CHAPTER 6

PART I

I was standing at rigid attention as the drill sergeant made his way slowly down my squad. He's a hatchet-faced man maybe ten years older than me, whipcord-lean, with close-cropped hair and a brushy mustache the color of wheat. He stopped before each trainee, sometimes inspecting their rifle, sometimes asking questions, sometimes both. And he almost always found fault with each trainee.

I forced myself to relax, staring at the head of the trainee directly in front of me in the next rank. Drill Sergeant Duffy was a notorious hard-ass, universally despised by every trainee under his tutelage. And, it would seem, the feeling was mutual, as Duffy had been saddled with training a platoon almost all of the trainees were either District Twelve refugees or District Six train crewmen. Unlike our District Thirteen counterparts, we haven't had the advantage of several years of military-style living prior to beginning formal training...not to mention the fact that most trainees go through basic training at the age of fourteen. Most of us are at least several years older.

Most, but not all. Rory Hawthorne currently occupied the position at the far right of the squad...the position of trainee squad leader. He took to basic like he was born for it, and rarely incurred Drill Sergeant Duffy's wrath. Rory was an ideal District Thirteen soldier...he obeys orders instantly, and without question, he's aced every phase of training so far, and his hatred for anything Capitol was very apparent...even when he was forced to deal with one of the Capitol expatriates here in Thirteen.

However, the only thing that was of immediate importance was Drill Sergeant Duffy's opinion of my personal appearance, the cleanliness of my rifle, and whether or not I can answer any questions that he may fire at me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him perform a sharp facing movement, stopping in front of the trainee to my immediate right, who executed a sharp "inspection arms" movement, bringing her rifle up sharply, snapping the bolt open, and standing with the rifle ready for inspection.

Drill Sergeant Duffy looked the trainee up and down, his eyes seemingly scanning every square centimeter. "Soldier Undersee," he snapped, "what is your First General Order?"

"Drill Sergeant," Madge Undersee barked out, "my First General order is to guard everything within the limits of my post and quit my post only when properly relieved."

"What is the maximum effective range of your rifle, Soldier Undersee?" Duffy asked sharply.

"Drill Sergeant, the maximum effective range of my rifle is five hundred meters," Madge replied just as sharply.

"What is the second lifesaving step in first aid, Soldier Undersee?" Duffy asked.

"Drill Sergeant," Madge replied confidently, "the second lifesaving step in first aid is to stop the bleeding and protect the wound."

Without warning, Duffy's hand shot out as he grabbed the stock of Madge's rifle with an audible "slap," jerking it from her grasp as her hands immediately dropped to her side. Duffy examined her rifle with a critical eye, spinning it upwards to peer into the barrel, running his finger into the chamber, and finally upending the rifle, carefully examining the stock and butt. He grunted softly and thrust the rifle back at Madge, who caught it deftly, releasing the bolt, pulling the trigger, and lowering the rifle back to the position of "order arms."

"Little too much oil on the bolt, soldier," Duffy said quietly. "Otherwise, outstanding work."

I didn't need to see Madge to know that she was smiling. "Thank you, Drill Sergeant."

"Don't thank me, soldier," Duffy replied gruffly. "You did it, not me."

I made sure that my eyes were locked on the back of the trainee's head directly to my front as I heard Duffy execute a sharp "right face" and step into my field of vision.

Duffy's gimlet eyes bored into mine as I snapped my rifle up, fumbling a bit as I worked the bolt, dropping my eyes just long enough to inspect the chamber to ensure that the rifle was, in fact, clear and unloaded. When I raised my head again I forced myself to stare at a spot on Duffy's forehead in an attempt to avoid his eyes and the uneasiness I always felt whenever I knew that he was looking in my direction.

"That was clumsy, Soldier Mellark," Duffy remarked conversationally. "I've seen a better 'inspection arms' from a monkey mutt. Or perhaps you've decided to replace your fingers with a few extra thumbs?"

I didn't respond, because there was nothing that I could say. I was clumsy when executing the "inspection arms," and, for a single, terrifying moment, I had been afraid that I was going to drop my rifle in the mud.

Suddenly Duffy snatched the rifle from my hands. "What is the loaded weight of your rifle, Soldier Mellark?" He asked as he inspected my rifle.

"Three kilos, Drill Sergeant," I replied instantly.

Duffy stopped his inspection for a moment and looked at me with arched eyebrows. "Three kilos is the loaded weight, Soldier?"

Shit. The magazine added another half-kilo. "No, Drill Sergeant. The loaded weight of my rifle is three and a half kilos."

"Are you sure?" Duffy asked sarcastically.

I swallowed heavily. "Yes, Drill Sergeant."

Duffy grunted and went back to inspecting my rifle. "And what is the sustained rate of fire?" He asked as he worked his finger into the chamber. Secretly I hoped that he would release the bolt by mistake and end up with a broken finger for his troubles. No such luck.

"Eighty to one hundred rounds per minute, Drill Sergeant," I replied.

