The train station is sweltering.
Madge fishes a handkerchief from her pocket and dabs her face lightly. I drag my hand across my forehead and wipe it roughly against my pant leg.
My collar itches at my throat. The blouse is one of Madge's. There are a few reporters huddled at the far end of the platform, round wet circles staining the necks of their starched shirts. I squeeze two fingers around my own neck, trying desperately to get some airflow into my shirt to no avail.
"Fucking hell," I mumble.
A soft guffaw tinkles from Madge, but she remains otherwise still and quiet, her features arranged in an expression of contented patience.
"I didn't sign up for this," I mutter.
"Yes, you did," she replies lightly.
I grumble but keep my mouth shut. I'd met with Madge earlier this morning in the Justice Building where she'd run through paperwork and contracts, talking of payments and expectations. At the end of her spiel, Madge had pushed the papers over to me with a pen, pointing towards where I had to sign.
Before we left for the station, Madge had fished a folded shirt from one of her many bags and offered it to me, nodding towards the bathroom.
"Go change."
"No way in hell," I snorted.
"There'll be reporters at the station this morning," Madge said. "The team hasn't been publicly released - it'll be the media's first chance to get a glimpse."
There had been a tense pause, the sides of the shirt sagging as it sat limply on Madge's palm. I wrinkled my nose at the stiff, starched collar. Madge had simply sighed and pushed it into my hands.
"Your shirt has offal stains, Katniss. It stinks of innards. Change."
So here I stand, twenty minutes later, being suffocated by scratchy cotton, waiting for a delayed train as the sun attacks the black tar of the platform and anyone on it.
I've never been particularly fond of trains. In the past, I used to hate their irregularity - never bringing what we were promised, when we were promised it. Many a month of my teenage years was spent on this platform - in sleet or thumping rains or vicious heat - shoulder to shoulder with my classmates, waiting for sacks of tesserae that would inevitably be half full of mouldy grain.
The only time you could count on a train was if it was leaving; and they never left empty-handed. Before the rebellion, when perched atop a particularly tall tree in the woods on a clear summer's evening, you could watch the train leave on its daily commute, peeling away from the station, cartloads of coal hooked onto the rusted cabin like an obsidian snake. It would make my skin itchy, watching it chug along; knowing that the heaped carts of coal - coal that had broken the backs of the Seam - would be weaving its way to the Capitol whilst our own District rationed warmth and relished the few minutes of electricity we were afforded.
And when the trains weren't taking our coal, they were taking our children.
I can't say I hate trains now - they now bring fresh produce and quality materials routinely, taking only pharmaceuticals that are beginning to line our District's pockets with gold - but the station still sets my teeth on edge. Nowadays I'm pulled along with Gale any time someone with a vague semblance to a dignitary visits the District. I'll shake clammy hands, force a smile whilst biting out a welcome and racking my brain for inane small talk whilst Gale thrives in the attention.
I know how this morning is meant to go - what I'm expected to do - but the familiarity of the act doesn't make it any easier. I dig my fingers into my collar again, wishing desperately for air to slip down onto my skin. A faint whistle sounds in the distance and the press rustle, snatching up cameras perched on bags and beginning to make their way, slowly, towards us. Madge levels an expectant stare at my fingers, still clawing at my collar, and reluctantly I remove them. My nails are slippery with sweat.
The whistle sounds intermittently, every ten seconds or so, growing increasingly louder each time. A glint of silver soon emerges from the forest on the left, peeling away from the green to reveal a hulking mass of streamlined steel and glass.
The train glides into the station, and with a pneumatic hiss, the doors ease open to reveal a bespectacled man; short in stature, caramel-skinned, oil-stained fingers drumming restlessly at his sides.
"Madge," he smiles. He steps off the train, stumbling for a moment over his own feet before straightening. "Katniss. So good to see the both of you."
Madge steps forward, offering him an arm.
"Beetee," she says, her voice warm like melted honey.
