A/N: This is a super-long chapter! The longest chapter I have ever written! Dudes, it's humongous.
This also happens to be one of my favorite chapters. Why, may you ask? Because this chapter contains the creepiest, saddest, most depressing dream sequence ever. Personally, I think it's pretty awesome, but you guys will probably hate me and think that I'm being really mean.
Oh, well.
Once again, thank you VERY much for all of your reviews! You guys make my day! :D
Random Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games Series. As the past two stories show, my version of events would have been quite different.
Peeta: You are so mean.
Katniss: You made me cry.
Haymitch: Seriously, you almost made me cry.
Rye: And we all know that the Big H has no soul.
Peeta: This is sooooo out of character for me, you know.
Me: (hangs head in shame) I know.
Peeta: And I would never say these things.
Me: (nods solemnly) Yep. I know.
Katniss: Then why did you write this scene?!
Me: Do you want the logical reason or the selfish reason? Because logically, I needed to show just how miserable and guilty you were . . . and selfishly I just like making you miserable. Yeah, I know. Sadist.
Chapter 4: Time of Dying
On the ground, I lay motionless in pain
I can see my life flashing before my eyes
Did I fall asleep? Is this all a dream?
Wake me up, I'm living a nightmare
It's dark and cold in the cell. The entirety of the room is made of hard, unforgiving stone. The only light in the room comes from the glowing, yellow beam that seeps through the bottom of the door. The room is so empty and lifeless that the mere sound of my breaths seems too loud. It's entirely too still. Too dead.
The sharp, metallic scent of blood is in the air. Bile rises in my throat and my stomach roils violently, but I manage to keep from vomiting. The air feels heavy, thick with dread and anguish. Ghostly cries seem to echo off the stone walls. My heart begins to race.
Where am I?
A pained moan causes me to freeze. Slowly, I turn to the far corner of the room, my breaths becoming shallow and rapid as my pulse catapults. Screaming. I'm screaming at the sight before my eyes. A sight that I never wanted to see. A sight that will be permanently etched into my brain.
Peeta lies in the corner. His large, broad frame has shrunken. He is no longer strong. His ribs protrude from his skin. His cheekbones are far too prominent. His body is riddled with blood and scars and burns. Blonde curls are plastered to his sweaty forehead. But his eyes, his eyes are what cause me to succumb to crippling sobs.
Blue eyes, always so kind and bright, are glaring at me with hatred. Pure hate. No love. No kindness. Nothing but hate. Hate for me. "You did this," he wheezes, managing to sound venomous despite his perilous state. "This is your fault."
I collapse to my knees beside him, reaching a tentative hand to touch his face, but he flinches away from me. "Get away from me!" he cries angrily. "Get away from me, you bitch! This is your fault!"
"Peeta—" I choke on a sob. "Please, I love you . . ."
"Love." Peeta spits the word as though it's something vile. "You don't love me. You don't do this to someone you love. All of my suffering? All of my torture . . . it's all because of you. You and that spawn. What was I thinking? I thought I was doing this for you. But no, you let me leave so you could save yourself. You don't care about me. You just care about yourself and the spawn."
"Don't call him that!" I plead brokenly. "That's your child, Peeta! And I didn't want to leave you, but I couldn't let Snow take me and the baby . . ."
"But it's okay for me to be captured and tortured, right? Me. The dad. The protective father. Sacrificing himself. Yeah. Real selfless of me, right? Isn't that what I'm always doing? Sacrificing myself for you? Putting myself at risk so you can be safe? Oh, well. I'm going to die anyway. Not like you care."
I shake my head furiously. "No, no, no, Peeta, you can't die! You can't leave me!"
"Always about you." Peeta suddenly gets to his feet, his broken body advancing on me. "Always about Katniss. So selfish. Forget about me. It's all about you. You're safe in 13, and I'm stuck here!" He spreads his arms out wide, gesturing to the cell. "Nice place, right? I'm thinking of hanging a painting. Might bring a little life into the place."
"Peeta," I whisper brokenly. "I love—"
"Yeah, yeah," Peeta waves me off derisively. "Sure you do. You really showed me just how much that last night. You let me go. You chose to run away—"
"—you told me to run—"
"—and just let me hand myself over to them. You made a choice. It was me or the spawn—"
"Don't call him that!"
"—and you chose it over me." Peeta shrugs halfheartedly. "Yeah, I'm feeling the love Katniss."
"I'm sorry," I whisper, choking on the sobs that are overtaking my body. Tears pour in a torrent down my face. I can't control them. "Peeta, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Katniss!"
Peeta continues to advance on me, malice and a need for revenge shining brightly in his eyes.
"Katniss!"