Without warning, Duffy thrust my rifle back at me, dropping his hands without waiting to see if I had caught it or not. I hadn't. I managed to juggle the rifle for a second or two before it fell to the ground with a loud clatter. Oh, shit. I heard a collective gasp from the other trainees when the rifle hit the ground. I had just committed an unforgivable sin. I had dropped my rifle.

Duffy's expression never changed even as his eyes narrowed to mere slits. "Soldier Mellark," he said in a soft, deadly calm voice. "Pick up your rifle."

I immediately bent down and retrieved my rifle, now splattered with mud. Although District Thirteen did almost everything underground, much of the military training is done "topside," as they referred to the outside world. And it had rained earlier in the day, turning the light layer of dust on the ground in Training Area Alpha into a thin later of mud. I quickly assumed the position of "order arms," with the butt of my rifle resting on the ground next to my right boot, and waited for the inevitable bolt of lightning to flash down from the sky to strike me down.

Duffy stepped to one side. "Soldier Mellark," he barked. "Port arms!" I snapped my rifle up and held it diagonally across my chest. "Fall out and follow me," Duffy ordered. I complied with his order and followed him to the front of the platoon.

"Face the platoon," Duffy ordered. I instantly obeyed this order, turning and facing my fellow trainees. "Rifle push-ups," Duffy announced, before giving me another order. "Front leaning rest position, move!"

Immediately I dropped down into the push-up position and carefully laid my rifle across the backs of my hands so that no part actually touched the ground, and waited. "Take a good look, trainees," Duffy said. "This piece of maggot shit dropped his rifle." My arms trembled slightly from the strain, but I wasn't about to give this asshole the satisfaction. "Soldier Mellark," Duffy continued. "Fifty push-ups, your pace, silent count, to your rifle. Begin."

Silently I began. For a brief moment I was tempted to cheat...after all, Duffy did say "silent count" instead of "sound off"...but somehow I knew that he would know if I shaved a few push-ups off. And, as I rhythmically raised and lowered myself, Duffy addressed the platoon.

"Your rifle is your life, soldiers," Duffy said, his voice firm and confident. "A soldier without a rifle is nothing. A rifle without a soldier is nothing. Together, you are a fighting machine. Remember that and treat your rifle better than you treat yourself."

I finished my push-ups and remained in position. Duffy glanced over his shoulder and barked "On your feet" at me. I immediately sprang to my feet, careful not to let my rifle drop to the ground again, and assumed the position of "order arms." Duffy watched me as I clambered to my feet, and once I was standing at attention again he gave me another order. "Stand fast, Soldier Mellark."

I stood facing the platoon while Duffy completed his inspection. The faces of the refugees from Districts Six and Twelve were unsmiling, and I could see a few...Madge Undersee among them...that were embarrassed for me. However, the District Thirteen trainees were, for the most part, regarding me smugly, and a few weren't even trying to hide their smirks. I stared back at them, my face impassive, and hoped that Duffy would finish soon.

Finally, Drill Sergeant Duffy completed his inspection and took his place in front of the platoon. "Squad leaders, see me in fifteen minutes for inspection results. Soldier Mellark, stand fast. The rest of you, fall out."

The platoon quickly dispersed, leaving me standing on that muddy field in the middle of Training Area Alpha. Duffy stepped in front of me and looked me up and down. "Stand at ease," he ordered gruffly. I immediately relaxed, moving my feet slightly apart and placing my free hand in the small of my back.

"Why are you here, Soldier Mellark?" Duffy asked suddenly.

I frowned slightly at the question. "I don't understand, Drill Sergeant."

Duffy sighed impatiently. "I'll rephrase that. You aren't going to be expected to really fight. You're going to go out into the field strictly for propaganda stunts. So why are you wasting my time pretending that you want to be a soldier? You're a hee-ro, boy!" The sarcasm that he attached to his exaggerated pronunciation of the word "hero" was not lost on me. "You're a Victor! You're President Coin's prized pet. At least Everdeen has the common sense to not pretend that she wants to be a soldier."

I stood quietly, not replying, feeling my jaw muscles clenching in anger. "We ain't goin' to war with a bunch o' scared kids, Soldier Mellark. These won't be pushover Tributes that wet their pants and shit themselves before they lay down to die. These are Peacekeepers! And right now, we're outnumbered. One of ours has to be as good, if not better, than ten of theirs."

"Ishmael Brennan and Aurora Chamberlain weren't pushovers," I replied tightly. "And I've killed a Peacekeeper."

"You got lucky, hee-ro," Duffy said. "And you knifing that Peacekeeper, in my opinion, was about on par with a sucker punch." He paused, looking me in the eye. "I'll ask again. Why are you here?"

"Drill Sergeant," I replied evenly, "I don't think you would understand."

For a moment, I was afraid that I might have crossed the line with this man. Instead, all he said was "Report to me in thirty minutes for re-inspection. Dismissed."

