A/N: Well this is embarrassing. I was reading back through the chapters I have posted, and realized that I'd made a mistake. After a long, introspective face palm, it seems I had somehow skipped posting this chapter, as well as the following one. Hopefully this helps to explain things if there were any lingering questions about plot holes. Whoops!
Just a trigger warning - this chapter contains descriptions of graphic violence and torture.
Katniss
I'm so cold.
Growing up in the Seam, I thought I knew what it meant to be freezing, what it meant to be starving – what it was to watch my body fall apart.
Odds was I wrong.
Our first week in the Capitol, they treated us well; we were caged like rare birds with our wings clipped. We were fed hearty meals, given warm water and clean cloth to wipe ourselves down with, our guards even provided blankets to stave off the chill from the cinder block floor.
Eventually, I was pulled out of my cell and handed over to a prep team – not my own, Odds knows their fate, their only crime was making me beautiful – to be brought back to Beauty Base Zero. I was stuffed into a magnificent golden dress and my hair washed and styled. Although I longed for the familiarity of Venia, Flavius, and Octavia, it was almost enjoyable to be plucked and waxed and manhandled by them, if only because it had been so long since someone had touched me.
I knew I was being prepped for some sort of public appearance, and I understood fully that I needed to show Snow I was able to do whatever he asked of me to keep my family safe. I was handed sheets of paper filled with script lines and talking points, all the while only seeing the unspoken threats against the people I love. It all seemed so impossible - saying the correct things without making any missteps. But then I remembered what Peeta did for me on the Victory Tour; day after day, he would find the strength to deliver Effie's speeches extoling the Capitol. He could articulate those empty platitudes and describe how the fallen tributes served to honor the Capitol, and he'd do it in such a way that a crowd would be moved to tears. When I asked him how he managed to sound so natural – so honest – I remember he gave me the saddest smile before taking a moment to answer. I do it for us, for you, he told me. I honestly believe that the words I'm saying could save our lives, Katniss. So I use that feeling, that honesty, to say what I need to. To get us through today, and on to the next.
Haymitch was right – I could live a thousand lifetimes and never come close to deserving Peeta Mellark.
And now I would never get the chance to prove Haymitch wrong. I destroyed one of the only good things in my life; Peeta was dead because of me.
I felt the tears threatening to make an appearance once again; since hearing about Peeta's death, if I was conscious, I was a weeping mess. Johanna never shut up about how much I annoyed her.
But now is not the time. I can break down when I get back to my cage. I took a deep breath and let those long-ago words of my Peeta wash over me. Take the honesty in my motivation and make it real. I needed to protect Prim; therefore, a ceasefire would keep her alive. Saying those words may save her life. Convince them, Peeta's voice whispered in my ear. You have to say them, Katniss, and mean them.
So I repeated my mantra of truths, making myself believe it - making it all real.
My name is Katniss Everdreen. I am seventeen years old. I killed Peeta Mellark. I will never get to see how our lives could have turned out; I will never fully know what he could mean to me. I will probably never see my family again. But they will be safe if I can do this.
I can do this.
Caesar Flickerman has always been a fan of mine, and I was relieved he was the one to interview me. He has always been able to pull words out of me, to make me seem more pleasant than I am. Even with the pressure of President Snow hovering just behind Caesar, making sure I didn't attempt to communicate with the rebels, this interview was no exception to Caesar's talent for spinning a story.
I only hoped Prim understood why I was doing this - I needed her to stay alive, more than I needed the rebels to take down the Capitol. She was all I had left to fight for; and while I failed to save Peeta, I would do everything possible to protect my sister.
Afterward that interview, I was led back to my cage, past Enobaria and Johanna, who were laying on the floor of their respective cells, passively comparing their number of kills in their own arenas. The two women had gone from spitting hatred towards each other to blessed indifference and had finally landed on what seemed to be a grudging mutual respect born out of crushing boredom. Annie mostly remained quiet, curled up in the back corner of her cell, facing away from us.
