Disclaimer: I don't own THG or any of the characters.
Warnings: violence, rape/non-con, depression, self-harm, suicidal ideation, drug/alcohol abuse, mild sexual content, language
I promised a longer chapter and here you are. Let me know what you think and thanks for reading!
She felt sick in District 12. They wanted her to be who she had always been, and so she tried her hardest, but her insides were churning and she was having a hard time keeping food down.
She felt pressure building up in her, and her bloodletting was becoming less and less effective, the relief short-lived and less potent than before.
Her jaw ached from being clenched for so long and so hard, and everyday she wondered if this would be the day when she would finally crack from the strain of it all.
It was the worst with Gale, who looked down at her the way children look up at the stars in the sky. It was too much. Didn't he understand? She couldn't live up to who he thought she was. She was no good for him, she was no good for anyone. She didn't love him the way he loved her, the way he wanted her to love him.
It wasn't that she didn't want to, because some part of her did. It was that she couldn't. She had nothing to give, she'd been stripped and drained.
She didn't fit in anymore, she didn't belong here anymore, but none of them knew it. None of them except Haymitch, and the two of them would never speak it aloud.
She was almost relieved-almost-when the summons arrived. President Snow's granddaughter was turning ten and there was to be a week of celebratory events in the Capitol. Carnivals, fireworks, parades and parties. Even a stupid fancy dress ball on the last day where the men were supposed to wear tuxes and the women tiaras. And of course, Snow's little princess and all of her friends wanted the Victors-Panem's biggest celebrities-at every event.
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He saw a kitchen knife and he thought about slitting his own throat.
He saw a bottle of pills and he thought about swallowing a handful and chasing it with a handle of whiskey.
He saw a length of rope and he thought about wrapping it around his neck and hanging himself.
He saw a bridge and he thought about jumping off of it headfirst.
He saw a train and he thought about jumping in front of it.
He saw a Peacekeeper and he thought about assaulting the man just so they would shoot him.
He saw a pair of cement blocks and he thought about tying one to each foot and jumping into the river.
He saw his sword and he thought about running himself through with it.
He saw a can of gasoline and he thought about dousing himself and lighting a match.
And every day something would pull him back out of it. One of his buddies from his training days, calling out to him from across the room. A baby crying in its mother's arms. A sudden gust of wind. A stray dog barking at a cat in a window. A clap of thunder overhead.
But everyday he wondered if this would finally be the day when he would crack from the strain of it all.
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Katniss had no idea why Plutarch Heavensbee had invited himself to lunch in her hotel suite the very day she arrived in the Capitol, but the last thing she had expected was for him to tell her over chicken piccata and Pinot Grigio that District 13 still existed in the form of a network of massive underground bunkers.
"They're planning a rebellion," he said, once she'd gotten over her initial shock, "and the people of the districts are antsy. They don't know about 13, but if the conditions are right, they'll rebel too. They already did in 11. Oh yes," he said when he saw the look of disbelief on Katniss's face. "When you saluted that little girl. It took the Peacekeepers hours to subdue them. I'm sure you felt the tension while you were there on tour." And he pulled out a holo and brought up a 3D video of the footage from the riot in 11.
"I never heard about that," she said, and she watched, riveted, as the people of 11 set fire to buildings and attacked Peacekeepers and broke into grain silos and hung their mayor from the balcony of his mansion. "I thought he died of a heart attack!"
"Well that's what they told you. And of course you didn't hear about the riot. No one did. The President can't have the other districts knowing about that. Getting brave and copying it. But this very riot," he said as he shut down the holo, "is the reason you are still alive my dear. It's the reason that the rule allowing one male and one female to survive was instated in the middle of your games. To give the other districts hope. To calm them down. And I'm telling you, they are ready and poised. They're covered in kerosene. They just need one spark to light them all at once. And if I play my cards right, I think I can arrange for the Third Quarter Quell to be that spark."
Katniss swallowed her annoyance at the fire metaphor and focused on the more troubling aspect of his words. "You sound as though you're rooting for rebellion."
"You're a quick one."
"Is this some kind of a trick?" she asked.
"No."
"Then just say whatever you have to say."
