A/N: Hello everyone! A few days ago I received a PM from someone wondering if I was ever going to finish this fanfic. The answer, my friend, is yes. I realised after going through all my fanfics, that this was the very first one that I published for people other than my dear friend "Dobby" to read. (because she is my little editing house-elf) And I thought I owed it to my past self to finally finish this story. Please continue to read this, because I promise that I will update more regularly. My aim is to finish it before I start uni in February!
While writing this chapter I remembered why I began writing it in the first place - because I love writing from Peeta's point of view. He is so wonderfully selfless and empathetic of people around him. You may notice that this chapter is very similar to the book, there are some direct quotes from other characters. I did this in order to fully demonstrate what the story would have been like if it were Peeta not Katniss. Anyway, enjoy this massive chapter!
Peeta Not Katniss: Chapter 5
After Katniss' appearance on the television Gale came and found me. He sat down next to me in the classroom and wordlessly handed me a bottle of water. I hadn't realised how much time had passed since I ran out of the Control Room, but I hurriedly opened the bottle and drained the contents. We sat in silence for a little while until he said – "It's remarkable that they were able to survive here for so long" talking about District 13.
"Yeah, it is. But they sure did take their time to show up," I reply somewhat bitterly. "We might not have had quite so many Hunger Games if they'd revealed themselves sooner."
"It wasn't that simple. They had to build up a rebel base in the Capitol, get some sort of underground organised in the districts. Then they needed someone to set the whole thing in motion. They needed Katniss… and you." Gale says.
"I've already agreed to be their leader, their substitute Mockingjay, why haven't they done anything yet?" I say getting angry. "They should be trying to get her back!"
"You're preaching to the choir," he replies, his frustration clear on his face. "But after that video, they'll be less motivated to rescue her, they'll think that she doesn't deserve to be rescued. She's done a lot of damage to the Rebellion by calling for a ceasefire. She's the Mockingjay, the one that the Districts were supporting. The Capitol have used that to their advantage," he says, disgust in his voice.
"Why do you think she said it?" I ask, not really wanting to know the answer but the words just needed to be voiced. Gale's face goes pale and he looks me dead in the eye.
"She might have been tortured. Or persuaded. My guess is she's made some kind of a deal to protect you," he says. "Peeta… she's still trying to keep you alive."
I knew that he would say it. It was running through my own mind before he arrived in the room. She promised that she would keep me alive this time. She's using the guise of a confused, pregnant girl to protect herself, saying that she didn't know what she was doing in the Games. Hiding behind the false pregnancy that I used to try and protect her during the Games. The people of the Capitol would be sympathetic to her and that would hopefully protect her from being visibly hurt by Snow. But for how long? The Games are still on, but this time there is more than our lives at stake. What they did to District 12 was atrocious and I cannot let that happen to any other Districts in the name of Katniss or myself. However a ceasefire would do nothing at this point – only let the Capitol take control. No, what we need is support and someone to rally behind. We need Katniss, and I will do everything in my power to rescue her. I've already decided that I will become the Mockingjay, but I was going to do it my way.
I arrive in the Control Room to find it empty. I was going to talk to Coin about a rescue mission for Katniss, but, as always, my priorities are not held by anyone that can actually get the job done. I groan in frustration.
Where is she? Doesn't she live in this damn room?
A cough from behind me alerts me to the presence of someone else. I turn to find Haymitch standing in the doorway of the Control Room, blocking my way out. He is just as shabbily dressed as he was when I saw him earlier. I made the effort not to talk to him before, but now it seems like he has something to say to me.
"Meeting doesn't start for another half-hour," he says, gesturing to the room.
"I was looking for Coin," I reply, folding my arms when he does move out of the doorway.
"We're going to have to work together again. So, go ahead. Just say it." I think of Katniss and how hard Haymitch tried to keep her alive, in both Games, and how wrecked he has been since I woke on the hovercraft.
"I can't believe you weren't able to rescue her," I say, dropping my arms to my side and frowning slightly. "I know," he replies, rubbing his face tiredly.