Duffy turned and strode away without waiting for my response. I sighed heavily and looked down at my rifle, now liberally splattered with mud. Thirty minutes to clean it and report to Drill Sergeant Asshole. I didn't have time to waste.

I waited for a minute until Duffy had time to clear the elevator before stepping into my own car and calling up Level Twenty. Shit. My drill sergeant hates me and Katniss is still barely speaking to me. For about the tenth time today I wondered if I haven't made a mistake. It's too late to back out now, though. I have to see this through.

The elevator lurched to a groaning halt and I stepped into Level Twenty, immediately turning toward my quarters. I had just enough time to give my rifle a final quick cleaning before I had to report to Duffy. I just hoped the re-inspection wouldn't take long.

I needed to pay the hospital a quick visit. I needed to see how Beetee and Finnick were doing.

PART II

"Thanks for stopping by, Peeta," Finnick said, glancing at me nervously. He's sitting on the edge of his hospital bed, compulsively tying and untying knots in a short length of rope. "Katniss was here earlier. She's looking well."

I sat forward in my chair. "Did she tell you?"

"About you two visiting what's left of Twelve?" He asked. "Or about you joining the army?"

For a brief instant there had been a flash of the old Finnick Odair...cocky, sarcastic, yet funny and engaging at the same time. But that instant faded quickly. "Both, I guess," I muttered in reply.

Finnick glanced down at the rope that he was viciously twisting. "Four was bad, the last time I saw it. But it hadn't been burned to the ground." He looked back up at me. "Do you have nightmares?"

I nodded once. "Yeah."

"Me too." Finnick yanked on the rope. "Old ones...and new." He tossed the rope onto his bed. "I spend half my time convincing myself that we did the right thing...and half the time wishing that we had just left everything alone." A solitary tear rolled down each cheek. "You're lucky. You still have Katniss. I...it's not worth it without Annie."

"Have you heard anything?" I asked gently. I reached over and grasped one of his hands firmly in mine. He returned my grip with surprising strength.

Finnick shook his head. "No. Not a word."

"That's a good thing, then."

Finnick suddenly stood up, releasing his grip on my hand. "That's what I keep telling myself," he said with a sigh. "Things were so fucked up in Four. I doubt if they've straightened anything out there. I can't stand this not knowing."

"Have you talked to Plutarch?" I asked.

Finnick nodded, staring out the window of his room at the corridor beyond. "He doesn't know anything either. He says he's 'working on it.'" There was bitterness in Finnick's voice. "Annie is my life, Peeta. My life."

I nodded my head in understanding. "I know," I said gently. "You just have to have faith that she's okay."

"That's all I have right now," Finnick murmured. "Let's change the subject," he said abruptly. "So I gather Katniss is royally pissed at you about the army thing."

I sat back in my chair. "That's the understatement of the year," I muttered. "And you don't need to sound so happy about it."

Finnick cracked a smile for the first time. "Right now my only pleasure is in the misfortunes of others." He turned and sat back down on the bed. "Seriously though, she wouldn't be this pissed if she didn't give a shit about you."

"I guess," I replied. "I can't even talk to her. She just shuts me out."

"Trust me," Finnick said. "If she didn't love you she wouldn't have given two shits about you joining up."

"I didn't 'join up,'" I practically snapped. "I just want to get some practical weapons training, that's all."

Finnick looked at me slyly. "Oh, is that all it is? Listen, there's easier ways to learn how to shoot."

"That's just part of it," I replied defensively. "Look, we're gonna be shooting more of these propos, and I'm pretty sure that they won't involve us walking around in District Twelve again." I paused for a moment before continuing. "Finnick, Katniss has her bow. You know how deadly she is with that thing. But if I go in with nothing...well, what kind of message will that send to Panem? 'Katniss Everdeen and her sidekick, Peeta what's-his-name?'"

"So, it's all about your ego?" Finnick asked sharply. "Peeta Mellark has a problem with Katniss Everdeen having to protect his delicate ass?"

"That's not it at all!" I practically shouted.

"Then what is it?" Finnick looked at me, one eyebrow arched, as he folded his arms over his chest.

"Katniss is who they want. She's the 'Mockingjay!' It won't matter if they lose me. They can't lose Katniss!" I pause and take a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. "We've been told that we'll have a squad with us for protection, but I need to be able to protect Katniss...and I can't do it by tossing knives!"

"Seems to me you did just that in Twelve during the Reaping Day Uprising," Finnick pointed out.

"And Katniss still got shot," I replied. "Finnick, as much as Annie is your life, Katniss is mine. I have to do better."

"Then you need to tell her," Finnick said softly. "Make her listen, if she's being her usual stubborn self. But tell her. Tonight."

"Tonight," I repeated, and then I glanced at the clock on the wall. "Shit! I won't have time to visit Beetee and make it to dinner!"

Finnick chuckled softly. "Relax. They sprung Beetee today. He stopped in to say goodbye. Had a nice shiny new wheelchair."

