So I really wanted to reply to all your reviews, but it's soooo hard now. I love you all and all the strong reactions your having! Everyone's coming down firmly in one camp or the other and I don't know what I can say because we are so close to the end and everything I want to say feels like a spoiler or like I'll give something away and I just HATE spoiling things. But the general response seemed to be 'get your shit together, Cato!' And yeah, he's got some anger issues. We've seen that before. And now he's really letting it control him. He's got a vendetta, against what he doesn't even know, he just wants someone, anything to hurt as much as he does and poor Peeta has taken the brunt of that wrath—which he's taken because he believes he deserves it. He is having quite the identity crisis. Don't expect these things to just go away, we have two more chapters after this. I'm working my way through the final chapter now and I'll just let you know it's going to be a massive one. It could easily be multiple chapters, but I refuse to break it up into more because it will greatly alter flow I've created and what is likely to be a highly tense read (so I hope).
Here's the next chapter! No hints here as to what's in store so go and find out.
Ch. 23- The Price of War
The morning bell blared at five a.m. sharp. Everything was strictly scheduled in District Thirteen. Everyone had a job to do. There was no free time. Well except for Peeta. He awoke in his bunk bleary eyed and grumpy. He wasn't sleeping well. The nightmares still haunted him; his mind still toyed with him. The blood seemed to seep into his reality. He'd wake up in a lurch, blood splashed across his bed, hand's covered in crimson, even his vision stained red, and then he'd blink and everything was normal.
Slipping feet over the edge of the bunk, Peeta hopped down not worrying about making sound; the bottom bunk was empty. His foot thudded against the cold tile and he curled his toes inward. His left foot felt nothing. It was just a sensation-less mechanized prosthetic. If he listened closely in the quiet hours of the night he could hear the motorized ticking of the gears as it moved and responded to the stimulus from his brain to his living nerve endings at the amputation site. It was so strange, because he could still imagine what it felt like—to have two legs. The cold his left foot would be feeling, the prickle on the bottom of his foot, the curling in of his toes. That was all gone now. He only had the feeling in his right leg and that's all he'd ever have.
Tossing aside those depressing thoughts Peeta shrugged out of his nightshirt and began dressing for the day. He preferred to shower late at night before bed. It was less crowded in the communal showers and so he received fewer stares. He wasn't just some celebrity now, he was a leader and it was an awkward position to capacitate as people regarded him with equal amounts of awe and inspiration. They looked up to him for direction, but he was directionless—unmoored. As he pulled the fresh smoky grey v-neck over his head he spotted the mockingjay pin on the small dresser. Peeta felt his stomach drop out from beneath him at the sight of it. Everyone thought he was their Mockingjay, but they didn't know him, not really. People kept dying for the Mockingjay, proving through huge acts of bravery and sacrifice they deserved the title so much more than Peeta. People like Katniss and Portia, even Riece.
The door clicked open and Peeta's father walked in to their small rectangular room. There was barely enough space for Peeta in the tiny accommodations, let alone for him and his weighty father. Peeta pressed to the wall to let him pass as he toweled his hair dry and picked out the same drab gray clothes provided to him by District Thirteen.
"I was thinking of offering my skills up in the kitchen, if they will have me."
His father liked to chat in the morning Peeta had discovered since his miraculous return from the dead. He was a kind of leader now too, having saved a third of the district from certain death and lead them to District Thirteen. It was the third morning since the refugees had arrived—as Thirteeners had taken to calling them. Peeta could tell now that his father had a taste of what Peeta experienced being thrust into a leadership role and he was ready to give it up to get back to the simpler things in life; the anonymity of baking, anything that took his mind off the loss of the rest of his family. Something Peeta didn't linger on too much. They were lost to him long ago. When his mother took to beating her problems out on him and his brothers trapped him in the mines overnight.
"That sounds like a great idea." Peeta offered cheerily. Or as cheerily as he could be provided it was such an ungodly hour, not that one could tell so far underground.
"Yeah I thought so," His dad beamed, dimpling his cheeks. "The baked goods selection here is… lacking."
"Baked good selection?" Peeta asked sarcastically. It was more like a choice between a rock like biscuit or a sour sponge cake thing. Peeta feared it might have been alive at one time.
"I was trying to be polite, but yes. It's atrocious. I can't just stand by and let them continue to mutilate the art of baking."