There's a sense of incompleteness, not because he hasn't apologized, because I know that he is as upset about it as I am. It's because we were a team. We had a deal to keep Katniss safe. I know he also had one with her, to keep me safe, but I thought we understood each other! Katniss has a family that needs her, and I have no one. My family all died. My life is worth so much less than hers.
"Now you say it," I tell him, readying myself for the blame that he has for me. The blame really went both ways for us.
"I can't believe you let her out of your sight that night," says Haymitch. I nod, accepting the utter stupidity of what happened that night.
"I play it over and over in my head. I should have gone with her. She didn't want allies in the first place, we should have just left like she wanted that morning."
"You had no choice. She can be as stubborn as a rock when she wants. And even if I could've made Plutarch stay and rescue her that night, the whole hovercraft would've gone down. We barely got out as it was," he says. I meet Haymitch's eyes. They are grey and deep and ringed with the circles of sleepless nights. "She's not dead yet, Peeta."
"We're still in the Game." I don't even try to stay positive, I say it as a fact. We're in the Game and this time it's Katniss who will come out of it alive. Haymitch knows it too.
"Still in. And I'm still your mentor." Haymitch says, clapping me on the shoulder, a tight smile on his face.
In the meeting, half an hour later, it is decided that I will be shown in a propaganda video, a propo, throwing my support behind the Rebellion. They want to fly me to District 8 and show me interacting with people in a hospital. Coin hands me a speech that she wants me to read out while I'm there, but I don't take it from her.
"I'm not going to read from a card," I say.
"You've seen him in action Coin," Haymitch says, coming to my defence. "He doesn't need direction. Our Peeta here is the wordsmith of the lot of us. Give him a topic and he will deliver a whirlwind of a speech." I smile thankfully at Haymitch.
Since I'll be in a combat zone, Beetee helps me with armour that Katniss' stylist, Cinna, had made for me before the Peacekeepers killed him. Katniss told me how close the two of them had gotten since they met, how he was a good friend and support for her. The news that he was tortured and murdered by Peacekeepers hit me badly. We could use all the friends we had. Before he died, Cinna designed armour for Katniss and myself, armour that would show us as the Mockingjays – the symbols for the Rebellion. Obviously Cinna had hoped that the both of us would be wearing it together.
'Next time we will be' I say to myself, staring at my image in the mirror.
The armour is comfortable and flexible. A helmet of some interwoven metal that fits close to my head. A vest to reinforce the protection over my vital organs. A small white earpiece that attaches to my collar by a wire. Beetee secures a mask to my belt, in case of a gas attack. "If you see people dropping for reasons you can't explain, put it on immediately." Finally he straps a gun to my back. "You shouldn't need it, but better safe than sorry."
Just as I am about to leave with Boggs, Coin's right hand man who is going to be my bodyguard in District 8, Finnick runs into the room. He is in a state of agitation; a half- knotted rope twisted round his fingers; hair dishevelled; wearing nothing but a hospital gown and underwear.
"Peeta, they won't let me go! I told them I'm fine, but they won't even let me ride in the hovercraft!" I step towards him, thinking fast. I don't think he is ready for combat either, but any plea on my part would be useless. Remembering Beetee's comment that when Finnick was ready he had a surprise for him in the form of a special trident, I smile warmly at my friend.
"I almost forgot. Beetee wanted me to tell you that he has designed a new trident for you. He's down in Special Weaponry." At the word trident, it's as if the old Finnick pushes to the surface.
"Really? What does it do?"
"I have no clue, but he said that you were going to love it," I say smiling encouragingly.
"Right. Of course. I guess I better get down there," he says.
"Finnick? You might need to put on some trousers first." I say gesturing at his bare legs. He looks down, as if noticing for the first time, and then back up at me – a smirk forming on his face. He whips off his hospital gown, revealing his underwear.
"Why? Do you find this," he strikes a ridiculous provocative pose, "distracting?" I can't help laughing, as he continues to flex his muscles and pull 'sexy' faces at me. I look at Boggs standing just behind me and can't help but laugh even more at his uncomfortable expression. I turn back to Finnick and I'm so glad to see him happy and acting more like he was when I first met him – flirty and outrageous.
"I'm only human, Odair" I say as I turn and follow Boggs to the lift.
"Good luck," he calls after me.
