step back and opens up his vest pocket to pull out a gold watch connected to a chain. He flips the lid open, and frowns when he notices the time. "I'll have to be going soon," he says, turning the watch so I can see its face, "It starts at midnight," he finishes, piquing my curiosity.
"Wait a minute, what did—" I begin, but then something distracts me. Plutarch has run his thumb across the crystal face of the watch and for just a moment an image appears, glowing as if lit by candlelight. It's another mockingjay that flickers into a jabberjay. The image of the mockingjay is exactly like the pin on my dress. No— it is more like the one Peeta and I saw while we were on the train, making our way to 11. Only this one disappears and then he snaps the watch closed before I have the chance to examine it any further.
"That's pretty," I say, distracted and completely forgetting to ask him about this 'Lexie'.
"Oh, it's more than pretty, it's one of a kind," he says. "If anyone asks about me say I've gone to bed. The meetings are supposed to be kept secret, but I thought it'd be safe to tell you."
"Sure . . . o-okay. Your secret's safe with me," I assure him, confused as to why he's telling me, of all people. Then, he takes a step back and gives me a bow.
"Well, I'll see you next summer at the Games, Katniss. I'm looking forward to your wedding," he finishes, disappearing into the wind.
Distracted by his disappearing mockingjay watch, I completely forget about him saying the name Lexie. Granted, he didn't refer to me as Lexie, as the others have so clearly done, but he still said it. Does this mean . . . does he know my dad too, or could it just mean he is on our side?
0 – 0 – 0 – 0
| Prim |
"Now listen Primrose, I know you're going to be sad . . . but . . . just promise me you won't let yourself stay sad for too long, okay?"
"No daddy, I don't want you to go— you can't go, I need you. Mom and— and Katniss, we all need you."
"I know Primmie, and I don't want to leave you either, it's just how it has to be. But you are going to be okay because you're strong— you and Katniss. And I didn't raise a pair of weaklings, now did I?" Dad asks, forcing the corners of his lips up. I've been crying so hard I've got the hiccups now. "Come here sweet girl," Dad says, gesturing for me to join him in his bed. I climb under the covers with him and inhale his scent, trying to memorize everything about him.
"It's not fair, I'm going to miss you too much. I need you to stay longer, maybe— maybe if you can just hold on a little longer, we can find a cure for you," I plead with my dad, knowing that I'm grasping at straws as I burrow my face into his shirt and inhale his scent. The scent that will be gone soon. "At least . . . at least try to wait for Katniss. She'll be so mad if— if—" I begin to cry a little harder, unable to finish my words. Dad begins to rub circles against my back, just above my shoulder blades— it's something he's done to soothe me ever since I was a baby.
"I think your sister is going to be angry either way," Dad says, choking out his words as he fights his own tears. It's getting harder and harder for him to speak; his words are growing farther and farther apart. We lie together for what feels like a lifetime. With my head resting on the apex of his chest, I am able to feel each rise and fall of his chest with every breath he takes. Scared with all my might that each one might be his last.
0 – 0 – 0 – 0
| Bing |
"Mr. Mellark, Dad wants to speak to you," with bloodshot eyes, Prim closes the door behind her as she leaves her dad's room. Once I found him lying on the ground, I carried him inside and put him in one of the spare bedrooms that Lilly has since converted into a makeshift hospital room. Bless her heart, she has tried everything under the sun and moon to heal him . . . and . . . nothing.
I walk into Dylan's room and close the door behind me. I slowly walk towards my friend and take a seat in the empty chair at his bedside.
"I don't know how long I have— the— the coin," Dylan pleads with me and I instantly know what he means. The coin that distorts the surveillance. I take the coin out and activate it.
"Okay," I tell him.
"There are some papers in the office room—" He begins, and I scoot my chair closer and listen intently, pulling out my notepad and pen to jot a few things down as he describes where these important papers are. He tells me where to find the key to his safe and all about the tree in the forest that leads to the underground tunnels. He tells me about the rebels, and our kids' part in the upcoming revolution. I write down all his passwords and combinations to locks for secret rooms. Finally, he spends a good amount of time teaching me some sort of secret code he and Haymitch came up with. He's getting all his ducks in a row for when he's gone. Making sure his family is cared for and protected.
