Chapter Four

When the white-uniformed orderlies wheel the TV into my room again, I start struggling against my restraints. After the last session, I can't believe that they are going to make the attempt again. Or - why should I be surprised? Do I actually think they care if I live or die?

Haymitch appears after the TV, and that just increases my battle with the hospital bed, until the oh-so-familiar cold rush of the morphling pulses into my arm and knocks me back against my pillows.

"Get the fuck out," I manage, blurrily.

"Shut up," he returns. "I'm here to make sure they don't try to kill you off again."

Taken aback by his tone - so, pity didn't last long - I gape at him for a while. Try to call up any evidence from my past that would support the idea that he would actually care one way or the other. "Your mentoring duties are done with," I say, coldly.

"Mentoring, my ass, boy. I'm your legal guardian at the moment, so …." He takes a seat against the wall and eyes me, wearily. I notice that he's got long, faint scratch marks down his yellow face.

"Oh, great," I spit. "The mutt's best friend. I see the odds are still in my favor."

He actually chuckles at that.

"OK, Mr. Abernathy, that's enough." Dr. Molina strides into the room and frowns at Haymitch. Contrarily, I'm annoyed with him for cutting off our conversation. But my feelings about Haymitch are so conflicted. "While we've been forced to concede to your demands to being present for these sessions, we do not need you to disrupt them. Mr. Mellark is in a delicate state and needs careful handling."

I roll my eyes at this, but turn away from Haymitch and look wearily at the ceiling. "I won't watch any more tapes. It's not helping."

"This isn't a tape of the games. How much do you remember of your interviews with Caesar Flickerman - after your capture?"

I frown. "I guess … Nothing? Oh, I guess there was one, early on? I remember … Portia. She was - crying. What?!" I demand, in response to weighted glances between Molina and Haymitch.

"It's very positive that you can remember that much without prompting."

"So?"

His very exacting and annoying sigh greets this question. "You do want to control these - outbursts - do you not, Mr. Mellark?"

"Mmm - no. I wake up in this place, which could be anywhere, as far as I know, and I'm restrained and drugged and I just want - out. Should I be passive about that - or what?"

"Your delusion that Katniss Everdeen is a …."

"I didn't need the Capitol for that," I say. "I don't remember what they did to me. I don't want to know what they did to me. I'll be better when you let me out of this place where - she - is roaming around."

"Katniss is not in 13," says Haymitch.

"What?" Again, my emotions spike in two different directions.

"She's in District 2, ending the war. Or something."

I shake my head. More images fly at me - something strange and different. Nothing that I remember - nothing that they showed me. I'm running through a narrow corridor between wood-paneled walls. Away from a sound. Or toward a sound? It's somehow connected to her. And District 2. But I can't figure it out.

Dr. Molina finally switches on the TV. I see myself. That's nothing new. But it's true I've never seen this before: me and Caesar, sitting close together in armchairs. There's something vaguely familiar about the setting, but since the cameras focus in tight on our faces, there's little clue to where it is. Caesar is in a lavender suit to match his hair and eyebrows. I'm in white. My hair is slicked back, my face is glowing with expertly-applied make-up. I'm a healthy weight. With healthy, clear eyes. Very unlike the emaciated, bruised and downbeat wreck of today.

"So … Peeta … welcome back."

The healthy boy smiles. "I bet you thought you'd done your last interview with me, Caesar."

"I confess I did. The night before the Quarter Quell … well, who ever thought we'd see you again?"

"It wasn't part of my plan, that's for sure."

Caesar leans in, and if I could retreat, I would. Something bad is about to happen. "I think it was clear to all of us what your plan was. To sacrifice yourself in the arena so that Katniss Everdeen and your child could survive."

My hands start to tremble. I can't wring them together; I can just clutch the sides of the bed until my knuckles go numb.

"That was it," I say on film, not even denying that disgusting assertion. And, despite my claim that I remember nothing about the Capitol's torture of me - this does ring a bell. I know that they made me first admit, then receive punishment for, my perverse attraction to the mutt. I can't believe I made it this easy for them. "Clear and simple," I continue. "But other people had plans as well."

"Why don't you tell us about that last night in the arena? Help us sort a few things out."

The Peeta on TV - shameless and calm - nods. I want to throw things at him - shatter the screen - make him go away forever. My neck is starting to hurt from the strain. "That last night … to tell you about that last night. Well, first of all - you have to imagine how it felt in the arena. It was like being an insect trapped under a bowl filled with steaming air. And all around you, jungle … green and alive and ticking. That giant clock ticking away your life."