Peeta laughed. It was a small laugh, but it was progress. Ever since the conversation he'd had with Cato he found his mind drifting even more to dark places, the empty space inside him like a black hole sucking all sorts of foul matter and thoughts inside him. He was responsible for Cato's imprisonment and torture. He was responsible for the fact that he never got to say goodbye to his sister—the one good thing from his family, the person he doted on and loved absolutely. He was responsible for breaking his heart and turning him into this new, callous man—one who didn't care about the war and carnage occurring around him or his important role in fighting it. He just wished to bring as much destruction as he could like the bombing of the Nut.
And then on top of it Peeta continued to push Gale from him. The small reprieves he found in his day anymore were the quiet moments at night with his father—when nothing was expected and he could just be—and the peaceful moments of blissful happiness witnessed through Finnick and Annie. They were engaged and to be married in a few days time. They were his window to a world where happily ever after could exist, even in times as terrible as these.
Once the Mellark's were dressed they exited into the hallway where the commotions of a new day in District Thirteen were being birthed. People in varying uniforms departed from their dorms in quick, brisk walks to wherever their destination lie while the refugees from Twelve clustered in groups—uncomfortable in their new surroundings and missing home—as they tried to find their place. Some had been assigned jobs; things like construction or cleaning, while others waited for a place to open for them, waited for a purpose.
"Well son," His father put a hand on Peeta's shoulder. It was soft and warm and maybe after enough touches like that the blackness that threatened his mind like a suffocating smog would begin to break apart, but not today. "You should swing by the cafeteria, on the second floor, if you're not too busy with all your important duties. I'll sneak you a treat. I'm thinking I'll see what they have and try a hand at your favorite. Mallorca bread."
"Dad, I know where the cafeteria is. And I don't have any 'important duties,'" Peeta mocked. But the promise of his favorite sweet bread was more than tempting. "I'll see if I can stop by this afternoon though."
Peeta turned to follow the hallway around the bend to the stairwell. He was heading just two floors down, while his father would take the elevator up to the cafeteria. He enjoyed the comforts offered by the technological advancements of the District compared to home. Peeta preferred to skip breakfast, his stomach too anxious in the morning after his nightmares to digest anything.
"I love you son."
Peeta froze. He hadn't heard those words in a long time from a family member. He wasn't sure he knew how to respond. By the time he turned to look over his shoulder, his father was already walking away.
"I love you too." Peeta whispered in the middle of the busy hallway and brought a hand up to his shoulder, resting it over the same spot his father's had touched.
The stairwell was pretty empty this morning as everyone typically moved up and down to his or her respective floors by elevator. Peeta was hopping down two flights to meet with Johanna. She had roped him into daily training. It helped take his mind off things as well as help him work through the adjustment period of having his leg freshly amputated, so he didn't fight it. He bet if he did she'd show up at his door before the alarm blared and drag his ass to the gym.
A military recruit stopped to salute on the stairs when he passed, they all did this every time he passed one of them. Peeta tried to keep his head down for that very reason. He couldn't bear to look them in the eye when they didn't know. He moved past with a nod of the head in hello. More steps. Down and down. Right leg then left prosthetic—there was an odd twinge where there shouldn't be. Then he turned the landing, one more to go, and the walls shook. Dust broke free from the concrete ceiling. Peeta missed the step, falling the rest of the way down the stairs.
Somewhere in the distance he heard a scream. Peeta was sprawled on his back, mostly intact if not a little bruised. He rolled onto his stomach. Then another boom followed, this one louder—closer. The ground began to shake like an earthquake, bursts of concussive force. Peeta's heart race began to climb. A nervous sweat broke out on his brow. Screams and shouts filtered into the stairwell. Panic. Peeta pushed up to stand when a violent pain ripped through his left leg and he fell back to the floor with a howl. It was as if a giant splinter of wood had been jammed through the skin straight to the bone. He threw his hand out to grab the leg; it was crooked, in the wrong position and pain flared through it—unbearable. He needed to right it. Except his hand only touched fabric and the metal prosthetic that had replaced his limb.