I settle into my seat on the hovercraft, watching the TV crew checking their gear. I don't know what I'm going to say when I get to District 8, the speeches Haymitch talked about were all improvised ones. But I guess that's why they are putting me in the field and not in some studio in 13. Coin seemed way too happy to have me give an inspiring speech somewhere – it didn't matter where. It seems as though I am the one she wanted for the role of Mockingjay. That's why she isn't organising a rescue for Katniss as soon as possible.
I swallow thickly. The sooner I prove myself useful to Coin the sooner she will deliver her end of the bargain.
Soon we are passing over District 12. My home. My stomach heaves at the thought. It was me who chose not to see the ruins of District 12 when Plutarch offered to let me go there; I just couldn't stomach the fact that, under all the rubble from the bombs, would be the bodies of my family, my friends, and people I'd grown up with. I may not have known everyone that died that day, but they were part of the backdrop of my life before the Games; they were my people. They died because of what happened in the Games. What I… what we did, and what the Rebels have begun.
I don't regret my choice not to visit it. Just flying over District 12 causes goose-bumps to form on my arms and the hair to stand up on the back of my neck. I feel sick and angry and sad all at once and I have to close my eyes and not think. Not think about the Bakery, or the school or any of the places that are no longer standing.
But I can't fight the urge any longer; I need to see what it looks like. I move in my seat in order to see out the window, looking down at my home. Even though we are high above District 12, I can still see smoke and dust rising from the land below us. The fact that bombers would have been so cut off from what they were doing to the people below makes me sick, and I can't look down anymore.
I right my position and clench my jaw tightly, my hands unconsciously doing the same. When I unclench my fists I see that my hands are bloody from where my fingernails have cut into my palm. I don't feel the pain of it though, just the sinking feeling in my stomach at the thought that Katniss might be in much more pain than I should be in.
Gale, who is sitting to my left, nudges me. I close my hands and look up at him. He silently holds out bandages to wrap around my palms.
"Don't want our Mockingjay to look bad for the camera," he says with a half smirk, jerking his head at the crew. I nod my thanks and begin to wrap the bandage round my injured palms.
"Not the worst injury I've had in the past couple of years," I say rolling my eyes at my stupidity.
"Yeah I heard you got a paper cut the other day," Gale quips back good-naturedly. I half smile in return, glad for the friendly tone of his voice. Our conversation is interrupted by our arrival at District 8.
As soon as we are all off the hovercraft, the craft lifts into the air and vanishes within seconds. 'Well that's not reassuring,' I think as I watch the hovercraft disappears from sight. I look around at the people accompanying me to the hospital – my bodyguards Boggs and Gale, two broad-shouldered Capitol cameramen with heavy mobile cameras encasing their bodies like insect shells, the director Cressida and her assistant Messalla.
A second hovercraft lands, discharging medical supplies and a crew of medics. We hurry through a maze of warehouses and make our way to the streets. There we see the wounded from a recent attack being brought in. Many are being transported on make-shift stretchers, wheelbarrows, carts while others are being carried towards the warehouse marked out as a hospital. I knew I was going to a hospital, but I wasn't expecting this.
Blood mixed with dirt in the street, people are crying in pain, there are limbless people helping those less fortunate than themselves. I couldn't believe my eyes. I've seen some gruesome things, having been in the Hunger Games, twice, but I've never seen anything like this. I forcibly hold back tears as watch a young girl scream for her Mother. This is where they plan on filming me?
"I can't do this," I whisper, shaking my head and clenching my jaw to stop the tears falling. I turn to Boggs. "This won't work. I won't be good here." I say to him. Boggs stops a moment and places his hands on my shoulders.
"You will. Just let them see you. That will do more for them than any doctor in the world could." He says calmly. Slowly I nod my head, not really believing his words, but still wanting to do something productive for these people.
A woman directing the incoming patients catches sight of us, she does a sort of double take, and then strides over. With a jerk of her thumb, she orders the medics into the warehouse. They do as she commands without question.
"This is Commander Paylor of Eight," says Boggs. "Commander this is Peeta Mellark."