Madge and Beetee first met in Thirteen. Madge couldn't tell a battery from a bulkhead, and the point of the philosophical tomes Madge carted around the underground halls often escaped Beetee, but both could appreciate the other's wisdom. Or, perhaps, both could see a little bit of themselves in the other - both radically passionate and a breed of intelligence that wasn't especially conducive for socialisation.
Beetee isn't one with a great fondness for physical affection, but he draws Madge in to a tight embrace without hesitation.
"Bloody hell Beetee we're in public! Keep it PG."
The jibe is followed by a scratchy cackle, and its owner emerges from the train, stepping lithely onto the platform despite her balancing two duffle bags on her shoulders. Beetee merely chuckles and pulls away from Madge, moving towards me with an extended hand. I grasp it firmly, smiling.
"Good to see you, Beetee."
He steps to the side, and a calloused hand quickly replaces his, squeezing my fingers.
"Hello there, Brainless."
"Johanna," I say, grinning and squashing her fingers in return.
She smirks and raises an eyebrow before jerking me roughly into a quasi-embrace. Just as quickly I'm pushed back, and she holds me in place by my shoulder, appraising me.
I squirm inside as she casts her eyes over me, the way her gaze lingers, ever so slightly, on the sharp jut of my collarbone that peeks from the neck of my shirt, the way my pants hang loose on my hips, my noticeably-thinning widow's peak. Johanna's own hair has grown out since the last time I saw her - it's more choppy now, like blades of grass laid flat across her scalp. Her cheeks are slightly more rounded, and her brown eyes shine brighter.
She nods suddenly, seemingly satisfied with her assessment, and in a brief moment of affection pulls me into a proper hug.
"Been too long," she whispers.
Whilst Beetee and Madge formed their odd kindredness in Thirteen's meeting rooms, both having been sworn into Coin's inner circle as strategists in the war, I found my bastardised form of friendship with Johanna whilst sandwiched in the sterile walls of Thirteen's hospital.
When I first saw her, she wasn't as I remembered her from the television; the seventeen year old whose arms were so sure as she ploughed through the 71st Games - no twinge of hesitation or regret evident in the flex of her shoulder nor the swing of her triceps as she wielded her axe mercilessly. Or in the years following, when they'd flash to her face briefly as the District 7 mentor - her features twisted with poorly-concealed irritation and rage. It wasn't the girl I remembered from the Town Hall screens that had streamed the 75th Games mere months ago - the girl who'd cussed the Capitol, who'd again swung metal without pause, who - in those last, frenetic moments of the Games - had pushed Peeta down and hacked out his tracker, no flicker of discomfit crossing her features as Peeta's muscle's flayed and his blood spurted across her hands.
The girl that had lay in the bed next to me was small.
Her skin; a sickly yellow colour, marred by a myriad of contusions. Her head was shaved, and sloppily too, angry slashes with thick scabs criss-crossed over her scalp. She was skinny, too skinny, and her hospital-issued gown sat on her like a cotton balloon.
On our first day in the ward - her, just rescued from the Capitol, and me, having been party to the rescue and the recipient of a concussion and slashed hamstring to boot - she'd caught me looking at her. When she spoke, her voice was raspy, strained.
"What the fuck are you looking at, Brainless?"
And so began our illustrious friendship.
The town car is quiet as it winds it's way from the station back to the Justice Building - but it's a full quiet, the contented kind. In the rearview mirror, I can see Johanna and Beetee, both pressed up against each of their windows, drinking in the sight of Twelve. They've been here before, once, right after the war, when Twelve was still piles of rubble. We've come a long way. I draw my eyes away from them and catch Madge's eye, briefly, before she turns her attention back to the road. A small grin puckers at her mouth - it's a smile of contentment, of being with those you love, of having hope. I look out my window, and despite myself, can't help but feel the same, foreign feeling flood through me.
Madge wastes no time once we reach the Justice Building, shepherding us into one of the large back offices. A pine table takes up most of the space, ringed by leather chairs, slightly frayed.