"If all of the districts rebel at once, the Peacekeepers will be stretched thin," Plutarch said. "They'll have to leave the Capitol understaffed and therefore extremely vulnerable. It's the perfect time for 13 and the rebels to attack and take over. But as you know, communication between districts is...well, there's no other way to put it...nonexistent. So in order to get them to rebel all at once, we need to harness something they have in common. And that thing is the games."
"I was under the impression that the games divided us against one another."
"They do. Most of the time. But they can also unify. You've caused that yourself. The atrocity of that little girl's death and the compassion and sorrow you displayed for her was enough to rile 11 up. You're the most popular victor ever with the outlying districts. You're their saint, their hero. They don't want to see you make it out of one arena just to suffer all over again in the quell."
Katniss should have been terrified by that last statement, but she was long past the point where physical pain or the thought of her own death scared her, and she was more confused than anything. "All over again? You can't do that."
"I can if the tributes from the Third Quarter Quell are reaped solely from a pool of former Victors."
She was genuinely curious. "Why would you do that?"
"Haven't you been listening? To rile the people up. They'll flip out if the Girl on Fire is reaped and forced to endure horrific conditions again."
"But the other Victors-"
"Are already committed to the cause. Or at least most of them are."
"How? Why would they agree to it?"
"Look at them. Drunks, morphling addicts, depressives, unwilling prostitutes. They all hate the Capitol my dear. And most of them have nothing left to lose. Now if you'll excuse me," he said, and flashed her his watch.
And that was when she saw it. The faint outline of a mockingjay on the face of the timepiece.
"I'm late for another appointment," he continued. "I'll come see you again Sunday evening, and I'll share the details of my plan with you then."
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That first evening there was a cocktail party for the adult guests, and all of the Victors were required to be present. Though Katniss knew all of them by face and name, and had met most of them by this point, she was startled at how many seemed to purposely seek her out that evening, if only briefly.
The first to do so was Finnick Odair, the Capitol playboy. "Well, isn't this a lovely dress," he said, reaching out to tug on the fabric of her gown. As he did so, a thin leather cord, wrapped around his wrist, peeked out from under his sleeve. Affixed to it was a pin that looked exactly like the one that Madge had given her. Finnick retracted his hand, shook his sleeve back down, and winked at her. Then he turned and walked away.
By the time the fourth victor approached her, she started to look for the symbol automatically. Some wore the same bracelet as Finnick, hidden under their sleeves. Some wore the mockingjay as a pendant, tucked safely beneath their collars until they bent just so to allow it to flash into view.
Even Gloss and Cashmere, the brother and sister from 1, approached her.
But the one that really shocked her was Enobaria, from 2. "Mint?" she asked, holding out a small, open tin in offering. She grinned, baring her fangs, and Katniss, unnerved, automatically reached out to take one. And there on the little white puck was a red mockingjay.
At the end of the night, she tallied it up mentally. A male and female victor from almost every district had flashed the mockingjay at her in some shape or form. There were two exceptions. The first was Haymitch, the only living male victor from 12, who had not shown any type of badge of allegiance to her. But the twinkle in his eye as he watched victor after victor approach her told he knew exactly what was going on.
The second exception was the District 2 men. Not one of them paid any attention to her that evening.
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"So tell me the details," she said without preamble when Plutarch returned to visit her as promised.
"These games will be full of atrocities. Brother against sister. Old friends against one another. Especially cruel deaths at the hands of the Capitol. The Girl on Fire brought to her knees."
"Brought to my knees?"
"Yes. I'm warning you my dear, if you agree to this, it will not be fun for you."
"How exactly do you intend to bring me to my knees?"
"Well I was hoping to get Cato Hadley to agree to do it for me. He's the last person I need to speak with, but he's crucial. The interaction between the two of you is the lynchpin to this whole thing. The Capitol may love him, but the people hate him. The possibility of his victory and your death at his hands...it just may be enough to get all of the other districts-besides 2 of course-up in arms."
"Oh I'm sure he'll agree. You don't even have to let him know about your plan. He'll be happy to have any excuse to kill me."
"I'm not so sure about that. Have you looked at him recently? I mean really looked at him? The games have taken their toll on him, just as they have on you. He's no fan of the Capitol. And like many of the others, he has almost nothing to lose."
"He has family doesn't he? Parents?"
Plutarch waved his hand dismissively. "I have ways of ensuring their safety."
"Do you? Because, you know I have quite a lot to lose."
"I know." Plutarch wiped his mouth with his napkin and took a sip of wine. "Your mother, your sister. The Hawthorne family. I can assure their safety."
"How?"
"You'd be surprised by how many of the Peacekeepers share my mindset. And I can make sure that they're the ones who 'arrest' your loved ones when the time comes. They'll be incarcerated in District 13, of course."
And then he proceeded to map out exactly what he had planned for her. "Will you do it?" he asked when he was finished.
"Do I really have a choice?"
"Yes. I haven't told President Snow my idea for the quell yet. If you refuse, we'll do something other than reaping the victors. And I'll have to come up with another way to stir things up in the districts."
"When do you need your answer by?" she asked as he stood up to take his leave.
"There's no set date. But this will take a lot of coordination. A lot of preparation. So ideally, in the next couple of weeks. If we're going to do it we need to get started."
"I'll give you my answer tomorrow."
He nodded and bent down to kiss her hand.
"Plutarch?" she asked when he had almost reached the door.
"Yes?"
"I know about Cato. What they make him do. Like they do with Finnick and Gloss and Cashmere. I heard the rumors. But..why don't I have to do it?"
"We advised the President against it. At least for a couple of years. We're afraid it could set off riots."
"I thought that was what you wanted."
"I do. But I want all of the districts to go up within a very short period of time-a few days. Not sporadically, and not just some of them, which is what would likely happen if you were sold as a prostitute. It's too easy to subdue them if only a couple of them rebel at a time."
"Well won't they rebel before the games start if I'm reaped?"
"Maybe. Maybe some of them will. But we'll be able to get the rest of them to go up within a few days, so that's fine. 12 won't go right away if you're reaped. They'll be too afraid that the President will make the arena hell for you in revenge for their disobedience. But I'll have my Peacekeepers ready to go anyway. In case they need to remove your family and friends earlier than originally planned."
He turned back to the door.
"Cato's just as much of a victim as me, isn't he?" she asked softly. "He's just as much of a victim as the other twenty-two who died in our games."
Plutarch pivoted to give her one last look. "In a way, yes." And then he was gone.
She sat at the table after he left, thinking over the choice that had been laid at her feet.
There was a part of her that still wondered if this was all some elaborate trick to set her up and then arrest her for treason. But that didn't make any sense. All she was agreeing to do was go back into the arena and there was nothing treasonous about that. And they could make her do it anyway if they really wanted. So no, she decided. This wasn't a trick.
She closed her eyes and weighed her two options.
She could say no, no thank you. And then life would continue on for her (if she could even call it life, this endless stream of days, bleak and full of pain) until one day she would be nothing more than a ghost.
Or she could say yes, I will. And it would not be fun at all. It would be awful, in fact. But it would not last long. And no more Rues would be reaped. No more Prims. People would suffer and die in the ensuing rebellion and war, it was true. But she had seen enough in her sixteen-almost seventeen-years on earth to know that people were already suffering and dying at the hands of their government.
And so she chose the second option.
Because she would rather see a child shot to death by a peacekeeper than watch them slowly starve.
As for herself. Well. It would be better to burn out than to fade away.
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Plutarch invited Cato over for dinner the very next day, right after he received his answer from Katniss.
Cato didn't really want to go, but by this time he'd learned invited really meant commanded, and so, resentfully, he showed up.
He listened in shock as, over lobster and filet mignon, Plutarch talked about the existence of District 13 and the rebellion and his plan for the Third Quarter Quell.
"You want me to what?" he sputtered when Plutarch asked for his help and provided explicit details of the role he had in mind for Cato to play.
"You heard me."
"Absolutely not." Cato threw his napkin onto the table and rose from his chair. "I'm done being the Capitol's monster."
"That's not what I'm asking you to do."
"It sure sounds like you are. And have you asked her what she thinks of your little plan?"
"Yes, I have. And she's agreed to it. She's willing to sacrifice herself to put an end to the games. To ensure that no more innocent little girls like her sister or that poor thing from 11 are ever reaped."
"How do I know you're not lying?"
Plutarch shrugged. "Ask her yourself. Tonight. At the ball."
"No. If I'm reaped then I'm reaped. So be it. I'll go in there again. And I hope you're able to accomplish what you're trying to do. I really do. I would love to see our bastard president tortured and maimed. But I won't do what you're asking of me."
And then he strode from the room.
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"You look stupid in that tiara," he said when he saw her that night. Because she did. It did not suit her at all.
"And you look stupid in that bowtie."
"I know," he agreed, edging her towards a dark, secluded corner. "I hate it."
They reached their destination and she turned to look up at him expectantly, as though she knew exactly what he wanted to talk to her about.
"Heavensbee told me about his plan," he said.
"I know. He says you're refusing to help."
"And you're willing?" he asked incredulously.
"I'm not saying I'm excited about it. But I'm willing to do it. Because I think it will work."
"Have you thought about the implications of it? That it's misleading?"
She laughed and shrugged her shoulders. "Hey if you wanna make an omelet you gotta break some eggs."
"And you're willing to be one of those eggs?"
"I'm already an empty shell. What does it matter?"
He studied her so intently that she actually felt the need to take a step back. "You're still trying to pay for the arena," he said. "Jesus, when did cutting stop being enough?" But it was a rhetorical question, and she said nothing, only looked at the ground. He looked down at the top of her head. "Or was it never enough? And why should I be the one to collect the payment? I'm hardly worthy."
"Doesn't matter to me who collects it. As long as someone does. But it makes the most sense if you do it. It makes it so they didn't die in vain. The other 22."
He closed his eyes and shook his head.
"Look, don't worry about it," she said. "Another Career can do it. Gloss can do it."
"Wouldn't have the same effect though, would it?"
"No. Probably not. But maybe. Brutus probably could have done the trick. But Plutarch already sounded him out and he refused. Enobaria's always a possibility." She grinned, but Cato found nothing about this situation to be funny.
"If I say no is Gloss gonna do it?" he asked. "For sure?"
"Yes."
He clenched his jaw and turned his face away from her. And his gaze landed on the lecherous old man he'd seen the last time they were in the Capitol. The man who had leered at her. Who had run his hand down her back. Who had probably bought her and…
...and what they were asking him to do suddenly didn't seem so bad.
He weighed his options. He could be like Brutus. He could mentor tributes, future Victors, and continue the vicious cycle, claiming he had no other choice.
Or he could make this choice instead. To try to break the cycle.
"No. I'll do it," he finally said. "If you're gonna do it no matter what, it shouldn't be a random Career. It should be the person they hate most. The person who's guaranteed to get a rise out of Panem for it. So that it's not for nothing."
She nodded. "Thanks...I guess."
"Don't mention it."
Who was he, after all, to judge her? He had self-destructive thoughts and habits too. Just that morning he'd spent a solid five minutes on the balcony of his hotel room, staring down at the street below and wondering what pattern his blood would make when his body splatted onto the sidewalk.
And he might be a murderer and he might be a monster.
But he'd be damned if he'd be a hypocrite.
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Cato glared at Plutarch, his arms folded across his chest. "I'll do it, but I don't know how convincing I can be."
Plutarch let out a sigh, half relieved, half frustrated. "Look, I realize this is something that you're not terribly excited to do. But you're gonna have to try to channel the guy on top of the Cornucopia laughing as Peeta Mellark was torn to shreds by mutts. You're gonna have to be victorious. Triumphant. Smug. Vicious. Violent. You have to be violent, Cato."
Cato shook his head back and forth in disgust. "God this is sick. This is so fucking sick."
"Gloss is willing if you're not. But you can't keep going back and forth. Shit or get off the pot."
"If Gloss does it it will mean changing your original plan. And 1 might not go up then. 2's not gonna go no matter what. You know that right?"
"I know. But if 3 through 12 go up we'll probably be ok."
"No. 1 has to go up too. I don't want this to be for nothing. It's almost a sure thing if I do it. This makes it all fit together neatly. It's not as clean-god that's a fucked up way for me to put that-it's not as clean if Gloss does it."
He dropped his head to his chest and put his hands over his eyes.
"Cato," Plutarch said softly. "You can still do this. Be the monster. One more time my friend. One more time."
Cato lifted his head and laughed, but it was a bitter sound. "One more time," he muttered.