"Dylan— Dylan, hey buddy, you still here with me?" I gently shake him after a moment of silence, afraid that he's left before saying goodbye to Lilly. She would be devastated if she wasn't here when it happened.
"Not dead— yet," even on his death bed his sense of humor is still intact. I sit with him for a while longer in comfortable silence. I vow to look after our children and keep them safe. I make empty promises to help Lilly move on, because I think we both know she will never love anyone but him, but you can't not placate a dying man.
His eyes are closed, his lids fluttering in a dream like way while his face grimaces with something akin to confusion. And then his eyes bolt open in a flash— as if he has had some sort of revelation.
"Not . . . Snow . . . coin—" I think I hear him say.
"What was that?" I look up from my pad that I've been doodling on and glance out the window, not sure if I heard him correctly to see his eyes barely open. "No Dylan, it's not snowing," I confirm.
"Huh? What?" He asks, disoriented.
"You said something about it snowing and then, the coin?" I repeat his words, trying to jog his memory and he shakes his head in confusion.
"Lilly— get—" I immediately stand up and pat his shoulder, nodding before I exit the room to retrieve his wife. Even I know that his breaths are numbered.
0 – 0 – 0 – 0
| Lilly |
"Lil, stop. There's nothing to do, just . . . just come lay with me. That's all I want is for you to be next to me in this tiny little bed." I listen to my husband with tears in my eyes and shakily nod my head even though I want to protest and continue my search for a cure— or any sort of remedy that will grant him more time. He opens the covers for me, and I crawl in next to him and rest my head on his chest.
"I— I'm not ready to lose you Dylan, I— I can't go on without you. You are my everything, my soul mate. There is no me without you. Please let me—"
"No Lil. I'm dying. We both know it. There is nothing that will fix me and all I want is you. Just be with me."
"Okay," I hesitantly concede as the tears stream down my cheeks and stain his shirt.
"Lilly, you have to promise me something, okay?"
"Anything," I tell him, trying to hold back my sobs.
"Promise me you won't stay sad for too long. That you won't leave the girls— they— they're going to need you to stay strong. Especially Katniss— she pretends she's strong . . . but underneath that tough outer shell is . . . she's— she's more fragile than she lets on."
He's right and I know it better than anyone.
"Dylan—" I lift my head from his chest, ready to protest when he begins running his fingers through my hair.
"I know you're going to be sad, but you have to promise me that you'll keep moving. That you'll keep living. That you won't fall into a hole. That you will wake up each day and go through the motions of life and just . . . try. Just promise me you'll try."
"I— I can't make you any promises, b-but okay. I— I'll try."
I spend the next hour or so lying against my husband— enjoying the warmth of his body, knowing that his warmth will soon be gone. I bask in the rise and fall of his chest, counting the seconds between each crest and too afraid to fall asleep in fear that I will miss even a second of his life.
Faintly in the background we hear Peeta's proposal to our daughter and Dylan forces a smile to his lips.
"Make sure— she— marries him. Peeta's— good—" Dylan struggles to get his words out. Dylan has always had a soft spot for Peeta— ever since he learned of their "friendship". He knew our daughter was in love with the baker's son before Katniss ever admitted to liking him . . . as a friend.
Those are the last words he speaks before he becomes non-responsive. They are words I cherish, and I must do everything in my power to make sure our daughter gets the happiness she deserves.
0 – 0 – 0 – 0
| Peeta |
"Peeta, what are we going to do about kids? We . . . I can't . . . we can't have a baby," Katniss asks while I cradle her in my arms, stressing about everything. My head snaps up, remembering Effie's gift.
"What is it Peeta?" Katniss asks when I jump up and rush to the drawers.
"Effie . . . um, she gave me something for you," I tell her, still searching for the small container.
"AHA! Found it!" I say, grabbing it, slamming the drawer shut and joining Katniss back on the bed. "Here," I tell her, handing her the tiny container. We are finally back on the train and headed home. Home to our families and I can't tell if I'm excited or anxious. After Snow's condolences, I'm a little scared about what we will face when we return.
Katniss twists the lid open, and inside the small container are four tiny pills. "What's this?"
"Effie said . . . um, it's um . . . preventative measures . . . for um . . . you know," I blubber, my face heating up with embarrassment. Katniss wrinkles her forehead, trying to figure out what I'm trying to say. I know the moment she figures it out when the color of her face must resemble that of my own.
"You mean," she says, 'birth control tablets?' She finishes in our silent form.
"One every twenty-eight days is um . . . that's what Effie said. That's all she could get for right now, but um . . ."
"She's pretty amazing, isn't she?" Katniss asks, popping a pill into her mouth and washing it down with a gulp of water.
"Yeah, she really is," I answer as Katniss crawls into my arms and rests her head on my chest.
"We should mark it on the calendar when we get home," she finishes. Her breathing slowly deepens and that's when I know she's fast asleep.
0 – 0 – 0 – 0
| Katniss |
"Did you find out how we can reach Katniss? She'll be . . . she'll be so devastated she wasn't here to say goodbye," Mom says as the tear after tear steadily streams down her cheeks.
"I tried, but . . . but I couldn't reach Haymitch," Madge replies woefully. Everyone looks so sad— I don't understand. It's like I'm watching a live feed of my house. Almost like the time I was stung by the tracker jackers and it was like I was watching a movie-memory of the past. Except, this is no memory I have ever had before. Mom, Prim, Mr. Mellark, Rye, Madge and even the Hawthorne's are in our house— not the one from the seam, but our home in Victor's Village . . . but where is my dad? That's when I see him, and I realize the cause of everyone's crestfallen faces. Dad is lying in the bed next to mom, his face ashen and pale, his body nearly lifeless.
Except his body isn't nearly lifeless, it IS lifeless. Mom is crying over dad's body, while Gale tries to pull her off. When she finally releases her grip on him, Mr. Mellark is there, pulling the sheet up and over dad's head.
"The stones!" Mom exclaims as Madge begins the water-purification ritual, frantically jumping out of her chair.
"I've got them Lilly," Madge says, setting the bowl of water down to pick up the bowl of rocks.
What's going on? First the water, then the stones. That's when it hits me.
Prim is crying.
Mom is crying.
Madge looks almost as bad as the day her parents died. Mr. Mellark and Rye— their expressions are full of dread. The stones. The water. It means— my dad is— he's—
"Katniss, what are you doing here?" Dad's voice sounds like he is right next to my ear, but I don't see him anywhere.
"Dad? W-what's going on? Why are they— are you sick?" I ask him, feeling discombobulated and out of sorts because he was perfectly fine when I left for the tour.
"Lexie, there are some things that are out of our control. But there are other things that we have complete control of. Happiness is one of those things. I know you're going to be sad when I'm gone, but please— Lexie, please promise me you will find your own happiness. That you will help your mother and your sister find it too. And— no matter what— this is NOT your fault; do you understand me?"
"Yes Dad, but . . . but—"
"And Katniss, it is not always the obvious answer. Things are not always as they seem. That is important, do you hear me?"
I shake my head vigorously from side to side, "No, dad, what is going on?"
All of a sudden, Mom is throwing her body across Dad's motionless form, sobbing an ocean of tears. Madge carries the small bowl of water, in which she sprinkles across Dad's body. Once she has completed the cleansing ritual to ward off the evil spirits, Rye proceeds to place the stones around Dad's bed— trapping his spirit in place and blocking any other evil entities from entering his circle of purity.
No, no, no, no, no— this isn't— this can't be—
"Katniss, Katniss, wake up— you're having a nightmare— wake up!" Peeta's calming voice pulls me out of the haze and my eyes jolt open to meet his worried expression.
"Peeta— I think . . . I think my dad is dead—" The words feel so foreign and wrong coming out of my mouth and my eyes instantly fill with tears.
"No, Katniss— no, it was just— you were just having a nightmare. Y-you're dad's fine," he tries to reassure me, but I do not believe that was just a dream. It wasn't just a dream, just like it wasn't just a dream when Thresh visited me.
"It was so real Peeta, it was like . . . like I was watching a live recording of them," I try to tell him, but my words are muffled by my sobs.