"Yeah, I know who he is," says Paylor. "You're alive then. We weren't sure." Her voice is authoritative and I can't help but feel small standing in front of her. She has a bandage round her neck, blood seeping through the once white cloth, a weapon slung across her back, and looks world weary to the point of wanting to end the world in order to have a nap. I feel ridiculous in my brand-spanking new armour, standing next to such a war-hardened warrior.
"I'm still not too sure myself," I answer, remembering that I'm only a few weeks out of hospital back in 13. Maybe I shouldn't have been so quick to jump back into action. I'm fit, but not quite up to scratch standing next to Boggs, Gale and Paylor.
"Been in recovery," Boggs supplies, tapping his own head. "Bad concussion." He lowers his voice a moment. "Been torn up since finding out about the miscarriage. But he insisted on coming by to see your wounded."
"Well, we've got plenty of those," says Paylor.
"You think this is a good idea?" Gale asks frowning at the hospital in front of them. "Assembling your wounded like this?"
"I think it's slightly better than leaving them on the streets to die," says Paylor.
"That's not what I meant," Gale tells her.
"Well currently that's my other option. But if you come up with a third and get Coin to back it, I'm all ears." Paylor waves me towards the door. "Come on in, Mockingjay. And by all means, bring your friends." I look back at the TV crew, take a deep breath, and follow her into the hospital.
A heavy industrial curtain hangs the length of the building, forming a large corridor. I stifle a gasp when I see corpses lining the corridor, white clothes covering their faces. And it's not the stench that makes my eyes water.
"We've got a mass grave started a few blocks west of here, but I can't spare the manpower to move them yet," says Paylor. She finds a slit in the curtain and opens it wide.
I take a steadying breath. I look over at Boggs, who nods slightly, and I slowly follow Paylor through the curtain.
The smell is much worse within the curtained area, so much so that I feel as though my senses have been assaulted. As my eyes adjust to the semi-darkness of the hospital, the only light coming from tiny skylights far above our heads, I see the rows upon rows of wounded. I look around and see only pain and suffering. The buzz of medical equipment, groans of pain, and cries of loved ones combines into a sound that pummels into my chest like a physical force.
The bandages round my palms are wet with sweat. My chest tightens and I can't seem to get enough air in my lungs. I clench my hands trying to breathe as normally as possible. I feel panic rise from my stomach, and there's a good chance I'm either going to throw up, pass out, or cry. Or maybe all three at once. But then I catch sight of Paylor, who's watching me so closely, waiting to see what I am made of, and if any of them have been right to think they can count on me. So I stand up straight and force myself deeper into the warehouse, to walk into the narrow strip between two rows of beds.
"Peeta?" a voice croaks out from my left, breaking apart from the general din. "Peeta?" A hand reaches for me out of the haze. I cling to it for support. Attached to the hand is a young woman with an injured leg. Blood has seeped through the heavy bandages. Her face reflects her pain, but something else, too, something that seems completely incongruous with her situation. "Is it really you?" she asks.
"Yeah, it's me." I manage to get out. Joy. That's the expression on her face. At the sound of my voice it brightens, erases the pain momentarily.
"You're alive! We didn't know. People said you were, but we didn't know for sure!" she says excitedly.
"I was pretty hurt, but I got better," I say. "Just like you will." I try to sound encouraging, but I'm still so surprised by the woman's reaction.
"I've got to tell my brother!" The woman struggles to sit up and calls to someone a few beds away. "Eddy! Eddy! He's here! It's Peeta Mellark!"
A boy, probably twelve years old, turns to us. Bandages obscure half of his face. The side of his mouth I can see opens as if to utter an exclamation. I go to him, crouch down so that I am on the same level that he is, our eyes meeting. I smile warmly at the little boy and brush back the curls from his forehead. Murmur a greeting. He can't speak, but his one good eye fixes on me with such intensity, as if he's trying to memorise every detail on my face.
I hear my name moving through the hospital like a breeze, spreading to the far reaches, smiles alight the faces all around me. "Peeta! Peeta Mellark!" The sounds of pain and grief dissipate while words of anticipation take their place. From all sides, voices beckon to me. I begin to move through the hospital, clasping hands extended to me, touching the unharmed parts of people who cannot move their arms, greeting people and asking their names, wishing them speedy recovery. Nothing of importance, no amazing words of inspiration. But it doesn't matter. That's not what they need. Boggs is right. It's the sight of me, alive, that is the inspiration.