"Well look at you Brainless! You'll be the prettiest victor at the prison ball!" Johanna crows from her spot on the ground as I traipsed by in my golden dress.
"Television interview," I muttered as I flopped down in my own cage, the skirt of my dress spreading around me. I didn't have any energy left to deal with her.
"Damage control," Enobaria contributed, by way of explanation. I simply nodded in agreement.
The Peacekeepers acting as our wardens barked out, "Johanna Mason. You're up next!" before opening her cell door.
Johanna jumped up and cut a look over at me, "Don't worry Kitty-Kat. I'll fix anything you fucked up. And who knows, maybe I'll get to play dress-up as well!" On her way out she called over her shoulder to Enobaria, "I'll bring you some punch, Bar-Bar!"
Enobaria merely chuckled in response to Johanna's ridiculous antics and didn't move from her position on the floor.
After a few minutes of silence during which I had started pulling at the seams of my dress, I could see her turn her head my way. "Girl on Fire," she hollered at me.
"Mmmmm?" I answered half-heartedly, continuing to focus on my task of ruining my Capitol finery.
"Was it ever real?"
This got my attention because I could easily hazard a guess at what she was referring to. I finally looked up from tearing apart my dress to meet her eyes. "Was what real?" I hedged.
"Don't be stupid," she bit out through her sharp teeth. "You know what I'm asking. Were the Star-Crossed Lovers an act?"
I took a few moments to figure out how to answer her. My immediate response was to tell her that of course it was real. She was a Career, she's from a district that was loyal to Snow, she needed to believe this version of our story. But Enobaria was also a tribute, and she didn't ask to be here anymore than I did. So, because I was truly tired of lying, I finally said, "At times it was. Peeta's feelings were never an act, and mine started out as a way to keep us both alive through our Games."
"I figured," she muttered. "It was a good tactic," she grudgingly added.
"Yeah," I agreed, shifting my legs so they were spread out in front of me. "But there were times…. I don't know. If we hadn't ever been in the Games, I wonder what would have happened between us. It sounds stupid, but he was always someone I noticed after…," I paused, reluctant to bear so much of mine and Peeta's story. The bread he gave me was ours alone. "So who knows, there were times when it didn't feel like an act, and I think that even without the Games he could have been persistent enough to get me to say yes to him eventually, if he ever got up the guts ask me to step out with him." I smiled to myself, remembering the times when Peeta's own stubbornness rivalled my own. I know that if anyone could break through my unpleasant exterior, it would be Peeta. But then reality hit me, and I wanted to vomit. "I guess now I'll never know."
After a few beats of tense silence, her tone almost kind, Enobaria murmured, "Sorry Girl on Fire, he seemed like a good man; even if he did have questionable taste in women."
I looked up to see Enobaria with a small smirk on her face, and I couldn't help but choke out a laugh of my own.
That was so long ago.
I stopped trying to keep track of the passing time after about two weeks. Johanna was brought back to her cell, and none of us have been pulled out since. I have remained in this stupid gown that I was interviewed in, as has Jo. Enobaria is still in her Quell uniform, which is little more than rags at this point.
We haven't seen anyone but each other since the day I met with Caesar. Our meals are delivered while we're asleep, but they barely qualify as meals anymore. Each day we are given less and less food. Our blankets were taken away weeks ago. I feel as though I'm back in the hell of my childhood in the Seam, except I experience no reprieve in escaping to breathe in the fresh air of the woods. I cannot hunt for game in the forest, I cannot provide for the people around me; I am at the mercy of others, with no way to help Prim and my mother except to give up my body to the Capitol in exchange for their safety.
My skin is beginning to hang off my bones, my hair is matted and brittle. I've had to tear off strips from the skirt of my interview dress to cinch around my waist as a makeshift belt; as each day passes, my body disappears more and more. Our meals now consist of moldy bread and dirty water; we tried to hold off on consuming these things, but soon gave in when we realized we would not be getting anything else. Whatever has tainted the bread and water is virulent enough that it tends to make us sick half the time; unfortunately, there is no way to tell which will make us ill beforehand. So, we continue to eat our spoiled bread and contaminated water and the four of us go on wasting away in the dark.