"Sit, sit," Madge says, moving to the back of the room to a pot-marked bureau sagging under stacks of documents. She gathers them in a deft swoop, returning to us and laying them out in a logic that escapes me. Thick, identical binders are pushed in each of our directions, before Madge takes a seat herself. I open the first page, tentatively, to a swathe of tables and symbols and colour-coded tabs. Madge gestures towards a bright orange page, and we obediently flick to it as she begins to explain the sheet before us - a countdown of sorts, to the trial, I'm guessing, with activities and requirements marked for each day.
"Like I've said before," she starts, "this process is going to be quick. Not like future trials or proceedings. The finer points of our new legal system are still being drafted, and Paylor doesn't want to postpone the trial to wait the months, or even years it might take for it to be finalised. I'll reiterate" - her palm, laid flat against the table, fingers splayed, lifts up and down thrice, tap rap tap on the pine, listen to this - "this is just as much about getting justice for Peeta as it is about getting justice for our new Panem. They need to get answers. They need this chapter finalised so they can move on. And they need to see that we're intent on finalising that chapter swiftly and fairly."
Madge pauses, takes a deep breathe. Her hand retreats to the documents in front of her, and she stabs, lightly, at the paper with her pointer finger.
"This is our schedule. One month to the arraignment, two months to the trial. A quick, simplified process …"
Madge continues, and I try my best to follow, truly, but there's a small finch perched on the window sill outside, twitchy and lithe, bouncing from side to side whilst it peers in. It's tail feathers sweep back and forth in quick succession, and the movement stirs something in my chest, this thing that travels to my thighs and arms; a want to be out there, outside, to hear the finch, to move in the same sun and wind, to have my muscles and tendons and synapses clench and pop and sizzle.
"- I'm planning to enter a not guilty plea at the arraignment. Getting Peeta comfortable with that plea is going to be difficult."
I float in and out of the conversation. I want to listen - I try to listen, even after the finch flies off and there's nothing to distract me - but half of what Madge is saying escapes me.
Arraignment. I roll the word around in my brain. I knew I'd come across some legal jargon, but I didn't think I'd be having to pretend to understand words I don't in the first of our sessions. Arraignment. Arraign. A-rain-ment. I glance outside again. The sky is clear, too hot even for clouds. It'll probably rain this evening when the heavy heat collapses - a heavy, quick, angry rain.
"That's where you come in Katniss."
I snap my head to Madge, and - like I did in my school days, on the odd occasion a teacher would call on me - give her a short, sharp nod. A nod that says, 'Yes, I've been listening, of course.' Johanna, out of the corner of my eye, wears a poorly-concealed smirk.
Madge pats her documents once, and with a sigh of contentment at having finished her spiel, smiles.
"I won't bore you with any more details. Beetee and Jo, I'll take you to where you're staying, let you get settled in. We'll reconvene tomorrow morning - you can give us an update, Katniss. Any questions?"
I glance down quickly at the schedule in front of me, searching for some kind of clue as to what exactly I'll be providing an update on. My eye catches on the uniform text sitting alongside 2pm, assigning 'KATNISS' to a task I really don't want to be assigned to. I clear my throat.
"Uh, Madge. I think there might be a typo in the schedule. It says I'm meeting Peeta this afternoon. Alone."
Madge looks at me expectantly. "Yes?" She asks, when I don't elaborate.
"Alone," I reiterate. Madge doesn't react. "Well, um. Do I have to go?"
A sharp bark of laughter erupts from Johanna. I level a glare at her, but her shit-eating grin only widens.
Madge ignores her. "Yes, you do."
"But, why just me - why not everyone? I mean, what do you even want me to do?"
"Just talk with him."
"Talk?"
A soft chuckle escaped Madge. "Yes, Katniss. Talk. Don't say the word like you don't know how. We have Peeta's statement, yes, but we need to train him up for being on the stand when we come to trial. The prosecution will tear him to shreds, and he needs to be ready. As painful as it will be, we need him to relive every moment of that day and those before it now, because his past will be laid bare in that courtroom.