The sound of explosions ripped through the stairwell like detonated grenades. War had found them. People began streaming down the stairs, whimpering and crying, some covered in dust, others bleeding. Women held children to their chests and raced down the stairs. Others shouted orders—to move for level fourteen, the bomb bunker. Sharp piercing sirens began blaring. There was some kind of announcement. Then the power went out and the emergency lights flickered on, a harsh yellow and flashing bright. It gave everything a distorted and jarring look. People moved in stuttered bursts through the light.
Peeta managed to pull himself into the corner and screamed out in pain, his left leg seizing up. What was happening to him? He was going crazy! There was no leg there anymore and yet he felt a pain so vivid and sharp, like knives delicately shredding his nerves that it had to be real. He couldn't move. He was helpless as phantom pain wracked the leg that was stolen from him, by the very same bombs being dropped on them from above. The ground and walls rattled with each drop of a bomb. Dust began to coat Peeta's skin as the ceiling cracked and splintered raining concrete chunks at random on the fleeing citizens of District Thirteen. A piece dislodged and cracked open a skull, the body falling lifeless down the stairs. More screams.
"Peeta?" A confused voice called out through the panic.
"What are you doing here? You've got to move!" It was Gale. He crouched before Peeta, waving a hand in his face, but Peeta was unresponsive; seized up in a pain he couldn't fight. "Capitol ships are dropping bombs! We have to get deeper. Peeta!"
"I can't!" Peeta gasped through gritted teeth.
"What's wrong, are you hurt?" Gale looked behind himself. His family was clustered behind him, against the wall letting others flood by. "Go, take the kids and get to that bunker. The doors shut in five minutes."
Hazelle looked stricken, but hefted Posy up higher on her chest and grabbed the hand of Rory, Vick latched to him. They disappeared down the stairs in the sea of bodies. Gale reached to touch Peeta and he screamed.
"It's my leg! Something's wrong! I can feel it."
Gale's eyes traced down Peeta's legs, his hand reaching out to feel for a wound. "What? Where?"
Another stab of pain and Peeta threw his head back into the wall. The throb of pain over took the one in his leg for a second, but it didn't last. The sound of explosions was now constant. The very ground vibrated as if they were in a car speeding down the cobblestone roads of District Two. A chunk of concrete shattered to the ground next to Gale.
"We have to get you out of here now! Let's try and get you to stand." Gale reached forward and helped Peeta up to his feet, but a particularly brutal pain pulsed in Peeta's leg and he collapsed forward into Gale's chest, clutching at his arms to try and stay up.
"No… I can't." Peeta bit into his bottom lip, trying to fight back the pain and tears, until it welled with blood. It didn't make any sense. The pain was so real. He could feel the flesh and muscle contracting, his nerves burning in pain. An explosion boomed above and heat warped the stale air of the stairwell. Children's screams and panicked shouts funneled through the smoke that now wafted down the stairs.
"Shit."
Suddenly Peeta's legs were scooped out from under him and he was hefted into the air in Gale's arms with a grunt.
"I've got you." He said and then started jogging down the stairs. Peeta jostled in Gale's arms. He threw his hands around Gale's neck nestling his head in the crook where Gale's shoulder and neck met, holding on for dear life as pain throbbed through the leg he didn't have.
Gale rested his chin against Peeta's head, holding him tighter to his chest as if he were protecting a child. Each step down expelled a harsh breath from his lips, but Gale never stopped a constant stream of soothing words. "I'm not letting go. It'll be okay. You're going to be okay. Think of something peaceful. The forest beyond District Twelve. That time on the cliffs when we watched the clouds pass. Focus on breathing and I'll get you to safety."
At some point, through all the chaos and screams, bone-rattling explosions and strained embrace, Peeta found peace in his mind. The smell of Gale's skin against his nose was strong of sweat, but with hints of burnt wood and evergreen, a pleasant reminder of home. He hoped he never lost the smell. The pain ebbed slowly and Peeta eventually came back to reality. It was like a switch had flipped in his brain and he could no longer feel the presence of his left leg again. He lifted his head from the crook of Gale's neck and regretted the loss of smell, almost like losing home all over again.
Looking around the first thing Peeta found were the worried blue eyes of Gale. Then he absorbed the rest of his surroundings and realized they were in the vast bomb bunkers located deep in the earth. Large impenetrable doors were just sliding shut as the last few stragglers slipped through. Everyone was packed in tight and the lighting was dim, the air cold and moist. It wouldn't do well to be trapped down here long. But all Peeta could think was how grateful he was for the pain to be over. Then he realized he was still sitting in Gale's lap. He offered a shy smile before pushing off. Gale's arms flexed, as if he didn't want to let go, before snapping back to his side.
"Sorry, I—You going to be okay?"
Peeta stood, tentatively putting pressure on the prosthetic, fearful it might trigger the ghost pain again. Gale watched him closely. He stood with him, ready to catch Peeta if he fell. Gale's eyes softened suddenly as he reached forward and brushed dust from Peeta's forehead. Peeta pulled away from the hand then felt his face heat with shame.
"Yeah, yeah I think so. Well who knows, none of us may be…" Peeta shrugged and surveyed their surroundings feeling awkward. Children sobbed in fear, many separated from their parents. Some people wandered in a daze like the living dead, covered in blood and dust, eyes vacant. Medics dispersed through the crowd with supplies gathered from some unknown location. Others began passing out blankets and water. Recovery mode had begun. The pieces trying to be picked back up. The faint sound of bombs still rattled in the distance.
"What happened back there?"
"I don't really know. It was… at first it was like my leg was still there and bent in the wrong position, the muscles cramping. I couldn't fix it and it was so painful. Then—well it just got worse. You saw."
"You should rest," Gale pushed Peeta back down despite his protests. "I'll get you some water and a blanket."
"That's not necessary," Peeta resisted. "Please, go look for your family. I'll be fine. I just need a moment to my self."
The look on Gale's face was torn, Peeta could tell he didn't want to leave Peeta because he didn't believe he was fine, but he also really wanted to find his family. Peeta really just needed him gone though, it was too confusing having him this close and caring so damn much. It made Peeta feel like an ungrateful brat for still being so distant.
"Please."
A flicker of hurt crossed over Gale's eyes, but he covered it well with a smile Peeta almost believed.
"Okay, but once I find them I'm coming to get you."
As soon as he disappeared from sight into the sea of people—everyone was a refugee at the moment now—Peeta relocated. A group of soldiers were unloading foldout cots and setting them up in rows. Peeta hoped they wouldn't be down here long enough to need them. He felt bad for ditching Gale, but he seriously had no idea what to do with what just happened. He had felt his leg and it greatly disturbed him, almost getting him killed in a bomb raid. How was he supposed to do his job if at a moments notice his amputated leg could completely incapacitate him? And then Gale had to save him and make him feel safe and whole again. Why couldn't Cato have been there to save him? That would have made it all less complicated, but Cato hated him now. And the space in his chest persisted.
Before setting down to rest, Peeta moved on to search for his father and friends. He quickly found Finnick and Annie. Her hysterical laughing led him straight to them. Finnick had obtained two cots for them and was trying to soothe Annie with soft cooing noises like she was a baby. Meanwhile she continued to laugh unabashedly and full-throated from one of the cots.
"Is there anything I can do?" Peeta asked, crouching down next to Finnick as he stroked Annie's arms up and down.
Finnick shook his head but kept his eyes on Annie.
"Thanks for offering, but no. I'm afraid it's just going to take time. The bombs brought back some unpleasant memories. She doesn't handle them well." Finnick leaned over Annie and pulled her hand to his lips, kissing it softly. "Shh, my sweet. It's over now. Sleep, I'll be right here when you wake and the world will be better. You'll see."
Feeling like he was intruding on something private Peeta excused himself. He continued to wander through the maze of people and cots, unable to locate his father. Eventually he stumbled into a portion of the bunker turned into a makeshift hospital. He spotted Mrs. Everdeen at one point as he made his way through, fearful whom he might find in this section. She was busy treating a wounded soldier, her hair tied back in a tight bun and her jaw tensed. The right side of the soldier's face was badly burned and a piece of shrapnel protruded from the side of his right thigh. She had been kind enough to offer a wave and tell him Primrose was around helping more injured, putting his mind at ease, mostly. He moved on, unable to stomach all the blood and charred flesh. It smelled harsh of antiseptic and burning charcoal. He found an empty cot and took a seat, needing a rest.
Warm and startlingly sympathetic chocolate eyes connected with Peeta across a field of traumatized citizens. Then the built frame of Cato pushed his way through the crowd coming straight for Peeta, his eyes never leaving Peeta's. He wasn't sure what to do; his body grew tense like a wire pulled taut. They hadn't spoken to each other since the confrontation by the elevators. It was so devastating Peeta felt like he was still pin-wheeling through space from it and had yet to stop. What could he possibly want now?