A baby begins to cry at the noise and the mother tries to shush it as I pass. I stop and look down at the crying child and coo at it, trying to cheer it up. It stops crying and just stares up at me with fascination. I reach out and stroke its tiny hand with my finger. At once its hand closes over my finger, tightly, and begins to giggle.
"That's a strong grip you've got there," I smile down at the baby girl. The mother's eyes fill with tears and she enfolds me in a one armed hug.
"I'm so sorry about the baby," she whispers to me as she releases me from her embrace. I grimly nod my thanks, as the baby also lets go of my finger.
I keep moving through the crowd with so many different interaction with people who are just so happy to see me. It is unbelievable. If this is the reaction I get, I wonder what it would have been like if Katniss was here in my place. Despite her controversial interview with Caesar, almost all of them ask about her, assuring me that she was under duress. To those people I tell them of our promise to keep each other alive, and that I will make good on that promise. People are truly devastated about the loss of the baby. One old man tells me, "the loss of a child is a far greater loss than any other" and the anguish in his eyes show me that he knows this from first-hand experience. The loss that all of these people have suffered is overwhelming. It almost makes me sick to tell them that I'm sad about my 'wife's miscarriage' because that part wasn't real. That was all for show. These people have been through so much, they have actually lost their children. But my love for Katniss was real. And that is what I talk to them about. I tell them that that is what I am fighting for.
Love.
I begin to fully understand the lengths to which people have gone to protect me, and Katniss. What we mean to the Rebels. The ongoing struggle against the Capitol, which has often felt like a journey for just the three of us (Katniss, Haymitch and myself), has not actually been undertaken alone. We have had thousands upon thousands of people from the districts at our sides. She really was their Mockingjay long before I accepted the role on her behalf.
Boggs appears at my side, telling me that we need to leave soon. I had almost forgotten about the others, about the film crew capturing my every move. All of that faded away as soon as I began talking to the people.
I make my way back through the hospital, waving and smiling at those I pass, calling out to those who told me their names – showing that I do honestly care about them. When I pass the young boy with the bandage wrapped round half his face I kneel down beside him and say a proper farewell. He places his hand on my face and smiles as best he can, tears slipping out of the eye that I could see.
I wave my final goodbyes to the hoarse chanting of my name, and I feel a sudden sense of pride of what we, Katniss and I, accomplished. The symbol the two of us created has sparked such inspiration among these people that they would fight for the freedom that they truly deserved, and had never tasted.
When we're outside again, I lean against the warehouse, catching my breath, accepting the canteen of water from Boggs.
"You did great," he says. I smile gratefully up at him drain the water.
"I'm just glad I could help them, in anyway," I reply, handing back the empty canteen.
"We got some nice stuff in there," says Cressida. I look at the insect cameramen, and Messalla scribbling notes. I honestly forgot about them while I was in the heat of the moment.
"I really didn't do much," I say.
"You have to give yourself some credit for what you and Katniss have done in the past," says Boggs.
I think about everything that has happened. From the berries to the second Games. It was all Katniss. Sure there were some things I did on my own, like in District 11 during the Victory Tour. But mostly it was her, I was just following her lead.
"It was all her," I say, shrugging. Boggs' attention shifts to the earpiece in his ear. He listens for a moment, then turns to me and lifts me back onto my feet.
"We've got to get to the airstrip. Immediately," he says. "There's a problem."
"What kind of problem?" Gale asks.
"Incoming bombers," says Boggs. He reaches behind my neck and yanks Cinna's helmet up onto my head. "Let's move!" Boggs leads us back towards the airstrip.
I glance up as we run, not seeing any danger, the sky an empty cloudless pale blue. The streets are clear except for Paylor's people who were still helping some wounded to get into the hospital. Suddenly sirens begin to wail. Capitol hover-planes appear in the sky and bombs begin to fall. One lands near us and I am blown off my feet, into the wall of a warehouse. Blood spills into my eyes and I feel a gash above my eyebrow. I try to move, but pain shoots through my wrist and knee. Boggs pushes me down as I try to move again, shielding me with his own body.