I looked at Finnick in alarm. "They discharged him? Where did they take him?"

Finnick shrugged. "Fuck if I know. He was mysterious about it, and I didn't push it."

I took a moment to digest this. Beetee, released from the hospital, to somewhere else in District Thirteen. It's his mind. His brain. Coin wants to put him to work. He was able to hack into the Capitol's comm system long enough to broadcast our first propo, and he did that from his hospital bed. They had to wheel equipment into his room! "Well," I said slowly, "I guess I won't be late for dinner anyhow." I stood up to leave and stuck my hand out to Finnick. "I'll see you later, Finnick. Promise."

Finnick didn't shake my hand. He rose from his seat on the edge of the bed and wrapped his arms around me in a tight hug. "Thanks for coming, Peeta. And thanks for not treating me like I'm about to break."

"Don't mention it," I replied as he released me. I give him a small smile. "Hang in there, okay? I have a feeling you'll get good news about Annie at any time."

He nodded, smiling ruefully. "I hope so." I turned to go. As I opened his hospital room door, his voice stopped me. "Peeta. You're wrong about one thing."

I stopped, holding the door open, and turned back toward him. "What's that?"

"When you said 'it won't matter if they lose me.' It would matter. To a lot of people." He paused for a moment. "And to Katniss most of all." He gave me a pointed look. "Remember that, 'Soldier' Mellark."

I didn't know what to say, so I simply nodded, and left.

I made it in time for dinner. Katniss was conspicuously absent.

I filled my tray, sniffing at the unidentifiable processed meat, and found a seat at a table occupied by July Barrow and Madge Undersee. "Room for one more?"

"Always," Madge replied warmly, moving her tray slightly. There was another girl sitting with them that I didn't immediately recognize until I sat down and she greeted me.

"Hello, Peeta," Delly Cartwright said warmly, giving me a big smile.

"Delly!" I said in surprise. "I haven't seen you since -"

"Just about since we got here," Delly finished for me. "I know. It's okay, though. I know you've been busy."

"Not that busy," Madge muttered between forkfuls. I glanced sharply at her, but her face was impassive as she continued to concentrate on the unappetizing meal in front of her.

I decided to ignore Madge's remark. "What have they got you doing, Delly? Making shoes?"

Delly chuckled. "Nothing like that. My parents and grandparents lost all their cobbling tools when we evacuated. They've been assigned other work here, as I have." She paused and her face creased in a wide smile. "I'm a liaison between the refugees and the administration here in Thirteen."

I nodded in agreement. Delly was a natural for a job like that...literally everyone liked her and those that didn't know her well would be quickly won over by her brilliant smile and engaging personality. "That sounds great, Delly," I said sincerely. "Congratulations."

"Thank you, Peeta." Delly gives me another smile before turning to Madge. "And whatever possessed you to join the army, Madge? I would have expected you to get some sort of job with District Administration or something."

Madge takes another bite before responding. "My father is working in Command, in some sort of mid-level bureaucratic job. Deputy Assistant something-or-other. Mother helps him...when she can. Some days her pain is just too much."

"I've seen your father. He was in a meeting with some doctor from the hospital and that refugee from Ten, Mr. Dalton," Delly added. This information surprised me. Why would Madge's father be in a meeting with some doctor and Dalton, who, as far as I know, still worked with the small herds of livestock that District Thirteen raised for food? "And you haven't answered my question, Madge," Delly added pointedly.

Madge carefully laid her fork on her tray. "It's like this," she said. "My father was the Mayor of Twelve before I was even born. I've never known any life other than being the 'Mayor's daughter.' She glanced at Delly and I. "I didn't want to go through life being 'the Mayor's daughter,' and encourage others to fight for a cause that I believe in...and not step forward and fight for that cause myself."

"Best soldier in the squad," July mumbled around a mouthful of food, causing a blush to form on Madge's cheeks.

"Better not let Rory Hawthorne hear you say that," I said with a grin. "Where is our fearless leader tonight anyway?"

"Up on Two," Delly replied with another smile. "Having dinner with Prim Everdeen and her mother."

I chuckled softly at this news. In spite of becoming increasingly insufferable, the blossoming romance between Rory Hawthorne and Primrose Everdeen was one of the happier items of gossip among the refugees...proof that even a war couldn't stop romance from happening even in a place as grim and colorless as District Thirteen. In the old District Twelve, something like this would have been dismissed as "puppy love." But, then again, in the old District Twelve fourteen year olds wouldn't be training as field medics...or as soldiers. And yet, they were both old enough, at twelve, to be Reaped...and killed...in the Hunger Games.

I dug into my dinner while listening to Delly prattle on about her new liaison duties. It seemed that the biggest issue was not with the District Twelve refugees assimilating into Thirteen, but rather with the Capitol expatriates having difficulty with the built-in prejudices of the District Thirteen residents.