Johanna complained loudly at the beginning of our journey to being forgotten. Eventually, she stopped; I am unsure if it is because she no longer had the energy to waste on yelling at an audience that didn't care to hear her, or if she decided it was better to simmer quietly. Either way, Jo chooses to remain quiet and rageful most days, snapping at me if I attempt to speak to her. She's curt but indifferent to Enobaria and ignores Annie almost entirely.
While I expected Enobaria to be vocal in her complaints over her mistreatment, she has surprised me in her stoicism. Sometimes she talks about her childhood in the stone quarries of District 2, recounting her difficult early years before earning her place in the district training center by knocking a larger boy unconscious in a fisticuffs match. The stone quarries sound like the mines in 12, except they allow children to work in them. At least in 12, children under eighteen are barred from the mines; I can't imagine growing up as Enobaria did – breathing in stone dust and watching the bodies of the people around her crumble under the back-breaking work. Her stories show me that even the Careers have faced hardship under the thumb of President Snow.
Annie spends most days curled up against the back wall of her cell, her eyes glassy and unfocused. She doesn't speak to us. Occasionally she lets out a series of yowling screams and presses her hands into her ears. The first time she does this I nearly pass out from how intensely she startled me. Annie does not answer when we call her name to snap her out of it; but eventually she quiets back down, until whatever visions she sees in her mind become too overwhelming, and the cycle begins again.
The door alarm goes off, startling all four of us. Victors, we may be, but we've been left on our own for so long that even something as ordinary as an unanticipated noise sends us into a near panic. Two Peacekeepers stride in, as though their presence is not an anomaly and they have had the daily pleasure of moseying through our prison. But for us, this is cause for alarm.
By the time they come to a stop in front of my cage, I've pushed myself as far back into a corner as I can, in the hope of maintaining a distance between us; I'm sure their being here can't bode well for me. One of them unlocks my cell door and barks out, "Everdeen! Out, now!"
I want to fight them – kick and scream and claw their eyes out. But any fight in me is lost almost as soon as the two men push their way in to my small jail cell; the lack of food I've taken into my body has made me weak, the lack of activity has atrophied any muscle definition I built up during my training before the Quell. I let them pull me to my feet and lead my limp, compliant body out of the dungeons. Once I pass through the outer door a black bag is placed over my head and my wrists are cinched together behind my back. It reassures me that I pose enough of a threat that they still aren't taking any chances with me.
I'm deposited in a chair and the black bag is pulled off my head. I try to take in where I am, but my eyes hurt, and I blink rapidly to soothe them. I understand now that the dungeon where we're kept is much dimmer than the rest of the world, and now my eyes are burning from overexposure to the natural light that streams through the windows. I wish I could see the outside – it's been so long – but any definition of the world beyond the glass windowpanes is lost on me, leaving me with one more thing to mourn.
My wrists are kept bound together, but they are brought around to my front. The prep team does their best to avert their eyes from where my hands rest in my lap; regardless of what they have been told about my crimes, the people of the Capitol will never be comfortable seeing their victors in chains. The ragged golden dress is cut from my body, and I'm scrubbed down vigorously; it takes all three members of the prep team the better part of an hour to adequately clean the grime from my hair and body. They do an impressive job holding back their chastisements, but I can practically hear their commentary in my mind as they take in my deplorable physical state. So dirty! So skinny! Look at her hair – such a shame! And can you believe? Oh my Odds – the smell coming off her! She's from an outer district…perhaps they truly are savages out there.
They paint my face and style my hair, but there is nothing they can do about my gaunt frame. The dress they shove me into is silver this time – the woman putting the finishing touches on my hair says something about emphasizing the color of my eyes – but any flattering effect of the dress is diminished when it is required to sew me into it because of my weight loss. I'm placed in front of a mirror - I imagine I am expected to give some sort of appreciative assessment - and it takes me a few moments for it to really sink in that I'm staring at my own reflection. The creature facing me is some sort of a wraith; she is dark and skeletal, with sickly pale skin that hasn't seen the sun in months. My hair is braided around my head, but I can see that it has thinned out significantly and is really only held in place by an elaborate system of pins. The dress has capped sleeves, and the arms poking out look like whittled broomsticks; in fact, it's hard to tell that this being in front of me is a girl at all.
They keep the ties on my hands even as they bring me in to see Caesar once again, and I am able to see a subtle widening of his eyes as he takes in my appearance. I am no longer the Girl on Fire he has come to expect; I am now just a ghost that haunts the Capitol's dungeons.
"Are those necessary?" he asks, indicating the restraints.
"They stay on - Snow's orders," one of the Peacekeepers snaps.
Caesar rolls his eyes and mutters, "Fine. We'll have to reframe the shots to hide them." He walks off to speak with one of the camera people.
I'm shoved into the interview chair and eventually Caesar makes his way back to take the seat across from me. He has trouble holding my gaze, taking every opportunity to look away from my haggard appearance.
"How are you my dear?" he asks quietly; his volume so low that I'm sure the Peacekeepers in the room can't hear him clearly.
I open and close my mouth a few times before simply shrugging my shoulders. "I've been better, Caesar."
I can see him crack a sympathetic smile before dropping his eyes to the small stack of papers in his lap. "Have you had the opportunity to go over what you're going to say?" he asks in a more carrying tone.
"No," I murmur. "They haven't told me."
"You're calling for another ceasefire. I'm going to lead you into that, and we're going to condemn the most recent actions of the rebels. There was an attack on a Peacekeeper training site in District 6 and the continuing siege on District 2. We'll cover those, and I'll lead you into the need for the insurgents to stand down. Alright?" He runs through our talking points efficiently, but he speaks slow enough like he knows it will take me a few moments to process it all. I am incredibly thankful for this small kindness, as it may be the only advantage I'll get tonight, as I once again work to protect my sister from the Capitol.
The interview starts, and I have to consciously avoid lifting my hands into the view of the camera. I smile at all the right places and can only hope it is convincing enough, and doesn't come off looking like a grimace. Caesar does a great job of setting me up to hit all my talking points, but about three minutes in I can tell something is wrong. There's a monitor off to the left behind Caesar that shows the video recording of our conversation, and at first it just begins to flicker. I have never seen Capitol technology distort before, but evidently it is fallible, since I'm told the Games broadcast shorted-out when I shot my arrow at the arena dome. I try to ignore what I'm seeing and keep talking about the deplorable actions of the rebels.
But then I hear his voice.
Peeta.
My Peeta.
My head whips to the side, desperately trying to find him. When I turn back to Caesar, he looks nervous but pushes on. Have I finally lost my mind? Did I really hear Peeta's voice, or am I just imagining it? I'm starting to think I might be hallucinating, when suddenly my face disappears from the monitor in my view.
Suddenly I see Peeta trudging through the ruins of a town; he wears a set of dull grey coveralls; his wavy hair is unkempt and windblown.
And he is more radiant than the sun.
He is ALIVE.
I can hear Caesar prompting me to reengage with the interview, but nothing can pull my attention away from the image of Peeta Mellark on the screen. I hear myself say his name, calling out for him to hear me.
The image pulls out and Finnick Odair joins him onscreen. Finnick…is alive.
Oh my Odds, they're both alive.
I can barely contain the joy and relief that begins to take me over, and I feel the tears begin to fall as I work to suppress a hysterical laugh.
But then I recognize where they both are standing. They're in front of a destroyed building that looks like it was burned to the ground, surrounded by smoking rubble and ruin. I can just make out the words scrawled across the sign that lays nearby – Mellark's Bakery.
They're in District 12. But there is no District 12 anymore, from the looks of it.
I am about to start screaming when the camera cuts to Gale, and I let out a deep sob I wasn't aware that I was holding in. Gale is telling a woman who has green vines tattooed across her shaved head about the night District 12 was destroyed. The Capitol firebombed the whole district on the last night of the Quell, starting with the town and working their way out towards the Seam. He explains that it all fell quickly, the coal dust hastening the demise of the only home Gale and I have ever known. The woman conducting Gale's interview asks if there is anything he'd say to me if this footage reaches me.
"Your mom and Prim are alive, Catnip," he says firmly, looking directly into the camera. I know I make a sound that cannot be hidden, and I bring my hands up to cover my mouth to try and hold in a moan.
Behind Gale, I see Peeta turn towards the camera, probably in response to hearing him use my nickname.
"We're in District 13, Katniss," Peeta states resolutely, warmly. "I promise, this is real! You did nothing wrong."
Finnick is smirking next to him, and then calls out, "Remember who the real enemy is, Katniss." He holds up his arm to give the camera a subtle salute, and he's wearing the golden bangle that Haymitch slipped to him before the Quell; and this is how I know what I'm seeing is real. Finnick said this same thing to me more than once in the arena, and only I know the significance of both his words and the bracelet he wears.
The video on the monitor warps before cutting out entirely, and I'm left staring at my own stunned image once again. Caesar ends the interview hastily with a quick send off, and the moment he is done the Peacekeepers pull me out of my chair and drag me to the room I was prepped in. My dress is ripped off me by the guards, but I can't even be bothered to feel embarrassed. They are alive.
My hands are freed so an oversize rough canvas gown can be thrown over my head, and then I am being dragged back down to the cells. The Peacekeepers must be flustered by the rebel broadcast because they don't bother to obscure my sight or disorient me in any way. I can tell that I was in Snow's mansion for the interview, but I'm dragged through so many hallways and tunnels that I cannot discern where we end up. The guards enter in a code at the door to the prison and I can hear the loud alarm beeping on the inside of the room. I don't fight them as they toss me into my cell, and I am still in a daze when Johanna calls out to me.
"What happened, Brainless?" Her tone does not match her words; she knows that something significant has occurred by my appearance and the demeanor of the Peacekeepers. For the first time, Johanna speaks to me with something resembling concern.
"They're alive," I whisper.
"What? Who's alive?" Enobaria asks, leaning forward against the bars of her cell.
I look over and finally meet Johanna's gaze. "Peeta and Finnick. They're alive."
Johanna doesn't look as surprised as I expected to be, but the sound that comes from the cell across from mine startles me out of any remaining haze. Annie Cresta has come to life.
"He's alive?" she questions, appearing suddenly at the front of her own cage. She wraps her hands around the bars, pressing her face between two of them so she can get as close to me as possible. "You're sure?"
I nod, confirming to Annie that her love is alive. "I saw him. The rebels broke through the Capitol broadcast and I saw Finnick on the screen. And Peeta. They're alive…. He said they were in District 13." I pause, finally processing what else was made clear by that video from the revolutionaries. "He destroyed my district," I murmur, backing up to the cold stone wall of my cage. "Snow bombed District 12."
Johanna looks up at this and asks, "Is your family safe?"
I nod again. "I guess some people got out. But it's…Odds, it's gone."
"Well, at least they're unharmed," she reiterates. "Snow can't get them if they're in 13."
She's right. What power does Snow have over me now that I know? Peeta and Finnick are alive. My family and my best friend are secured in the heart of a district that has fought off Snow for the better part of a century. I'm free.
For the first time in what feels like forever, I'm filled with something like hope; and it only grows as I revise the things that I know to be true.
My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. I won the 74th Hunger Games. Peeta Mellark and I were in the third Quarter Quell. I am a captive of the Capitol and President Snow, along with three of my fellow victors. But at least two other victors escaped the arena. Finnick Odair is alive. Peeta Mellark is alive. There is no District 12. But my family and Gale are safe in District 13. Snow has nothing else to hold over my head to make me behave. We victors now have some hope.
We victors are survivors.
