Chapter Fourteen
"Identification?"
"Soldier Mellark," I reply, tempted to add 'district 12.' But I bite my tongue and instead hold out my hand, the back of which has been stamped with the number of my new squad.
A difference with this trip is I'm invited to sit in the main cabin of the hovercraft, and I can fully see out the windows. I watch the heavily wooded ground of District 13 drop away and the curved surface of the earth reveal itself as we climb higher. I know we aren't far from District 12, by air, anyway, and I look out the left-hand windows to where I think it is located - somewhere south-west of 13. The hills and woods are green under a pale sky.
After a couple of hours, the terrain changes - as I remember from the Victory Tour - to flatter plains of paler-green grass. I'm told to buckle in for landing as we approach District 8 for refueling. So I have a more limited view of 8's central town - but still see enough to get an idea of the incredible devastation of the war. Much of the town is - rubble. The factories are still, smokeless, and many of them are in ruins, as well. I can see some houses and tents set up in the plains beyond the factories, and, as we land, activity in the town itself, as people are already clearing away the devastation, picking over stones and the collapsed piles of what once were houses.
And this is what an intact District looks like, I think gloomily.
After we take off again, lunch is served to me and the other recruits headed toward the Capitol. As usual, I've been left to myself for the first part of the trip, but as we eat, I try to join in the conversations. I find out many of the new soldiers are not from 13, but are refugees or volunteers from other districts, who came to 13 to train. We've also picked up quite a few people from 8, who are going to join their own commander, Paylor, the rebel leader of the District who is now one of the top commanders in the war. They speak of her fondly, and with pride. They also wear their own "uniforms," which seem to be solid blue jumpsuits, with a factory wheel patch on the arm.
I remember thinking once that there really weren't enough regular citizens in the districts with enough spirit to rise up and sustain a rebellion against the Capitol. But apparently I was wrong.
The second leg of this trip takes twice as long as the first, as we fly over the wide, flat vista of the central part of Panem, a brown flatland, through which we can see the carved rivulets of long-dried rivers. At one point, someone points toward the south and says, "They say most of the arenas are over there." Everyone looks at me.
I peer out the window, but we are too high to make out anything but the twisty, rocky terrain. The southern horizon is somewhat hazy, but I think I can make out an enormous lake - or maybe it's the sea - in the distance. Then we start to slow as we approach the mountains and I get a glimpse - and my heart nearly stops - of the familiar tall skyscape of the Capitol before we descend.
The hovercraft lands near the train tracks in the lowlands outside the mountains, right before the tracks go into them. A massive camp has been set up here. When we disembark, we are directed to different lines and someone hands me a bag and reviews the supplies - tent, sleeping bag, water bottle, first aid kid, etc. There's a hold-up, though, I'm pulled aside and another person roots through a pill pack in the first aid kit and removes something.
"You're not authorized for nightlock," I'm told, which might be the most bizarre thing I've ever been told - which is saying something. When I demand an explanation, I'm told that the little suicide pills - included in every soldier's kit in case of capture - have been branded "nightlock," in honor of, well - I know what. I can't even formulate a response to this. I'm directed to another line to wait for a small train - it's just an engine and two cargo cars - to pick us up. It's early evening now, and the light is starting to grow gold and lavender. There are no clouds today, but there is fresh snow on the upper slopes of the mountains, and I stamp my feet to keep from getting too cold.
When I board the train - despite the fact that I'm sitting in the dark, on the hard floor of a cargo car, instead of in the plush furnishings of the trains that brought me to the Capitol before - I have to fold my arms together to keep my hands from trembling out of control. I can feel the crushing weight of the rock overhead, but even worse, when I emerge I know I will be back, again, in the place that holds such terrifying memories.
I disembark in the train station - a familiar place overrun by unfamiliar people. I look up at the tall apartment buildings that overlook it - but they look abandoned: some have broken glass, or even chunks missing out of the candy-colored concrete. Instead of the crowds of brightly-colored, wigged, tattooed Capitol citizens, I'm greeted by a sea of gray-clad soldiers and white tents arranged in neat grids. The person who greets me at the train station asks for my identification and again I give it, as well as show the number - 451 - that is stamped on my hand.