"It's practically criminal how some of the Capitol people are treated," Delly said. "Denied services, denied goods, and having to wear those ankle trackers all the time! I do what I can for them, of course, but no one really listens to me. They're more than happy to help if it's for someone from Twelve, or Six, or even one of the Rebel Peacekeepers." She sighed heavily. "They need a voice. Someone that can speak for them in a way that I can't. I just don't really understand them well enough to be effective in fighting for them."

Her words gave me an idea. Quickly I finished my dinner and excused myself. I had one more person to speak to tonight. Maybe I could help Delly out with her problem.

I paused outside the door on Level Fifty-Two before rapping sharply on the door panels.

"Come," a voice called from the other side of the door. I pushed in the latch and slid the door open, spying a gaunt, solitary figure sitting at a desk, intently studying something on the computer screen before him.

"Dr. Picardo," I said. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

Picardo glanced up from the computer screen, the ghost of a smile twitching his mouth upwards. "Not at all, Mr. Mellark," he said with obviously forced joviality. "I was just doing a little private time study, trying to ascertain exactly where our hosts stand in terms of medical knowledge." He closed the screen on his laptop computer. "They are somewhat more advanced than the Everdeen Healers, but not quite up to snuff on the latest and greatest from the Capitol." He sighed. "Our hosts seem to have placed a great deal of emphasis on weapons development, and lip service to medicine. They are quite adept at various methods for taking apart a human body, and woefully inadequate on methods to put said body together again."

I smiled. "Well, maybe you can help them with that."

Picardo sighed. "Perhaps. So, what brings you to my humble abode?"

"I need to find one of the expats," I replied. "The lady from the Tribute Train that Haymitch called 'Duchess.'"

Picardo allowed himself a small smile. "Petronia Goldsmith. She lives on Level Eleven, I believe. From what I understand, she's been assigned vital refuse disposal duties."

"She hauls garbage?" I asked in surprise.

"All day, every day," Picardo replied. "And, like the rest of us, she's taking great pains not to disturb the status quo here."

"Do you know her quarters number?"

Picardo hesitated for maybe two seconds. "Before I tell you, please enlighten me on why you wish so badly to contact her."

"Do you know Delly Cartwright?" I asked, somewhat impatiently. I was not in the mood for questions and answers.

Picardo frowned slightly. "Blonde; somewhat, shall we say, 'padded,' smiles at everyone?"

"That's her," I nodded.

"I thought so." Picardo looked thoughtful. "I thought that perhaps she was, shall we say, somewhat 'challenged' at first, until I realized that her only illness was a terminal case of cheerfulness. What does she have to do with Petronia?"

"Delly has been assigned as a liaison between Thirteen and us refugees and expats. I thought that Miss Goldsmith might be able to help Delly smooth the transition," I replied.

Picardo waved me into a chair opposite him and as I sat down he leaned back in his own chair, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth as a thoughtful look crossed over his face. "So Miss Cheerful needs help?" He asks.

"No," I replied. "You do."

Picardo's expression never changed. "Go on."

"Until recently," I continued, "you were cleaning bedpans. None of the Thirteens trusted you. And -

"They still don't," Picardo pointed out flatly.

"And," I said, ignoring his interruption, "it was the same way with the other Capitol expats. But now, you're working as a doctor, right?"

Picardo nodded slowly. "Thanks in large part to you, Mr. Mellark."

"But there's others...Miss Goldsmith, for example...who have skills and talents that are going to waste. And if I've learned anything from the Thirteens, it's that they hate waste of any kind." I pause for a moment. "Assigning Delly Cartwright as liaison was an important first step, but she's young...like me. She doesn't have the experience of someone like Miss Goldsmith."

Picardo looked at me thoughtfully. "I can see two problems with your idea. One, Petronia herself may not be interested, and two, there's no guarantee that our hosts will acquiesce and allow her to assist Miss Cheerful."

"Well," I said slowly, "do you really think that she would choose to stay in her current position of garbage collector?"

Picardo rubbed his chin. "Good point," he admitted. "But what about the powers that be here in this subterranean paradise?"

"Delly can be very persuasive," I replied with a grin, "especially when she points out Miss Goldsmith's organizational talents. After all, she did manage the Capitol staff on Tribute Trains for many years."

I could see Picardo mulling over my arguments before he nodded his head slowly. "You are a very persuasive young man, Mr. Mellark. Have you ever considered a political career?"

I chuckled at Picardo's suggestion. "I just want this war to be over so we can all live peacefully." Only Snow knows where, though, I thought. With Twelve virtually destroyed. One thing at a time...I still have to live through the war.

Picardo picked up a small notepad and quickly scribbled something on it, before ripping the page off and handing it to me. "This is Petronia's assigned quarters number."

I took the paper and carefully folded it before sliding it into my shirt pocket. "Thank you, doctor." I stood up. "I'll go speak to her now."

Picardo stood up and offered me his hand. "Good luck, young Victor. And, if I may borrow an oft-repeated phrase, 'may the odds be ever in your favor.'"