A hand on my shoulder. I'm going to die. I deserve it. It's all my fault.
"Katniss! Wake up!"
I wake with a choked gasp, tears pouring down my face. My eyes are wide and wild as I glance around the room quickly, determining where I am. I'm in Compartment 313. I am in District 13. Peeta is in the Capitol. I am in District 13.
A sheen of sweat covers me from head to toe, the bed sheets and my t-shirt cling to me uncomfortably. My hair, which I wear out of my braid more often than not nowadays, is plastered to my neck. My breaths are continuing to come in gasps as my sobs won't allow me to take a deep breath.
"Easy there, sweetheart." I look to my left and am startled to see Haymitch, looking worse for wear and blatantly worried. Yet there's an understanding shine in his eye. He knows what haunts me. "Breathe, Katniss," he reminds me, placing his hands on my shoulders. "Deep breaths, alright?"
I try to clamp down on my sobs, try to control the quick intake of air, but it only causes more tears to slide down my face. Haymitch's arms wrap around me, pulling me to him, and I bury my face in his chest, quickly soaking his shirt with my tears. He doesn't complain and shove me away, calling me a weakling for crying. Instead, he runs a soothing hand down my back and strokes my hair, letting me cry.
"It's my fault," I sob. "It's all my fault."
"No it's not." Haymitch's voice is softer than I've ever heard. Genuine and caring, for once not disguising just how much he's come to care for me. "Peeta made a choice, one that few men have the balls to make. The kid's so damn selfless . . ." Haymitch's words carry pain and admiration for the boy whom he secretly considers his son. "He knew what he was running into, and he did it for you and the baby. You had nothing to do with his choice. It was his alone."
"I miss him so much," I whimper, clinging for dear life to my mentor, who has in many ways become a father to me. "I want him back."
"We'll get him back," Haymitch assures me.
"But Coin won't—"
"Let me deal with Coin," he interrupts me. "You focus on being the Mockingjay. Let me deal with her."
Haymitch continues to hold me until my tears have dried completely, and for a long moment we simply sit in silence. It's nice to be held. If it were anyone else—Prim, my mother, Gale, even Rye, I would have already asked them to leave. I wouldn't have wanted them to see me like this. But there's no point in kicking Haymitch out. There's no point in hiding just how close to breaking I am. He already knows. Haymitch sees everything.
So I let him comfort me, try to feel relief from his words. It's not my fault. Peeta knew exactly what he was doing, what he was running headlong into. And he did it anyway. Because he loves me. Because he loves the baby.
You're everything to me, you and the baby.
Daddy's going to keep you safe.
"Everything's gone so wrong," I whisper. "Peeta's being tortured. Snow wants me dead. I've got Coin lurking in the shadows. Can anything go right?"
Just as the words leave my mouth, I feel that flutter in my stomach. The baby is moving, again. Despite it all, I manage a tired smile for about a second. Yes. The baby is the one thing that's gone right. Unexpected he may have been, but not unwelcome . . . even if I would rather have waited five to ten years.
"I think we both know something went right," Haymitch says, as if he knows what I'm thinking. "If that kid is anything like you or Peeta, they're going to be another pain in my ass."
I snort and brief chortle of laughter escapes me. Part of me knows that Haymitch is just trying to get me to laugh, while the other part knows that he's actually serious. He's right, though. Inevitably, my child will be headstrong. It's just in the genes.
"Get back to sleep," Haymitch orders, the gruffness that has been absent from his tone beginning to resurface. "Long day tomorrow."
Rather reluctantly, I let Haymitch go and he gets to his feet, his back creaking a little. If it had been any other time, I would have teased him about being old and decrepit. But not now. Not after he's been so uncharacteristically kind, showing a side of himself that has been buried for years.
Suddenly, I'm struck by a thought. "Haymitch?" I call softly, and his hand pauses on the doorknob.
"Yeah?"
"How'd you know?" I ask. "That I was having a nightmare?"
A pained light enters his eye. "Heard you screaming," he says. "Go back to sleep. If you can."
Then he leaves, and I'm alone once again.
I open the top drawer to my nightstand and retrieve the pearl from the silver parachute's depths. Turning on my side, I hold the pearl to my face, rolling it between my fingers. I can remember exactly how Peeta had been sitting beside me, the sun shining brightly, making his blonde head look golden and giving the illusion of an extra sparkle in his eyes. He'd held out the pearl to me, a soft smile on his face, "For you," he said gently. He didn't make a big scene about it, no dramatics like Finnick would have been inclined to do. Peeta was just being genuine and sincere, like always. The pearl was something he wanted me to have, and so he gave it to me in his own sweet way. I don't know if he meant for it to represent something more. All I know is that it's a token of his love, and it's all that I have left of him at the moment—aside from the t-shirts and, most importantly, the baby.