"Katniss, we'll be home in just a few days, and you'll see everyone is just fine. They'll be waiting for us at the train station, and we'll all have dinner together at the mayor's house. And then, and then we'll be home— all of us, together," I smile and snuggle into Peeta's arms, hoping with everything I've got that he's right.
0 – 0 – 0 – 0
| Gale |
Mr. E became non-responsive when Mrs. E was in the room with him. He held on for hours and hours. His breathing slowed— a few times we thought he was gone but then he would suck in another huge breath. Eventually, his lungs gave out and he was gone for real. I kind of think he was trying to wait for Catnip to come home. Us guys took turns watching over his body for the standard thirty-six hours before the burial.
Madge is a mess; I think Mr. E's death brought back feelings from losing her own parents. But Madge has been amazing. She is amazing, but I already knew that. She has been our rock, comforting Mrs. E and Prim whenever they need it, making sure they eat, cooking, cleaning. Just watching her take care of the Everdeens has caused my love for her to grow— tenfold.
"Katniss!" Madge gasps out of nowhere as she stands over the sink, washing the casserole dish Ma brought over yesterday.
I lift my brow, wondering if she is just sleep deprived when I realize what she means. Today is the day Catnip comes home. We are all supposed to be at the train station in an hour to greet her and Peeta, followed by the formal dinner at the mayor's house.
"We can't go, can we?" Rye asks.
Mellark number two still isn't my favorite person in the world— I see the way he looks at Madge, but I've been tolerating him. "Why not?" I ask, unable to hide my irritation.
"Because . . . will you be able to keep a straight face and pretend that— that everything is fine. The second she sees any one of us, she'll know, and she'll come rushing over here. Her and my brother. And the dinner at the mayors is not optional for them."
"Calm down Rye," Mr. Mellark says, standing up and walking over to his son.
"As much as I don't want to say it, I think he's right Gale. We're all going to have to stay here and wait for Katniss and Peeta to finish their duties for the tour." Madge explains, joining me on the sofa.
0 – 0 – 0 – 0
| Haymitch |
The moment the train arrived in 12, and the doors opened with neither of the kid's families anywhere in sight, I knew something was wrong.
"Something's wrong Haymitch, where are my parents? My sister? They wouldn't just not show up."
"And . . . where's my dad? Or Rye? Katniss is right Haymitch, something is definitely wrong. I never expected my mother or Graham to show up, but my dad wouldn't not show up unless something was wrong— terribly wrong," the kid goes on, and I know he's right, but . . . but . . .
"Listen guys, we'll figure everything out once the dinner is over, but for now—"
"Seriously? You expect me to keep up this charade that we're so happy to be victor's when something is SERIOUSLY wrong? Neither MY or Peeta's family is here— and where is Gale and Madge— or Hazelle and the kids? Not ONE single person is here for us."
After nearly twenty minutes of arguing with Sweetheart, the kid finally convinces her that the dinner at the mayor's is what we have to do and as soon as it's over, we'll find out what keeping their families away. Something in the pit of my stomach says it isn't good and none of us are going to like it.
Mayor Kadinski and her sponsor – slash rebel of a husband are perfect hosts. Its apparent— to me at least that she knows what's wrong. Every time Sweetheart brings up her family, Poppy is quick to redirect the conversation elsewhere.
"Is it okay if I use the restroom?" Peeta asks as the dinner is coming to an end. Raven nods and asks Rose to show him where to go.
"It's okay Rose, I know where it is." He says, a little too snippy. "I'm sorry, that didn't come out right. I meant because of . . . from when I would visit Madge," he corrects himself. Sweetheart follows him, which doesn't surprise me, but Effie raises an eyebrow at me, wondering if they're up to something.
They're gone a little too long and I start to get worried they've gotten into some trouble. Just as Poppy mentions sending someone to search for the kids, they miraculously reappear. By the look on their faces, I know something is up.
A/N #2: I hope you guys enjoyed, please don't forget to drop me a line or 2. Forgive me for any mistakes, I didn't edit/revise as much as I usually do.
The next chapter won't be far away, it's really like a part 2… I had to cut this chapter in half because it was just WAY, WAY too much!