I shook his hand firmly, all the while hoping that reason, rather than luck, would be all that was needed.

In spite of her current circumstances, Petronia Goldsmith still managed to carry herself with a haughty, almost regal, air about her...even while dressed in a shapeless gray coverall that, in spite of her best efforts, still carried the cloying odor of garbage.

"Let me see if I understand you correctly, young man," she said in her clipped Capitol accent that was at once similar, but yet slightly different, from the accent of Effie Trinket. "You are offering me a position as liaison between these Neanderthals and my own people?"

If she accepts, she will definitely have to work on her attitude! "Not exactly, ma'am," I replied respectfully. "I'm in no position to offer anything. However, Delly Cartwright could use the help of someone like you. She's enthusiastic but she needs someone with experience in dealing with people from different districts, such as yourself."

"Delly Cartwright," Petronia Goldsmith repeated softly. "Isn't she the blonde girl from your district that always sports the idiotic smile?"

"Dr. Picardo describes her as 'suffering from a terminal case of cheerfulness,'" I explained carefully while trying to keep my temper under control. "But yes, that's Delly."

"I wondered at first if she wasn't somewhat mentally challenged." She smoothed one hand over her glossy black hair, now cut short. I noticed that her once perfectly shaped fingernails were also clipped very short as well. "After all, isn't diminished mental ability somewhat of a hallmark of those living in such a backward district as Twelve?"

I clenched my hands into fists as I took several deep, controlled breaths. It's probably a good thing that my hands were hidden in my lap, under the table that we were both sitting at. "Delly is not challenged in any way," I replied stiffly. "She's one of those rare people that genuinely likes everyone that she meets. Although I would be willing to bet that she would make an exception in your case."

Petronia Goldsmith seemed to not hear my last comment. "I would be working for this Delly person?"

"With Delly," I corrected. "Not 'for' Delly."

"And you cannot provide me with a guarantee that I would be reassigned, should I accept?"

I took another deep breath. "If you agree, I will speak to Delly. If she finds you acceptable, then she and I will speak with Plutarch Heavensbee about reassigning you."

"Plutarch," Petronia repeated softly. "I've known him ever since I started working for the Games...over twenty-two years ago. What a surprise to discover that he is a traitor."

"If the Rebellion is successful, he will be known as a hero," I said. "It's all a matter of perspective."

"Hmmph," she grunted softly. "Mr. Mellark, how old is this Delly Cartwright?"

"Eighteen," I replied. "The same as Katniss Everdeen and I."

"That's how old I was when I started working for the Games," she said thoughtfully. She glanced down at her lap before looking back up at me. "I must decline your offer."

"Why?" I asked. "Because of her age, or because of the fact that she is from District Twelve?"

"Both." She leaned forward slightly, a defiant look on her face. "I've nothing left but my pride. And that, Mr. Mellark, is something that you, or this so-called 'President' Coin, cannot strip away from me."

I stood up slowly. "You're right. Pride is all you have left. And, if the Capitol defeats the Rebellion, you can cling to your pride when they take you topside and summarily execute you." I paused at the door, my hand on the handle. "And, if the Rebellion defeats the Capitol, you can continue to cling to your pride as you spend the rest of your life hauling garbage." I slid the door open. "Thank you for your time, Miss Goldsmith. Goodnight."

I turned away from her and stopped, one foot out the door, when I heard her quiet voice behind me say, "Wait."

I turned back to face her. "You don't understand," she said as she rose to her feet. "For me, a Capitol citizen, to agree to work for an eighteen year old district resident...it simply isn't done. Pride is all I have left." Her voice rose slightly as she spoke. "There's nothing noble or redeeming about any district resident that I've ever met. Twenty-two years of Tribute Trains have shown me nothing but a parade of crying, sniveling Tributes. I am only too aware of my fate should the Capitol prevail in your so-called Rebellion...which they will. I am sure of that. But I intend to meet my fate with dignity."

"Would you be so 'dignified' if Colonel Boggs showed up here tonight and told you that you were going to be executed in two weeks, on national television?" I asked angrily. "And not quickly, with a bullet to the back of your head, but slowly and painfully?" I stepped back into her quarters and slammed the door behind me. "Because that's exactly what those 'crying, sniveling Tributes' heard when their names were read at Reaping. Not a chance to bring 'honor' to their district. No, what they just heard was their order of execution, and they all knew that they would most likely be dead within two weeks from Reaping Day. And these aren't adults...they were children...some only twelve years old. So they had every right to cry and snivel."

All Petronia Goldsmith could do during my tirade was to glare at me angrily. "Fuck this," I muttered as I turned back to the door. "By the way...you stink." I slid the door open and stepped through quickly, sliding it shut with a bang behind me. What a colossal waste of time. "Typical Capitolite," I muttered savagely as I made my way to the elevators. "She'd be pissing her pants if she was standing on a plate, sixty seconds from the gong."

Angrily I punched the button for my level and I was still fuming as I reached Level Twenty. I entered my quarters and banged my door closed as loudly as I had done with Petronia Goldsmith's. I glanced at the clock as I kicked off my boots and saw that I still had about ten minutes before my showers would work. I then checked my comm unit and saw that I had two messages pending.

The first was from Katniss, who tersely informed me of Beetee's discharge from the hospital and that he had been assigned to something called Research and Development. She finished by giving me Beetee's quarters number and level. I sighed heavily. That was it. I've had warmer messages from President Coin.

The second was from Petronia Goldsmith. It was just as terse. "Mr. Mellark," she said, "I've decided that I would be willing to discuss your offer further with Miss Cartwright. Please give her my quarters number and level. I will expect to hear from her tomorrow."

If I hadn't received Katniss's message first, I would almost be in a good mood now. As it was, I simply turned off the messages and finished stripping for my shower. I needed to clean up and get to bed. My platoon was going topside again first thing in the morning to practice close combat drills and something that Duffy had called the "holding attack."

The shower was, of course, too short to improve my mood. I toweled myself off and wrapped the towel around my waist as I left the bathroom. And I was shocked to discover that I had a surprise visitor.

Katniss was seated at my desk, arms folded across her chest, staring impassively at me.

PART III

For several seconds, all I could do was gape in surprise. Ever since our return from the propo that we had shot in Twelve, Katniss and I had hardly seen each other. Of course, me starting military training about then hadn't helped matters much either.

"Surprised?" Katniss asked. I didn't answer because...well, yes, I was surprised. "Did you get my message?" She continued.

"About Beetee?" Katniss nodded once, tightly. "Yes. I was going to visit him tonight but Finnick had told me that he had been sprung from the hospital earlier."

"I knew you had visited Finnick," Katniss said slowly. "Where did you go after dinner? I stopped by earlier and you weren't here," she added, almost accusingly.

"I talked with Delly at dinner," I explained, keeping my voice even only with effort. You've been the one avoiding me...and yet you expect me to be available when it suits you? "She's been assigned as a liaison between Thirteen and the refugees. I had the idea that maybe she could use some help from one of the Capitol people, so I went to see Dr. Picardo, and then Petronia Goldsmith, before -"

"Who?" Katniss asked sharply.

"Petronia Goldsmith," I explained patiently. "The woman that Haymitch calls 'Duchess.' So I went to talk to her about possibly working with Delly, and she agreed, although it took some doing."

"Sounds like you've been busy," Katniss observed sarcastically. "I would have thought that your would have gone right to bed tonight, considering all the push-ups that you had to do during the day."

Rory Hawthorne, I said to myself. I sighed and pulled out a chair, seating myself across from Katniss. "Go ahead and say it."

Katniss's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "Say what?"

"What you came here to say, Katniss," I snapped. "About how stupid I am to request military training, and who do I think I am, and how selfish I am...have I left anything out?"

Katniss stares at me in surprise for a moment. "You're mad at me?" She asks incredulously. "You're the one playing soldier, not me!"

I said nothing, but continued to stare at her from across the desk. "All right. I'll say it," she snapped. "You are stupid and selfish. You didn't even talk to me about this whole army thing. You just went ahead and did it!" She stared at me defiantly. "Now you say it."

"You have your bow," I replied softly.

"Huh?" Katniss furrowed her brow in confusion. "My bow? What does my bow have to do with anything?"

"Everything," I muttered. "Your bow is iconic. More importantly, you can use it. You're deadly with it." I paused for a moment. "But, no matter how good you are, you don't have eyes in the back of your head."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Katniss snapped.

"We're going to go into rebelling districts to shoot more propos," I replied. "Six, Eight, Ten...maybe eventually the Capitol itself. And don't you think Snow will make killing or capturing you a priority once he realizes where you are?"

"So what does my bow have to do with anything?" Katniss asked again.

"You're as deadly with a bow as a soldier with a rifle," I explained. "You can fight. But in the field, I'm next to useless."

"Is that what all this is about?" Katniss asked. "Peeta, you're a champion wrestler, and you're as good with a knife as anyone -"

"A knife is a close-range weapon and you know it," I interrupted. "How can I protect you with a fucking knife?"

Katniss stared at me, wide-eyed, for about ten seconds before she spoke again. "Protect me?" She asked softly. "But...we have a squad for that."

"All the time?" I asked. "What happens if we lose part of the squad? What then? You don't have eyes in the back of your head, Katniss. Someone has to be there to protect just you. And that's me."

"What about you, Peeta?" Katniss asked in a choked whisper. "Who protects you?"

"Hopefully you do," I replied with a rueful smile. "Katniss, it all comes down to you. You're the 'Mockingjay.' I've seen the special uniform that Cinna's designed for you. You are the face of the Rebellion - not me." I shook my head. "No. You're the 'Mockingjay' and I'm Peeta Mellark, 'Mockingjay' sidekick. The Rebellion needs you. No one really needs me."