I clutch the pearl in my fist for the rest of the night. If I doze, it's never for very long or very deeply. When the alarm clock begins to blare, I shut it off and get ready mechanically. Haymitch was right. It's going to be a long day.
In ten minutes I'm walking down the hall and stepping into the elevator, intending to go to breakfast. But as my finger hovers over the correct button, I suddenly change my mind. I press the button for level sixteen and impatiently wait for the metal box to take me to my destination. The doors open and I walk purposefully into a cavernous room. A few of the dogs bark at me or prick their ears in attention as I walk by their cages. I don't pay attention to them. I'm only here for one thing.
I see her cage, larger than the others, tucked in a corner. Maya is already staring at me, looking slightly impatient as she paws at the door of her pen. I can't help but smile. Without a thought, I free her from her little prison and she immediately thanks me by licking my face with gusto. In fact, her affectionate onslaught is so overwhelming that a soft, sad laugh escapes me.
"I missed you, too," I tell her quietly as I run my fingers through her fur.
"What in the hell do you think you're doing?" a voice barks from behind me and I turn to see a beefy woman of about forty with short, black hair that seems to stick out in all directions.
"You must be Lieutenant Caine," I deduce aloud and she nods. "Katniss Mellark." I doubt there's really a need to introduce myself, but I do it anyway.
Caine nods again, and I get the vibe that she's not a big fan of words, even conversation in general. Maybe that's why she's fond of the dogs. "I came down to help train her," I explain my presence. "Gale said she was giving you trouble yesterday."
At the reminder, Caine's face flushes a little, her frustration from yesterday becoming apparent. "Yes," she says, her voice clipped. "I was told she was well-trained." Her voice is accusing.
"Oh, she is," I assure her. "She's just wary of strangers. If you could show me how you want her to go about detecting explosives, I can train her today."
Caine scoffs. "No animal is that good. Takes months of training for the dogs to be consistent."
I barely resist smirking. "Maya isn't a dog."
The next two hours are like a test, for both myself and Maya. Slowly, my nightmare recedes to the back of my mind as I immerse myself into training my furry companion. This is what I need, a distraction from the pain and grief and guilt, something that allows me to be productive. Caine watches us closely, explaining how she wants Maya to signal that she's detected an explosive—sitting and giving a sharp bark.
Caine places several black bags around the room, one of them filled with explosives, and then orders me to take Maya to each bag and have her sniff it to determine if the bag is loaded or not. I take Maya around the room to each bag, letting her sniff. The tenth bag, Maya declares to be the winner, sitting like I'd taught her and barking, even throwing in a howl for good measure. I know that Maya's correct because of Caine's face, obviously shocked that Maya succeeded on her first try. This time, I don't bother hiding my smirk.
The rest of the time is like a competition. Caine fills the winning bag (never using the same bag twice) with fewer and fewer explosives, hoping that Maya might skip over it. It doesn't happen. Every time Maya sniffs out the correct bag. At the end of the two hours, Caine merely leaves trace evidence of explosives in the bag and when she releases me and Maya into the area to hunt for the bag, I see her standing in the back of the room, looking smug. She doesn't think we'll be successful.
Twenty minutes later, Maya is barking, identifying an inconspicuous black bag. I look back at Caine, raising my eyebrows, silently asking if we're right. Judging by Caine's pursed lips, we are, and I smile in triumph, immediately congratulating Maya in a grand show of affection.
"She's good," Caine admits grudgingly at the end of the two hours. "Never seen an animal take to it that fast."
I shrug. "Maya's one of a kind."
"You two have a great connection," she says, sounding more genuine than I've ever heard. "That's how you're successful. If there's no bond between the handler and the animal, then you don't get results."
I give her a small smile. "Peeta always joked that we shared a telepathic link." At the sound of his name, Maya perks up and looks around, as if expecting Peeta to appear. The sight makes my heartache from the night return.
"He'll survive," Caine says suddenly. "The boy. He'll hold on for you."
My eyes meet Caine's. Her pale green eyes are filled with belief, and I really don't know why. I haven't met a person in 13, aside from my friends, who appear to be on Peeta's side. Caine must see my confusion because she actually smiles a little, which is such a contrast to her usual gruff expression that it seems extremely out of character.
"I'm on your side, Mockingjay," she says. "And you're on his side . . . so I am, too."
There's no more explanation, nothing else to be said by either of us. I simply nod and direct Maya back into her pen, promising her that I'll visit her tomorrow. Caine isn't even there when I turn around. She's at the cages of the other dogs, taking a large brown and black male by the leash and leading him to the training area. Even though we've hardly spoken, I feel like I've made an ally in Lieutenant Caine, and that brings me a hint of relief. If I can sway Caine to be on my side, perhaps others will follow.
I hastily hurry through breakfast before nearly sprinting to the Remake Room. When I run into Fulvia and Plutarch, they tut disapprovingly at my severe tardiness, but I merely explain that I had a nightmare and needed to be alone for a while. Naturally, they pity me in their own superior way that shows they understand nothing of my plight, but let my infraction slide. I realize that I can't make a habit of being late or causing trouble in general. Coin's threat from yesterday still rings in my mind.
. . . It follows that any deviance from her mission, in either motive or deed, will be viewed as a break in this agreement. The immunity would be revoked and the fate of the four victors determined by the law of District 13. As would her own.
One screw up and we're dead.
I can't afford to fail. If I fail, Peeta will surely die.
When I enter the Remake Room I'm not ambushed by my prep team in the affectionate, chipper onslaught that I'm used to receiving. Disturbingly, they're silent, except for Octavia's occasional soft whimper. Of the three, Venia looks the most put together, though it doesn't surprise me. She's always been the strongest. Flavius has managed to bring some life back into his orange corkscrew curls, but I can't help but think he looks washed out without his purple lipstick. The three of them are dressed in the grey uniform of District 13, and I imagine that if they weren't so traumatized by their imprisonment, they'd be complaining relentlessly.
"We'll let you shower before we start," Venia tells me quietly and I nod in reply, sending her a small smile that I hope will bring her some comfort.
I don't take too long in the shower. The luxury of hot water is incredibly brief in 13, so even my quick shower time is challenged if I want to be clean by the time the water quickly goes from hot to warm to cold. I've just rinsed the last of the shampoo from my hair when the water abruptly becomes cool.
Octavia is waiting with a towel, hands trembling as she pats me dry. The Octavia in front of me is not the one I'm used to. Without the Capitol accents, her hair is actually a nice auburn. Her face isn't particularly pretty, but there's a sweet quality to her. She's younger than I would have thought, too. Early twenties, if I had to guess. Without her brightly colored three-inch nails, her fingers are actually quite stubby . . . and still shaking. "Katniss won't hurt us," Venia assures her. "Katniss did not even know we were here. Things will be better now."
Octavia nods but doesn't dare to look me in the eye.
It takes until lunch to get me to Beauty Base Zero. Essentially translated into natural, but still flawless. My hair is shiny but left straight and not styled. My nails are shaped but without polish. No makeup, but my skin still glows. Wax my body hair, though this time I get to avoid the bikini wax. Thank god for being pregnant.
My rounded stomach is somewhat of a spectacle for my prep team. It's almost as though they don't quite know how to react. I can tell that they want to ask questions, but none of them ever voice whatever they're thinking. However, I catch Flavius studying the bump oddly, almost as if it's unnatural, which strikes me as odd because carrying a child and then giving birth is about the most natural thing I can do. Octavia appears almost mesmerized behind the ever-present hesitant hyper vigilance in her eyes. Venia is has the most curious reaction though . . . a hint of grief and loss is present in her eyes. I can't decide if I want to know whatever story she has or not.
Everything is going great, if you exclude the penetrating silence that actually makes me wish for the constant prattle that I'm used to being subjected to, until my prep team gets to my scar. My gift from Johanna when she cut out the tracker from my arm. Unlike the neat work of the Capitol, that would have focused on making the scar look as unnoticeable and clean as possible, 13 just made sure that I didn't bleed out. The scar itself is about the length of an apple and jagged. The problem with this is the fact that it will show when I wear my outfit Cinna designed. The sleeves cut off at my elbow, thus causing the scar to be visible. Apparently, this is cause for alarm.
I don't know why they're prettying me up to be the face of a war. "Pretty" and "war" don't exactly coexist in my mind. Though obviously the Mockingjay is an exception.
My scar causes such discord that Plutarch and Fulvia are called in. I have to resist rolling my eyes when the sight of my scar nearly triggers Fulvia's gag reflex. She's the Head Gamemaker's assistant and the sight of a little scar makes her that uncomfortable? Maybe it's the fact that the scar is real, visceral—not something she sees on a screen. News flash Fulvia, when you're fighting for your life, you'll probably get a scar or two.
Morbidly, I wonder how many scars Peeta has received.
"Everyone knows I have a scar here," I remind them, trying to hide my ire.
"Knowing it and seeing it are two different things." Fulvia's expression twists in disgust. "It's positively repulsive. Plutarch and I will think of something during lunch."
"It'll be fine," Plutarch waves indifferently. "Maybe an armband or something."
I turn away from them to get dressed, but also to hide my scowl. