He's given a gun.

It's sleek and thin, but Peeta holds it as though it were a twenty pound weight. His wrist trembles.

I've heard him practice with it these past few weeks, staccato bangs sounding from deep in the basement of the building now being used as our new Parliament's operational quarters. Once, when wandering aimlessly down passageways, evading meetings that few truly missed me at, I found myself outside the training room, peering in through thin panes of glass. Peeta's shoulders had been hunched, his face contorted, his legs shaking viciously. The old man Haymitch had stood to the side, eyes dull and hard.

Discordant grumbles reverberate through the square as periodic cheers ebb and flow in waves. Fingers twitch and sleeves are pulled, hands are wrung and people shift from foot to foot. It reminds me all too much of a Reaping, only now there's an undercurrent of expectation - promises of excitement and good fortune.

My stomach still feels heavy though, like lead.

A young boy suddenly appears on a podium raised above the square, clutching a trumpet. As he pulls it to his lips the crowd erupts in raucous cheers. I stay silent as the joy swims around me; today is not a celebration for me. The boy finishes his call and disappears, and three figures take his place, sleek and austere. At the forefront, Coin stands stiffly, a demure grin on her lips. The crowd quiets.

"People of Panem."

She's commanding as she talks. Arresting. Her words are filled with promises of hope and retribution. She constructs a new future with mere phrases, and the square, filled with citizens of newly liberated districts, listens greedily with lit eyes and bright smiles.

My eyes are dull. My face is flat. My feet are planted in the ground and my arms firmly by my side. Because I've sat in meeting rooms with Coin for the past year, have pored over strategy maps where towns and civilians are numbers, have been loaded onto hovercrafts and dropped into carnage as she sat in a bunker with starched clothes. Her promises empty to me.

Gale shifts at my side as he nods along with Coin. He's told me I'm unrealistic in my dislike of her - that ideals of justice aren't black and white in war, that sacrifices had to be made for greater peace. He's probably right, but I would never say as much.

My eyes wander around the crowd before landing on Peeta again, and I pause. He stands out, positioned alone in a cleared space in front of the crowd. Behind him, the Rebellion leaders from each District form a tight line, and further back, the public stretches along the Promenade and down cobbled streets. Peeta gazes at Coin as she continues her address, distrust smeared across his face like mine.

I feel an odd camaraderie; a kinship of unspoken understanding. Because Peeta knows just as well as I do that no number of Coin's promises of utopia can erase the past - our blackened history and the scars it left behind. And what is the point of a utopia - is one even possible - when these scars are still screaming and wounds still gaping? Perhaps the crowd is enjoying a reprieve in its oblivious delight, or perhaps their scars are simply smaller - fewer graves and less blood. Perhaps their pasts can be smoothed, or covered, so that Coin's promises come to fruition.

For Peeta, though that's not an option. Nor is it for me.

Coin's voice loudens as she draws to the end of her speech.

"Today marks the end of the Rebellion. Today marks the final death in our people's war. Today we kill the system that oppressed us for seventy five years!"

I glance forward, over to the ground under Coin and the podium, where a single stake of wood stands. An old man is tethered to it, dressed in a deep navy suit that sharpens his scarlet mouth. His white hair is wispy, balding at the top, and deep lines criss-cross his skin. He looks little, nothing like his televised addresses from years past.

Coin continues. "With the execution of Coriolanus Snow, we welcome the beginning of a new era. We welcome all into our New Panem."

I look back to Peeta, his face still full of distrust. Yet his manner speaks of more than that. His expression is … deadened. Resigned. He pulls the magazine of his gun and inserts three bullets. The gun clicks back and he raises it, aiming. His forearm sways slightly; ever so minutely.

I follow his eye-line. No one else would see it, but I do. Everyone else focusing on Snow and focusing on Coin and focusing on the gun. But no one is focusing on Peeta's eyes as they flicker, up and down, up and down.

He rests his finger over the trigger. Coin concludes the end of her speech.

"May your bullets symbolise the end of tyranny. Mockingjay; aim true."

Peeta's eyes harden and my stomach drops. A bang sounds.

One bullet.

Raucous cheers erupt around me. Arms flail and teary faces of relief blur in and out of my vision. A deep red bloom unfurls across Snow's chest, his face now slumped oddly against his chest. Dead. I feel Gale's calloused fingers scratch my arm as he pulls my into a hug, squeezing me roughly, but I push away.

"Katniss?" Gale's confused voice is dwarfed by the din. Peeta still stands in front of us with his gun raised, separate from the jubilant crowd.

"No," I mumble to myself. He wouldn't. He couldn't. He … should?

Gale grabs my arms again and forces me to look at him.

"Catnip?" he questions. He's ecstatic, his eyes buzzing and fingers drumming excitedly against me, yet his mouth pulls slightly in puzzlement as he studies my face. With one bullet, his dreams - our dreams - have been realised. I wrench my gaze back to Peeta, his eyes still hard and forearm no longer swaying.

It won't just be one bullet.

Ignoring Gale's shouts, I disentangle myself and begin to push my way down the line to the front.

A bang sounds. Two bullets.

The cheers intensify for a moment, but I keep running forward, pushing others out of the way. It's not until a shrieking scream echoes from the podium that the crowd notices that the second bullet didn't hit Snow. Coin stares out over her people, glassy-eyed, the same red bloom blossoming over her chest. The square erupts as I reach Peeta.

Peeta's eyes are no longer hard. He closes them slowly. The smallest of grins adorns his face as he lowers his elbow and raises his hand. The dark barrel rests against his chin, pushing up slightly. His finger rests against the trigger.

My fingers wrap around the barrel and jerk it away harshly. A bang sounds.

Three bullets.

Peeta's eyes open slightly and rest on my face. His grin widens.

"Hello, Katniss," he murmurs.

A thick hand clasps his shoulder roughly and pulls him back. Peeta's eyes flatten, confused.

"Come on, boy," a gruff voice sounds. Haymitch gives him another yank to the side, pulling him away.

I stand still in the melee, stray elbows and angry shins battering my body. District leaders are clambering towards Peeta, others sprinting to Snow and Coin's prostrate body that lies beside. I can hear the public behind me, a deafening wave of confusion and anger, swarming forward in indistinguishable blurs.

But I only see Peeta. His face falls suddenly.

"No," he whispers, pulling away from Haymitch with a grunt. His eyes are wild, desperate, as he lunges manically, spittle flying from his mouth.

"No, No, NO!"

Two Thirteen officials move toward Haymitch, grasping Peeta and dragging him away. His face contorts and his breathing accelerates, faster and faster and faster. A single tear falls onto his reddening cheeks.

"No, no, Haymitch, no!"

He looks back to me, imploringly, eyes aching.

"Katniss," he chokes, before he's swallowed by the crowd.

I feel calloused fingers against my arms once more and am scooped up into Gale's chest. I don't protest as he barges through the crowd and carries me back to the Training Centre. I don't protest when he lays me in my bed, nor when he curls up next to me and pulls me to his chest.

I simply bury my head into his chest and grip his shirt tightly, feeling the cotton run over my fingers, as if clutching cloth could make me forget the heat of the barrel that seared my hands. And, even more terrifying, the ache I felt to reach out after the third bullet, to trace along Peeta's jaw and feel his cheek press into my palm.

I fall asleep with cramped fingers.