"So you did this whole 'join the army' thing to protect me when we're in the field?" Katniss's voice was barely audible.

"Yeah," I murmured.

"Why didn't you just tell me that from the start?"

"I thought you would understand. But, I guess I was wrong. I -"

I never managed to finish my sentence. Katniss pushed herself out of her chair and practically launched herself across the desk, almost knocking me over when she collided with me. In the space of about one second we had gone from arguing to me holding an armful of crying girl.

"Damn you, Peeta Mellark!" Katniss sobbed. "You let me think that you were running off to go fight the Capitol in District Six or something!"

"As if Coin would ever allow me to do something like that," I replied quietly, suddenly uncomfortably aware that I was wearing nothing more than a towel, and Katniss had virtually plastered herself against me.

"And don't ever say that no one needs you!" She pulled back and locked her silvery-gray eyes to mine. "Because I do. I need you."

I opened my mouth to say something that would forever remain unsaid, because, before I could speak, Katniss pressed her lips firmly to mine. Whatever words I had been forming were lost in an unintelligible groan as her tongue slid into my mouth, eagerly seeking my own. And my single item of apparel, my bath towel, was totally ineffective at masking my rising desire.

Suddenly Katniss broke off our kiss and, breathing heavily, hauled me to my feet only to strip away the towel with one hand while simultaneously pushing me onto my narrow bed with the other. I could only watch in amazement as Katniss set a new speed record for stripping off her district-issued black clothing, which was immediately followed by me not thinking about anything else at all other than the exquisite sensations that threatened to overwhelm my senses.

"You were really pissed at me, huh?" Katniss asked quietly.

We were cuddled close together on my bed, the sheets a sweaty, tangled mess bunched up at our feet. Katniss's head rested against my chest, a few stray hairs tickling my nose. I shifted a bit, kissing the top of her head gently as I settled into a new position.

"Yeah," I admitted. "I was."

Katniss tilted her head up and looked at me. "I remember one other time you were that angry with me." Her fingers gently traced the contours of my face. "It was that day in the bakery, remember?"

"Yeah," I whispered, feeling my throat tighten. I closed my eyes at the memory of newly crowned Victor, Katniss Everdeen, coming into my family's bakery along with her younger sister, Primrose, to place an order to be delivered to the Hawthornes. "You...weren't very nice to my father, or to me, as I recall. And I really blew up at you."

"I deserved it," Katniss said softly. "That wasn't even two years ago, Peeta."

I shook my head. "Two years. A lifetime."

"Yeah," Katniss said. "A lifetime."

We lay together quietly for a few more minutes and I could feel my eyes begin to droop, when Katniss spoke again. "I have something to tell you."

I stirred slightly. "What?"

"Boggs and Jackson are teaching me how to shoot," she replied. "Nothing like your training," she added hastily. "Just giving me some pointers on how to handle the rifle and pistol that I'll be carrying in propos. It was Plutarch's idea. He said that it may be a good idea if I actually looked like I knew what I was doing."

"No bow?" I asked. "I would think that they would want you carrying that, as much as people identify you and the bow together."

Katniss shrugged. "All Plutarch said was that they have something special in mind for me."

"And how good a shot are you?" I asked.

Katniss chuckled. "Horrible. I can't hit shit."

Before I could reply the comm unit began to buzz insistently. "Shit," I muttered as I gently disengaged myself from Katniss and rolled out of bed. I stumbled to the desk and punched the "INCOMING CALL" button. "Yes?"

"There's a broadcast coming over your vid screen in a minute or two," Haymitch's voice said. "I'm assumin' Katniss is with you?"

"Yeah," I confirmed. "What's the broadcast about?"

"You'll see," Haymitch's voice replied grimly. "By the way, you're excused from training tomorrow. Meeting in Command at eight. See you then."

The comm unit went dead just as the video screen came to life. The District Thirteen seal displayed prominently, accompanied by some sort of military music. I felt Katniss's warmth at my side as she joined me, both of us unselfconsciously naked. I slipped my arm around her slender shoulders as an announcer intoned, "Stand by for an urgent announcement."

"What is it?" Katniss asks.

"I dunno," I replied. "Did you catch Haymitch saying that we have a meeting at eight tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Katniss said. "I wonder what's -"

The District Thirteen seal faded, replaced by the seal of Panem, along with the words, "THE STRONGEST AMONG US ARE NO MATCH FOR THE POWER OF THE CAPITOL." The seal, and the words, slowly faded, replaced by an image of two young women dressed in orange jumpsuits, their faces bruised and battered, but perfectly recognizable.

"Peeta," Katniss gasped. "That's Johanna Mason!"

"And Annie Cresta," I added. Poor Finnick. He had been in agony wondering what had happened to his beloved Annie. He didn't have to wonder any longer. She, along with Johanna Mason, was a prisoner of the Capitol. A prisoner of Coriolanus Snow. I shuddered slightly.

They probably would have been better off dead.