Well he was about to find out as Cato came to a stop before him, arms folding then unfolding nervously. Peeta stood to meet him, uncomforted by Cato towering over him.
"I've been looking for you."
"You have?" Peeta's heart lifted. He tried to keep his face smooth and disinterested, but he couldn't deny he was excited by the turn of events.
"Yeah…there's something I need to tell you."
"Oh." Peeta's emotion's immediately plummeted. So he wasn't seeking Peeta out because he had been worried for him after the attack. He was just here to impart some information, perhaps more hateful words?
"Can we sit?"
He spoke softly as if not to scare Peeta off and Peeta grew anxious. A tingling sensation ran over the surface of his skin that made him want to crawl out of it. He knew it was something bad, he just didn't know what.
They sat next to each other on the stiff cot, it sank with Cato's weight and he fell into the dip towards Cato. He had to throw out a hand to hold himself away from him. It would be so easy to just let go and fall into Cato, but he knew better. Cato's hair was grey with dust and there was a trickle of dried blood that ran down the side of his face. Peeta took this all in just to avoid looking in Cato's eyes. There was something in there and he knew he couldn't face it.
"Peeta—" Cato's voice broke and Peeta flinched. His whole body went stiff. All the blood rushed to his head. He knew what was coming, even before Cato said it. "I was in the cafeteria for breakfast when the bombing started. The whole left side caved in. Where—where the kitchen is—or was."
No. No, I just got him back.
"I—ahem—I'm so sorry, but I saw your father…" Cato clasped his hand over Peeta's. It was so warm and strong like heated steel. He yearned to be held and protected by them again, but instead he pulled away and shut down. Cato swallowed and withdrew his hand back into his lap. The darkness Peeta had seen in him flitted over his face like the passing of a shadow. It was the same darkness that resided within Peeta.
Two days passed in the bomb shelter.
The bombs still dropped.
Peeta's father was still dead.
Over the course of the two days many people came to Peeta. Some wishing just to lay eyes on the Mockingjay, others looking for help or comfort. Peeta was overwhelmed. People looked up to him, they relied on him and Peeta couldn't shoulder the burden. Fault lines opened over his reality as Peeta's nightmares slipped into his waking moments: a dying senior morphed into a cackling Snow; the plastic knife Peeta used to spread cheese paste on the stale crackers provided for dinner turned into a bloody arrow; a young man that tried to shake Peeta's hand turned into an accusing Beetee, always reminding him murder lay in his heart. The stain of innocent blood would never wash from his hands.
Hallow. That was the best way to describe the feeling. Ever since Cato tore off that engagement ring and things ended between them a space had opened up inside him and it only grew bigger everyday. The loss of his father, again, solidified the permanence of the space. He would always have a hole in his chest and no matter what he tried to fill it with nothing would take.
On the third day—when emotions were tense, the desperation high, coughs developed from the damp air, and people started fighting for space and limited food—the bombings stopped.
Peeta had receded to a corner of the massive bomb shelter, having withdrawn from all contact that he could when Haymitch found him. He ripped the sweat soaked blanket off of Peeta and kicked the side of his cot unceremoniously.
"Get up."
Opening one eye Peeta stared blankly at Haymitch. "What?"
"Come on, enough of this. Up." Haymitch stared back with dark circles under his eyes. His hair hung in clumped sheets, greasy from going unwashed so long, hygiene having been sacrificed in the bunker. "People have been looking for you, relying on you. We have a debriefing and it's your responsibility to be there."
"I can't."
"That's not in my vocabulary anymore. Nor is it in yours. Now get up, change out of that pit stained shirt and meet me in the conference room in ten."
Haymitch then marched away with out waiting. Peeta sat up. His bones creaked from disuse. Looking around Peeta saw the massive steel doors were open and people pouring out. Peeta put on a shirt that smelled marginally better and tugged on his jeans. He moved almost mechanically. There was no emotion behind it, his eyes blank like shallow pools on the pavement, and his face sagged with fatigue.