The ground shudders under me as bombs keep falling. I clasp my uninjured hand to the cut above my eyebrow to try and stop the blood from falling in my eyes. I feel my stomach churn – possibly from the blood of the bombing.
"Peeta!" I'm startled by Haymitch's voice in my ear.
"What? Yes, I'm here!" I answer.
"Listen to me. We can't land during the bombing, but it's imperative you're not spotted," he says.
"So they don't know I'm here?" I ask, having thought the bombing was for my presence.
"Intelligence thinks no. This raid was already scheduled," Haymitch says. Plutarch's voice comes up next, telling us to get to a blue warehouse a couple of warehouses down from us. There is a bunker in there, where we can take cover from the raid.
"You've got maybe forty-five seconds to the next wave" Plutarch says, as everyone stands up. Boggs helps me to my feet and I clench my teeth in pain as I put weight on my knee, but I ignore it, instead focusing on following Boggs to the blue warehouse that I can just see through the surrounding buildings. Everyone else surrounds me, keeping me within a protective circle.
We reach another alley just as the new wave of bombing begins. I throw myself into the alley, as close to the wall as possible. Boggs and Gale shield me this time. It seems to go longer this time. I think of all the wounded that were still on the streets before the first wave, and I pray that they got into the hospital before it hit.
I move slightly so that I can look Gale in the eyes.
"They're not following us," I say, my words almost drowned out by the sound of the bombs.
"No, they are targeting something else," he replies.
"But there's nothing back there but – " It hits us at the same time. They weren't aiming for us at all.
"The hospital!" Gale gets up and shouts to the others. "They're targeting the hospital!"
"Not your problem," Plutarch says in our ears. "Get to the bunker."
"But the wounded!" I say, outraged.
"Peeta," I hear the warning in Haymitch's voice. "Don't you even think about –" I yank out the earpiece and let it hang from its wire.
Then I hear machine gun fire coming from the roof of the dirt brown warehouse across the alley. Someone is returning fire. I look over at Gale and he looks at me. Before anyone can stop us we are running towards the ladder leading to the roof. We reach the roof and take off to a row of machine-gun nests. Each looks to be manned by a few rebels. We skid into a nest with a pair of soldiers, hunching down behind the barrier.
"Boggs know you're up here?" Paylor asks, look at us quizzically from behind one of the guns.
"Yep," I say, not actually lying to her. Boggs does know we're here. He probably doesn't want us to be up here, but we are.
"I bet he does," Paylor laughs. "You been trained in these?" she asks, slapping the cock of her gun. Gale nods but holds up his bow that Beetee designed for him.
"I'd rather use my own weapon." He says.
"I know the basics," I say, slipping my gun off my back and turning the safety off. Beetee had briefly shown me how to use it, but I'd never actually fired a gun before – sword or knife I'm alright with, gun…. It seems like a good time to learn.
I clench my first and roll my wrist trying to see how bad the damage is. Pain stops my movement and I notice that a pale blue bruise has already begun to cover my hand. I shake it, trying to ignore the pain it causes. I cock the gun and get ready for the next wave of bombs.
"All right. We expect at least three more waves." Paylor says, "They have to drop their sight shields before they release the bombs. That's our chance. Stay low!" I position myself to shoot from one knee, my good one.
Suddenly they appear in the sky, two blocks down, maybe a hundred meters above us. Seven small bombers in a V formation. Guns blast around me as the Rebels open fire on the hover-planes. I also hear the twang of Gale's bow, letting me know that he too has begun to shoot. I take a deep breath and begin to shoot at the targets. Paylor and I hit one of the lead ships and it goes down. Gale's fire-arrows, also designed by Beetee, hits the tip of a hover-plane and it swerves out of formation.
"Good shot," Gale says to me.
"You too," I respond.
"I was aiming for the one in front. They're faster than we think," he says grimly.
"Positions!" Paylor shouts, as the next wave appears already. Move hover-planes are hit down this time, as I begin to use a different kind of ammunition that Beetee gave me – one that explodes on impact, similar to the explosive arrows that Gale is also now using. Without warning another wave appears in the sky. This time more go down, from Gale, me, and the Rebels surrounding us.