The person does a double-take, but doesn't say anything, just points me toward the tent encampment that belongs to my squad. There's nothing to do at that point but take a deep breath, concentrate, and walk over there, hoping that Katniss doesn't shoot me on sight.
It's actually Gale who sees me first. He's a little off to himself, outside the grid of their tents, sitting on a metal box and cleaning the arrows belonging to some sort of heavily-weaponized crossbow. He jumps to his feet and the movement draws a response from the rest. I put up my hands in a show of coming-in-peace, but a tall man with close-cropped gray hair approaches me and orders me to halt.
When she comes running out to see what the fuss is, Katniss stops dead in her tracks and looks at me with her mouth open. She's not armed at the moment, thank goodness, because I think I've seen this look before, in the first arena, and it does not bode me well.
"What's going on?" the man asks me.
"I'm your new squad member," I reply, as calmly as possible.
"Jackson!" he shouts, and a woman steps over, her gun half raised.
"I won't …" I start to say, but, now covered, the man crosses over to me in two quick steps and takes the gun off of me.
"Lower your arms, soldier," he says. When I do, he grabs my hand and can see the stamp now.
"Four-five-one," he says, looking over his shoulder.
"Are you - Commander Boggs?" I ask him.
"You don't remember me?" he says.
I shake my head. "Sorry. If you were involved in bringing me to 13, I don't remember much about it."
"Could this be a mistake?" asks Gale, stepping up. He frowns down at me as if trying to read in my face how close I am to going berserk again.
"I'm going to call base," says Boggs, striding back toward the tents.
"It won't matter," I tell the assembled faces. "The president assigned me herself. She decided the propos needed some heating up." I avoid looking at Katniss or Gale, but study the others behind them. I light on the one other familiar face, and I am surprised to see a grin on it - Finnick, twirling his trident, thoughtfully.
When Boggs comes back, he orders me to set up my own tent and for Jackson to set up a two-person, round-the-clock watch on me. "Everdeen, with me," he says brusquely, and she follows him as he strolls away.
"Where do I -?"
"C'mere," says one of the 13 soldiers, and he leads me into their tent grid and finds me an open square of concrete on which to pitch my tent. I go through the contents of the duffel bag I was assigned at the base camp, pull out a nylon bag that looks about the size and shape of a folded up tent and start struggling with it.
"Want some help?" asks a quiet voice in my ear.
It's Finnick who, despite what happened the last time I saw him, is smiling at me with a gentle expression. Then I realize - he's used to dealing with crazy people; he's probably quite good at it. I breathe out my relief and give him a small smile. "Thanks."
He sets his trident down and helps me unfold the canvas and put the poles together. "Got it?" he says, after running through the instructions to put it all together, and I nod, grateful that he has helped, and grateful that he's letting me do the last part on my own, in front of the squad.
"Finnick?" I say, before he can stroll off. "I -."
"Don't mention it," he says.
"Sorry I -" I hesitate. "Sorry."
He nods and leaves.
While I'm finishing up the tent, Katniss returns, and I can hear the angry stamp of her boots. This, too, is weirdly familiar. But I just sit in the doorway of my tent, unpacking my bag. In the heavy pockets of my uniform, I've got my four bottles of pills, which I line up in one corner, next to a water bottle.
"What time is my watch?" Katniss asks, rather loudly.
Jackson's response is not clear to me, but Katniss' next words ring out over the whole camp. "I wouldn't be shooting Peeta. He's gone. Johanna's right. It'd be just like shooting another of the Capitol's mutts."
In the tent, I go red and my fingers start to shake. I want to get out and scream back at her about who is really the mutt, but I bury that feeling and instead just back out of the tent, sit cross-legged in front of it, and stare up, as if in mere curiosity, at Katniss and Jackson.
"Well, that sort of comment isn't recommending you either," says Jackson at last.
"Put her in the rotation," Boggs says wearily.
Jackson shakes her head. "Midnight to four. You're on with me."
At that there is the sound of a whistle, and everyone starts wandering off. One of the 13 soldiers stops and looks down at me. "That's dinner. You want some help finding the canteen?"
"Thanks, I'm not hungry," I say.
"Tell you what, I'll bring something back for you," he says, and I stare at him, wondering why he's being so nice.
But he does come back and introduces himself as Mitchell, a sharpshooter. He's brought a small bowl of beans, with a hunk of bread stuck in it, for me, and he sits down next to me to eat his own dinner on a tray. He doesn't say much, just asks how the trip was, and, as people start filtering back in from the canteen, he introduces them. Homes and Leeg 1, fellow soldiers from 13. Katniss' camera crew - all clearly from the Capitol - Cressida, the director, a woman with a shaved and tattooed head; Messalla, her assistant - no tattoos, but lots of piercings; the two cameramen, both burly red-heads, Castor and Pollux. When Finnick returns, he sits right next to me. Katniss and Gale wander back in last. They both look unhappy.
As everyone eats, there is a tense silence that feels - and certainly is - unnatural. As is not unexpected, people's eyes flick back and forth between me and Katniss, as if waiting for the inevitable outburst. The cameramen probably are waiting for the cue to start filming it. That would be an interesting 'story' for Plutarch - not lovers reuniting on the battlefield, but me and Katniss, hurling horrible insults at each other across camp. But I'm the one who so far has been calm, so, if they are being fair, it is Katniss' temper they should be worried about.
After dinner she asks Boggs if she can put a call into 13, and I take some comfort in that she is probably calling Haymitch and he is hopefully reassuring her.
"Good times," says Finnick, as she disappears, and Gale glances at him unhappily.
As the night falls, a portable heater is turned on and its warmth spreads around the circle of quiet soldiers. Looking up, I'm surprised to see the stars turning out - usually you can't see but a few of them in the Capitol, and I realize that must be because it's dark here - the power is out in this part of the city. When Boggs tells me to pull my bag out and sleep outside my tent, I comply without any objections. It won't get too cold near the heater, and I've been shut in so long, anyway. Everybody except for Finnick and Homes - my first watch - eventually head into their separate tents, and I just sit there, hugging myself and looking up at the stars.
"How you holding up?" asks Finnick, coming over to sit next to me.
"Twenty-four hours ago, I was sleeping in a hospital bed with an observation glass," I say, wryly. "Hooked up to morphling. I guess, so far, I'm doing better than I thought I would."
"And she hasn't shot you, yet, so that's a good start."
I smile. "Yeah. It's still a possibility, of course.." I unhug myself and clasp my hands together. "It's going to be a long night," I add, with a sigh.
"Hold up," he says, reaching inside his jacket. He brings out a very short length of rope and holds it out to me. "You remember your knots?" he says, deftly tying one, then pulling the rope and releasing it. "I find it helps - to occupy my hands when I'm stressed out."
"Thanks, I'll try it," I say, gratefully. Because I don't know if I'll be able to sleep. My mind is alive and my thoughts are quicker than they should be.
Finnick shows me a few knots, and, since Homes is watching in fascination, I pass the rope along to him for a few minutes, so he can practice, too. Finnick tells him about his home - District 4, on the coast.
"It's beautiful there," I agree. "Katniss once said that, if she lived near the water, she thought the sound of the waves might drown out - some of her darker thoughts."
"Your memories?" asks Finnick, gently.
"They are like - bubbles floating in the air, and occasionally I can catch them intact, but sometimes they dissolve. Does that make sense?"
"A bit."
"I've been trying to remember the Quell. I didn't remember any of it. When they tortured me - at the very end - they made me afraid to even think about it. But I've been walking backward from when they captured me, after the force field blew out. I haven't got very far. Just to - when Katniss and Johanna left, with the coil. That's it."
"Well, keep going. There's nothing scary about the Quell, except those tree rats we ate."
When Finnick stretches, says good-night, and heads back toward his tent, I tense, because I know it must be midnight now, and Katniss will be joining me next. She and Jackson sit on the other side of the heater from me, and they, after an initial nod in my direction, don't engage me in conversation, so I just work with the rope, trying to remember Finnick's more complicated knots. It keeps both hands and thoughts at bay - though not all thoughts. I spend about an hour trying to think exactly how to talk to Katniss. I still want them from her - my memories, of her and me. But every opening line I can think of sounds harsh and accusatory. Finally, knowing I'm never going to come up with the perfect words, I just glance up at her - see the murderous thoughts in her face - and just say the first thing that comes to me.
"These last couple of years must have been exhausting for you. Trying to decide whether to kill me or not. Back and forth. Back and forth."
She looks startled, and I expect a response in kind - I know I've started the conversation out on hostile ground. But she blinks and says, "I never wanted to kill you. Except when I thought you were helping the Careers kill me. After that, I always thought of you as … an ally."
"Ally," I repeat. That is the person you partner with, if only temporarily, in the arena. It seems both fitting and crazily inadequate. And what is she to me? "Friend," I say. "Lover. Victor. Enemy. Fiancee. Target. Mutt. Neighbor. Hunter. Tribute." Somehow all of these fit, but still none of them seem enough to describe her. "Ally." I shrug. "I'll add it to the list of words I use to try to figure you out." I complete a very nice knot and admire it for a second. "The problem is, I can't tell what's real anymore, and what's made up."
It's Finnick's voice that answers me, from the darkness around us. "Then you should ask, Peeta. That's what Annie does."
"Ask who?" I respond. "Who can I trust?"
"Well, us for starters," says Jackson. "We're your squad."
"You're my guards."
"That, too. But you saved a lot of lives in 13. It's not the kind of thing we forget."
My fingers and eyes return to my rope, as I try to work that out. Finally, I remember that it's the same thing that Prim told me, and that it has to do with an attack on 13 and that warning I gave them through my last appearance on Capitol TV.
I try to direct my thoughts back to the Quell, but instead they are now distracted by memories of my weeks in the Capitol - of Johanna calling me an "evil mutt version" of myself, despite everything she knows I went through. Now is not the time to let my mind dive back into those memories, so I resist it, but I still find myself thinking about the day Johanna told me I was being brainwashed. And how to fight it? Hold on to memories of Katniss the Capitol didn't have on camera. Which is hardly any. And most of them are sad.
Then, as before, the words come to me - Green. Orange. I puzzle over these. Colors, of course, once meant a great deal to me. I used to paint things. But why those two? And why recur, off and on, in a pair, whenever I think of the Capitol? Something about … Effie's wig?
"Your favorite color," I say out loud, without meaning to. I look up at Katniss, and she returns my look, a question on her face. "It's green?"
"That's right," she says. And suddenly I see her, sitting down on the ground, in the sunlight, picking weeds. And I remember it now, swallowing my wounded feelings and reaching out to this girl, to be her friend:
"You don't have anything to be sorry for. You were just keeping us alive."
And I'm just clinging gratefully to this lost memory, when Katniss adds, "And yours is orange."
"Orange?" I repeat. It fits the mantra. But I'm not sure - maybe it's because Effie's garish wig is stuck in my head. It's not a particularly appealing color.
"Not bright orange," she says, as if reading my mind. "But soft. Like the sunset. At least that's what you told me once."
I close my eyes. Of course. Of course. The soft orange base of the sunset, with the dark blue at the bottom rim, and the clouds turning purple and pink around the golden light. "Thank you," I breathe, as not one memory, but dozens upon dozens, come upon me. The dying light of the arena. Sunset on the roof of the tribute center. Dusk over the meadow, with the figure of the girl sitting alone in the field of dandelions.
We could take a shot at just being friends.
"You're a painter," she says suddenly, in a choked voice. "You're a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces." The words come out of her as if forcing their way out, and when she's done, she gets up and goes back into her tent, abruptly.
I want to call her back, to wait, to slow down. I don't know how she knows these things about me. These things that aren't common knowledge. How closely does she know me, down to the way I tie my shoes? How would she know about how I like to sleep? Why would she even bother remembering these little things about me? Things I don't remember about myself?
I look down at my boots and see that they are single-knotted and know somehow that this is wrong. In fact, it starts driving me crazy. I pull them in, one after another, to re-tie them properly. And sigh with the relief.