The atmosphere was triumphant. People whooped and hollered; they made it. They had survived again. The Capitol had tried and failed to kill District's Twelve and Thirteen again. It was contagious. Except for Peeta. It glanced off him like rain off a windshield. He reached the stairwell—the very same Gale had carried him down—and stared at his feet as he climbed up, his real, living foot taking a step up, then the mechanical replacement for a foot following past to the next step; over and over again until he reached the thirteenth floor.
The military complex on that floor was coming back to life. The control room filling back up with its staff as they went about checking systems and gathering intel. Workers hurried to clean the shattered glass of the broken floor-to-ceiling windows. Soldiers returned to training. Life was beginning anew for Thirteen. The war continued.
A large and familiar frame stood before the conference room. Cato.
"Yeah?" He turned around. Peeta hadn't realized he'd spoken. Cato's eyebrows shot up in surprise like he hadn't expected it was Peeta. "Oh." He twitched like he wanted to move forward, but was yanked back at the exact same time by some unknown force. Then he jerked his shoulders, freeing himself of the unknown grasp and Peeta was suddenly enveloped in warmth. Strong arms pooled around his back and tugged him in against the solidly familiar chest. Peeta's arms remained by his side. Peeta pulled his head back and looked away. He saw Plutarch Heavensbee with his Capitol lackey's through the door. Plutarch's eye's lit up when he saw Peeta then he smiled and raised his coffee mug in cheers. Peeta's body went rigid in Cato's arms.
Pulling back, Cato eyed Peeta up and down, his face screwed up in confusion.
"What're you saying?"
Peeta didn't seem to realize but he was speaking. The whole time he'd been muttering the same words over and over. "…The good of everyone. For the good of everyone. For the good of everyone."
Cato stepped back; worry set into deep grooves on his forehead.
"It will end."
"Hey, stop. Stop it. Peeta, snap out of it, god damn it!" He shook Peeta violently and suddenly his eyes snapped to Cato's.
Boggs stepped into the hallway, his eyes narrowed analytically.
"Is there a problem, boys?"
Peeta turned and smiled at Boggs. "No, none at all. We were just talking about strategy. We'll be right in."
Boggs looked to Cato, unconvinced. Cato tried to pull his face together and nod in agreement. Peeta watched absently. Boggs rolled his jaw and threw one last distrustful look at Peeta—who continued smiling blandly—before going back in.
"What the hell was that?" Cato asked as soon as it was just the two of them, but Peeta just cocked a vapid smile at him and shrugged. Cato frowned darkly, his eyes mistrustful.
"I got a little stir-crazy, that's all. All's fine now. Let's go in."
President Coin launched right into it as soon as everyone was seated. Boggs listed from a report the details of the attack, a break down of the damage to infrastructure, loss of supplies, food, and people. It all rolled off Peeta's back like raindrops. Apparently the bomb raid was direct retaliation for the destruction of the Nut. Cato's head fell to the table, his arms covering his face. The war was escalating at terrible costs. Heavensbee blubbered ineffectually about something and spilled his coffee all over the table with his wide gesticulating. Peeta looked to Haymitch who had taken a seat directly across from him. His face was pale, but his eyes were locked on the center of the table determinedly. Flavius mopped up the spill with her gold handkerchief. Cato continued to shoot looks at Peeta from his usual spot next to Lyme through out the rest of the meeting, but Peeta ignored everything and kept his face composed, eyes only on Haymitch while slowly his heart rate began to rise, thumping hard in his chest.
Finally, after nearly two-hours of debating and politicking, President Coin called their meeting to a close. Everyone was excused. Peeta stood and his head throbbed. He watched as Cato moved to come to him—his eyes heavy with burden—when Haymitch came around the table and reached him first.
"Can I hold you up for a moment? We need to talk."
"Sure," Peeta responded, looking over Haymitch shoulder at Cato as he backed out of the conference room. The door closed shut with a soft click and then they were alone.
"I'm sorry for being so hard on you earlier," Haymitch began, but Peeta had trouble hearing it. He saw Haymitch's lips moving, but there was no sound attached, just a rushing in his ears. His muscles seized, his fingers clenched in on his palm before stretching out straight. He could feel the strain in his bones all the way to the marrow.
"I know a lot of pressure is resting on you and with your father…" Haymitch trailed off, concern crossing over his face. "Are you okay?"
"It will be." Peeta spoke, eyes wide.