"All right, that's it," Paylor says. Flames and heavy black smoke rise from the wreckage, obscuring our view.
"Did they hit the hospital?" Gale asks.
"Must have," Paylor says grimly. As I hurry back to the ladder, the sight of Messalla and one of the insects emerging from behind an air duct surprises me. I thought they were still hunkered down in the alley.
"They're growing on me," Gale says from next to me. I scramble down a ladder, thinking only of survivors in the hospital. When I reach the bottom I find Boggs and the rest of the crew waiting. I expect some sort of resistance, but Cressida just waves me towards the hospital. She's yelling at Plutarch, obviously on the other end of her earpiece.
"I don't care, Plutarch! Just give me five more minutes!" she yells. Not to question a free pass, I take off running towards the hospital. When I round the corner into the street I catch sight of it. I feel numb as I keep running towards the disaster, avoiding the wrecks of the Capitol planes, solely focused on what once was the hospital. The bombs collapsed the roof, trapping the patients within. A group of rescuers have already assembled, trying to clear a path to the inside. I run over to them.
"What can I do?" I ask frantically. "How can I help?"
"Just stand back, we're going to do everything we can," a grim faced man says. "But there isn't much hope."
Gale and Boggs appear at my sides. The fact that Gale does nothing only confirms what the man said. Miners don't abandon an accident until it's hopeless. They begin guiding me away from what's left of the hospital entrance. I don't struggle against them. I let myself be pulled away.
"If they weren't killed by the debris falling from the roof, the smoke would have killed them," I hear Gale say. I swallow thickly. All those people. I met them. I talked to them. I gave them hope, and then the Capitol killed them. The face of the little boy comes to my mind and I wish I had asked someone for his name. My chest tightens at the thought of his bright and happy smile. They are dead. They are all dead.
"Come on Peeta, Haymitch says they can get a hovercraft in for us now," Gale tells me, holding out a hand to help me up from the floor. I didn't even realise I had sat down. I take his offered hand and e pulls me up.
"Why would they do that? Those people were defenceless." I ask him.
"Scare others off. Prevent the wounded from seeking help," Gale says. "Those people you met were expendable. To Snow, anyway. If the Capitol wins, what will it do with a bunch of damaged slaves?"
As his words sink in I think about the people and how their lives were just wiped out by the Capitol. I slowly turn back to the hospital and find Cressida, flanked by the insects, standing a couple of meters in front of me. Her manner is un-rattled. Cool even.
"Peeta" she says, "President Snow just had them air the bombing live. Then he made an appearance to say that this was his way of sending a message to the rebels. What about you? Would you like to tell the rebels anything?"
"Yes," I say, remembering the faces of all the people that the Capitol killed today. "I want to tell the rebels that I am alive. I'm standing in District 8 right now, where the Capitol just bombed a defenceless hospital. Inside were unarmed men, women and children." I glance at the rescue team that were trying to gain entrance into the building, many of them were sitting down now, their heads in their hands. "And it looks like there were no survivors." The pain and shock that has gripped me since seeing the hospital up in flames, gives way to anger. Anger at the Capitol for everything that they have done. For the Games, the hospital… for Katniss.
"Before the bombing, I met those people. They were brave and honest, and they didn't deserve to die. This is what the Capitol does! They obliterate what is good and pure in this world, warping it and burning it until there is nothing left but smoke and ash." I let out a deep breath and shake my head slowly. "A ceasefire will accomplish nothing. What we need is to fight! Not in order to put down the Capitol, but to free ourselves. Don't fight for Snow! Fight for your family, your friends, and yourself!"
I'm moving towards the camera now. "President Snow says he's sending us a message? Well, I've got one for him. You can torture us, bomb us, and burn our cities to the ground, but do you see that?" I say as one of the cameras follows as I point to the planes burning on the roof of the warehouse across from us. The Capitol seal on a wing clearly visible through the flames and smoke engulfing it. "Fire is catching! And if we burn… you burn with us!" I shout each word clearly, my face a mask of anger and grief over those we lost today.
Cressida calls "cut" and I come back to reality, taking deep breathes to calm myself. My hands shake as Boggs escorts me to the hovercraft that will take us back to District 13.