All I'm asking is that you check in with him. Start small; rehash what he did yesterday, then last week, then last month. And when the trial draws closer, we'll have you go over submitted evidence with the team. See if your hunter's eye can see something we may have missed."
It hadn't sounded so bad when Madge had described my role like that. In the warmth of the Justice Building, surrounded by familiar faces and a distinct lack of Peeta, I could almost rationalise the task as manageable. Now, standing on Peeta's porch, wind whistling through the empty Village and Haymitch, no doubt, perched at his window across the road laughing his ass off at me, I'm not so sure.
All I have to do is raise my elbow, extend my forearm twice, two quick raps against the door. Simple. Easy. Only my arm feels like lead, like sludge is trundling through my veins, like the wooden planks of the porch are morphing to quick sand and my ankles are slowing sinking, swallowed by the grains, and now my knees, creeping over my hips, my waist, compressing my chest, devouring my shoulders, devouring me, as that dastardly doorbell continues to stare at me.
I shake my head and curse softly under my breath.
Quickly, before I can continue my game of second-guessing myself, I knock on the door. The hollow sound reverberates softly throughout the Village before abruptly fading, only to be replaced by the dull thumping of my heart. A cool breeze whips through the sky and assaults my back.
I wait another moment but only silence greets me, so I raise my knuckles to knock again.
The door swings open abruptly, and slowly my hand falls to its side.
His hair is tangled and his eyes are a dull red. He draws his hand over his arm in a swift rubbing motion before quickly folding both in front of his chest. He wears black pants and a black top and a black glare amidst a confused expression.
"Katniss?"
My throat dries. I open my mouth and shut it rapidly. My chest is heavy and thick, my forehead hot, my arms once again metal weights, and my brain empty. Yet still, something curls in my belly, a glimmer of contentment to be here.
"Hi," I squeak.
Peeta purses his lips slightly and regards me cooly before opening the door wider and gesturing for me to enter. I do, slowly, stepping into a hallway the same as Haymitch's, though markedly cleaner.
Peeta closes the door loudly and walks ahead, down to the back of the house which opens into a large dining room.
"Take a seat," he says gruffly, tugging a seat from underneath a large mahogany table and slumping into it.
I nod meekly, pulling out a chair opposite him.
A fat silence settles over the room. I'm not usually one to shy away from silence, but the way Peeta's looking at me - with this odd mix of curiosity and annoyance - compels me to break it.
"So …"
The word hangs limply in the air, like a half-deflated balloon on a humid day.
"So?" Peeta replies, eyebrows raised.
"So …?" I say, waving my hands as to prompt him.
He barks a humourless laugh.
"So, what?"
I stare at Peeta, confused. Why isn't he picking up the conversation? "You're supposed to jump in," I say.
"No," he retorts pointedly, "You're using so as an introduction to your statement. What's your statement?"
I blanch momentarily. The Peeta I used to watch - in the school halls, at the Bakery, in the Town Square - would seek conversation like a drowning man seeks airs. That Peeta's face used to light up when others came by; that Peeta had no qualms about striking up a chat with strangers about the most inane topics.
The Peeta that sits opposite me now watches me expectantly. There's no cheer, there's no warmth - if anything, his expression is one of poorly-masked irritation.
"Uh. So, um. So, I guess, how are you?"
If my earlier attempt at conversation was a deflated balloon, my question lands in the room like an anvil.
Peeta grimaces, eyebrows raised in bemusement.
"How am I?" The quirk in his brow somehow grows more pronounced. I take a shallow breath when I realise exactly what the expression is; he's mocking me. I cross my arms in defiance.
"You heard what I said."
Peeta's face clears for a moment and a low chuckle escapes him. It's short-lived and followed by a long sigh.
"Katniss, why are you here?"
I shift uncomfortably. "Well, um, I'm on your team."
He barks another empty laugh. I bristle.
"What's so funny about that?" I hedge.
"You're on my team?" He asks, incredulity lacing his tone. "I though Madge was pulling my leg when she said you might be joining."
I don't know what I expected of this meeting. I didn't think it would be easy per se, but I didn't think any of my difficulties would come from Peeta. He glances down at his lap, as if the floor holds some answer to the great mystery of why I of all people would be in his team. The irony isn't lost of me - he's likely just as confused as to why I was chosen as I was. All the same, his confusion itches at my pride though. It's one thing for me to question my own value. It's another for others to.
"It shouldn't be that hard to believe," I mutter indignantly.
He looks back up to me, and for a brief second, an apologetic expression passes across his face. "No, I know why Madge wanted you. I just can't imagine why you'd say yes. I mean, for starters, you're not the biggest talker."
I let out a noncommittal humph. I can't contest him there.
"Secondly, you're not my biggest fan."
I bristle again. "Who are you to say who and who I'm not a fan of?"
He barks a dark laugh.
"Katniss, you've said all of ten words to me in ten years. I catch your eye in town, you look away. No, you run away. In the mornings, when I'm in the Bakery, I see you walking past with your bulging game bag, sneaking glances through the window and only coming in when someone else is at the counter. You avoid me every chance you get!"
"Well," I grumble, aware that whatever reply I parry with will sound petulant. "You avoid me too."
"Yeah, well, you don't always bring up the best memories for me, Sweetheart."
I dig for a retort, but I can't volley with truth. He's right. He has every reason to avoid me. I go for the low hanging fruit.
"You've been spending too much time with Haymitch," I huff.
The corner of his eyes quirk, every-so-slightly, before his expressions morphs back. He used to have deep-seated laugh lines around his eyes. Not anymore.
"Well, I came to drop this off." I plunk a thick folder of documents on the table. It hits the wood with a resounding thwack. "It's the weekly preparation schedules for the trial. And some notes to start you off."
Peeta quickly leafs through the booklet. It's full of tables, itemised lists and tasks broken down by the minute.
"Fun," he deadpans.
The corner of my lip quirks, but I revert to my neutral expression when Peeta glances back up.
"Well," he says, his voice taking on a high, floaty tone. "We have a big, big, big month ahead."
I cough out a confused chuckle. Peeta catches my eye for a moment before glancing away.
"Ah," he mutters, somewhat ruefully. "Just something a friend used to say."
We fall into quiet again. There's a faint hum of air conditioning. He taps his nails against the leg of the table in an irregular staccato.
Peeta clears his throat. "What's your role then? In the team?"
"My job's to talk to you."
It sounds pathetic when I say it like that. By the guffaw he lets out, Peeta thinks so too.
"Want me to tell you my deepest oh-so-dark secrets?" he sneers.
For some reason, the sneer catches me off guard. In the span of ten minutes I've watched Peeta flick through a rolodex of expressions, but the cruel edge of this glare rattles me. My shock must be plain on my face, because he quickly drops the sharp curl of his lip and morphs back to a vacant expression. The quick transition is almost more unnerving.
"Uh," I stutter, "Not today."
The corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly, and I figure that's as much of a signal of acceptance that I'll get today. I reach down for my bag and push back from the table. Peeta follows suit.
"Like I said, I just came to drop off the binder. I'll be back tomorrow, if that's okay with you?"
Peeta merely nods once and starts to lead me to the door. I pause on the porch.
"See you," I say, but Peeta doesn't bid goodbye in turn.
"You've got a twig in your hair."
I'm still as I watch his hand raise toward my face. His fingers swoop over my ear and it for a moment it feels like it's on fire. He pulls back quickly, proffering a small sprig of pine in his palm by way of explanation.
"See you," he says quietly, turning closing door.
I walk out of the Village, feeling like I'm being simultaneously pulled upwards and sinking down. On one hand I feel this overwhelming sense of relief at having seen Peeta - at having 'ticked off' this first meeting. Yet there's also this nagging pinch in my gut that curdles when I replay the short interaction. Peeta's sarcasm, him calling out my bullshit and not sugarcoating his own opinion. The rapid-fire changes. Stuff I would do - not Peeta. At least, not the old Peeta.