There was a beat of silence. Then Peeta surged forward at Haymitch.
Haymitch was caught off guard and knocked back against the table. It hit him in the mid-back and he yelped, but it was quickly cut off as Peeta's hands wrapped around his neck. Peeta's blood boiled and his stomach knotted in pain, every muscle screaming out as he tightened his grip around Haymitch's neck. His eyes latched on to Peeta only egged him on. Haymitch threw his hands up and between Peeta's arms, chopping them away. Peeta maneuvered quick and smacked them aside in a fluid motion. He followed through with a punch to the side of Haymitch's head. He was sent reeling. He knocked to the side, chairs scattering across the room as he fell to the floor. Peeta climbed atop him and carefully wrapped his hands back around Haymitch's neck, squeezing. He could feel the rapid beat of Haymitch's pulse against his sweaty palm. The scruff of his neck grated against the skin of his hand as Haymitch thrashed beneath him, but Peeta kept hold, a knee pinned on each of Haymitch's arms. His legs kicked out behind Peeta in vain. Peeta's heart crashed against his ribs. Thwump, thwump. His fingers gripped tighter. Then slowly, yet surely the movements and thrashing died down. Haymitch's eyes were almost as emotionless as Peeta's. His face turned blue, dark bruises formed at the edges of skin visible beneath Peeta's fingers. Then finally his eyes closed and his legs fell still. His body went slack beneath Peeta.
It was time. Peeta's heart hammered, his breath came in violent bursts as he stood up. He surveyed the scene before him. A small blotch of blood welled on Haymitch's lip, his body twisted askew from the struggle, but now motionless and at peace like a bird that crashed from the sky. His neck raw and purple, two distinct handprints left on his skin. Chairs laid scattered about the room. A single drop of blood tarnished the steel conference table.
Peeta took a deep breath.
Then he ran.
Three days later…
It was a particularly dark night. Nary a star was visible in the sky. Clouds hung low in the air pressing down on the earth, creating a noticeable pressure in the air. It pushed against the skin and made one's head feel tight. The streets of the Capitol were unusually empty too. Trash piled up on front stoops, unattended, and clogged the gutters. Lights flashed on and off along the street. Blinds were pulled shut tight, candle light flickering behind them like willow-the-wisps. Only one place had reliable power. Situated in the center of the city was Snow's palace, lit up in a halo of white light. Its lights were so bright they blinded those that approached, an assault to the senses. It wanted to remind everyone of its power. It was still here, standing tall and bright against the dark. A constant. Like the emptiness in Peeta.
A troop of Peacekeepers escorted a haggard and beat Peeta into the heart of the palace. His eyes never strayed from the path in front of him. Metal cuffs behind his back bound his hands tight, yet he still walked with a rigid upright posture. He was forced to a stop before two dark oak wood doors, the Capitol insignia carved onto either with ivory doorknobs shaped like roses. One of the Peacekeepers knocked twice then waited. Footsteps could be heard clacking across the marble floor. Then the door swung open.
On the other side stood a tall man with dark hair and a jagged scar across his nose. His rusty brown eyes lit up with vile delight, his thin eyebrows drew up.
"Well, well, if it isn't our favorite little rebel." Dreg stepped forward and relieved the Peacekeepers of their duty, grabbing Peeta's upper arm and pulling him into the room.
It was some type of ceremony room. There was an elevated platform where a bank of chairs was lined, the one in the middle resembling some type of sanguine throne of thorns. The space in front of the platform was a large square marked by ionic columns at each corner, the ceiling domed and painted with a fantastical fresco of the twelve districts working towards the greater good of Panem and the Capitol situated in the center like some beacon of hope. Snow was perched on the center throne in a smoky suit with a crimson tie and pocket square. He sipped wine the color of blood from a crystal glass.
Dreg threw Peeta into the center of the square then moved up to take the seat two to Snow's right. Peeta stumbled then righted himself, rolling his shoulders. The other chairs were filled with various political heads. They didn't matter. Peeta locked eyes with Snow, staring into their icy depths but the cold didn't touch him. Nothing could. Then he bowed his head and spoke.
"The Mockingjay is at your service, President Snow."
Hey… um… howdy there. Still with me? I hope so! Two chapters left and there's loads to resolve. So hang in there, we are almost there.
xoxo,
crobb07