Strangely, as I hear my own unmolested voice saying these words - as the pictures spring to my mind; pictures of an arena that are normally difficult for me to conjure clearly - I find myself a bit calmer. And curious. "Every hour promising some new horror. You have to imagine that in the past two days, sixteen people have died - some of them defending you. At the rate things are going, the last eight will be dead by morning. Save one. The victor. And your plan is that it won't be you."

My neck relaxes. I hold my breath, waiting for this unfamiliar version of myself to continue. It is better than morphling - listening to this person who can string coherent thoughts together with no apparent difficulty. "Once you're in the arena, the rest of the world becomes very distant. All the people and things you loved and cared about almost cease to exist. The pink sky and the monsters in the jungle and the tributes who want your blood become your final reality, the only one that ever mattered. As bad as it makes you feel, you're going to have to do some killing, because in the arena, you only get one wish. And it's very costly."

"It costs your life," says Caesar, softly.

I shake my head in frustration and the me who is on the screen mirrors my action. "Oh, no. It costs a lot more than your life. To murder innocent people? It costs everything you are."

"Everything you are," repeats Caesar.

It occurs to me that this might be edited, like everything else, because it seems unlikely that the Capitol would have allowed the words "murder innocent people" in association with the Games. Except that - I do really, on some level, remember saying these words.

"So you hold on to your wish. And that last night, yes, my wish was to save Katniss. But even without knowing about the rebels, it didn't feel right. Everything was too complicated. I found myself regretting I hadn't run off with her earlier in the day, as she had suggested. But there was no getting out of it at that point."

"You were too caught up in Beetee's plan to electrify the salt lake."

"Too busy playing allies with the others. I should have never let them separate us! That's when I lost her."

I blink, disappointed at this mention of the mutt, which weakens his - my - case.

"When you stayed at the lightning tree and she and Johanna Mason took the coil of wire down to the water."

"I didn't want to! But I couldn't argue with Beetee without indicating we were about to break away from the alliance. When that wire was cut, everything just went insane. I can only remember bits and pieces. Trying to find her. Watching Brutus kill Chaff. Killing Brutus myself. I know she was calling my name. Then the lightning bolt hit the tree, and the force field around the arena - blew out."

"Katniss blew it out, Peeta," says Caesar. "You've seen the footage."

The Peeta on the screen suddenly snaps in a way that is all too familiar to me. "She didn't know what she was doing. None of us could follow Beetee's plan. You can see her trying to figure out what to do with that wire."

"All right. It just looks suspicious. As if she was part of the rebels' plan all along."

"Really?" I say, jumping suddenly to my feet and leaning in to Caesar as if ready to attack him. "And was it part of her plan for Johanna to nearly kill her? For that electric shock to paralyze her? To trigger the bombing? She didn't know, Caesar! Neither of us knew anything except that we were trying to keep each other alive!"

My snort at this is so audible that Dr. Molina freezes the tape. "What is it, Mr. Mellark?"

I shrug. "Well, I mean - it's obvious here, isn't it, that I'm lying?"

"Lying about what?"

I squirm. "That last bit. I mean, I'm sure I intended to save her. That sounds like me. But what made me say that she was trying to save me? The Capitol probably just wanted me to pretend that she was on no one's side, right? Not theirs or the rebels' - just mine."

"How do you explain her actions at the end, then? I mean, when she was calling for you."

"You mean - calling me to the lightning tree with the lightning about to strike?"

"Which ended up being the rendezvous point for the rescue."

"So she DID know that?"

Haymitch stirs. "No, Peeta. And it wasn't - initially. It was supposed to be the one o'clock sector - which, quite clearly, she didn't know. You've seen her call out for you when Johanna knocked her down. With the alliance broken, as far as she knew, she just wanted to make sure you were still alive."

"Right."

Haymitch slumps back in his seat with a resigned expression. The tape resumes.

"OK, Peeta, I believe you," says Caesar, slightly pushing me back.

"OK."

"What about your mentor, Haymitch Abernathy?"

On screen, my face hardens. "I don't know what Haymitch knew."

"Could he have been part of the conspiracy?"

"He never mentioned it."

"What does your heart tell you?" Caesar says insistently.

I'm conflicted for the boy on the screen. He's struggling not to say it - but it's clear that whatever deal he has made to put this interview out, it involves only Katniss. And he's mad at Haymitch - almost as mad as I am now. I can only assume that between then and now, the torments he underwent only served to deepen this anger. But it's with enormous reluctance, anyway, that he says, "That I shouldn't have trusted him. That's all."

I venture a glance over to Haymitch, who is looking down at his feet. When I look back to the screen, I see myself doing almost the exact same thing. But before I can feel too sorry for Haymitch, I remember all those lonely days I spent with him, after the first Games - too morose, too self-pitying for anyone else's company - and I still just can't believe he left me there in that arena. That he didn't find some way to clue me in. He promised.

From now on, you'll be fully informed.

"We can stop now if you want," Caesar says, consolingly.

"Was there more to discuss?"

"I was going to ask your thoughts on the war, but if you're too upset …"

My heart beat starts picking up again as the Peeta on screen turns to the camera and I am looking into his unclouded eyes. He takes a deep breath. "Oh, I'm not too upset to answer that. I want everyone watching - whether you're on the Capitol or rebel side - to stop for just a moment and think about what this war could mean for human beings. We almost went extinct fighting one another before. Now our numbers are even fewer. Our conditions more tenuous. Is this really what we want to do? Kill ourselves off completely? In the hopes that - what? Some decent species will inherit the smoking remains of the earth?"

Caesar looks taken aback. I have to admit I'm puzzled myself - not by the words, but that I would have even bothered trying them on the Capitol, which I know is beyond caring. "I don't really … I'm not sure I'm following …"

"We can't fight one another, Caesar. There won't be enough of us left to keep going. If everybody doesn't lay down their weapons - and I mean, as in very soon - it's all over, anyway."

"So … you're calling for a cease-fire?"

"Yes, I'm calling for a cease-fire." My ears detect a put-upon tone, a weariness that doesn't ring true. It was Caesar who drew out the word, and I can tell - this must have been the deal that I must have made. This word was the reason for the entire performance. But it seems reluctant. Although - what was said before? About the war and our potential extinction? That does ring true, as if they are ideas I've been contemplating for a long time.

"Now why don't we ask the guards to take me back to my quarters so I can build another hundred card houses?"

That's it. And as the image fades away, I realize all of a sudden that that boy is gone - forever. He exists now only on film. All his healthy innocence - and all his perilous naivete - is gone with him. Perhaps I understand a little better, through the viewing, my baffling relationship with - her. Beyond the act - and I can see him putting on an act for the audience; it's so clear - he really did believe what he way saying. The poor fool. The idiotic fool

"Well, I guess now I know," I say, having found strength in the comparison - I may be broken compared to the boy on TV, but I am so much wiser. "I guess I know why you all are still restraining me. I suppose there must be a high price to pay for speaking against the rebellion. But why even bother rescuing me? I'm sure they were days away from killing me themselves."

"Peeta," starts Haymitch.

"Haymitch," I cut in, hastily. "Nobody has come to see me. Nobody. Does that really mean …?"

He works his jaw a moment, but his glance at me doesn't waver. "Not many made it from town. A few. A few. No one … from the bakery."

I bless the morphling. This confirmation hits me hard in a place that I can't really feel right now. "But - my mother's family? Do you know? You remember the kids. The Porters?"

His mouth twists. "I'm - not sure." He glances up toward the dark glass. "Your visitors are restricted, of course, and I'm not sure who has tried to see you."

"In all this time," I ask him, scowling, "you never bothered to check?"

"All this time?" he shoots back. "I spent the first thirty days here confined to a little piece of hell called detox. I've barely had the run of District 13 for two weeks."

Oh - that explains some things, I guess. In particular, his frighteningly sallow complexion. His own imprisonment - his own form of torture. I mean - it doesn't compare to mine. But at least I can't really remember mine.

"I'll ask around," he says, but I can tell by his voice there is no cause for much hope on that end.

Yet, I grab at it anyway. I have to. I have to. I think I would weep to see even my uncle's face right now.

"Ahem," says Dr. Molina, impatient. He has loaded a second tape.

This next video is unlike any other one I've seen yet. It's grainy - a recording from a long distance of a woman on a stage in an ill-lit theatre. Crowds of gray-uniformed spectators fill the room up to the stage, and the balconies all around it.

"Thank you for adjusting your schedules for this special announcement. I am here to update you on the progress of the war. I am pleased to inform you that, after careful deliberation and of course a lengthy recovery from her injuries, Katniss Everdeen has consented to assist our efforts and join the Rebellion as the Mockingjay, the primary messenger of our war effort to rouse the cooperation of the districts.

"Miss Everdeen's commitment to us is under the proviso that the other victors currently held in captivity by the Capitol - Peeta Mellark, Johanna Mason, Enobaria Stone and Annie Cresta - will be granted full pardon for any damage they do, in word or deed, to the rebel cause."

I blink at the screen, trying and failing to come up with reasonable explanations for this turn of events.

"But in return for the unprecedented request, Soldier Everdeen has promised to devote herself to our cause. It follows that any deviance from her mission, in either motive or deed, will be viewed as a break in this agreement. The immunity would be terminated and the fate of the four victors determined by the law of District 13. As would her own. Thank you."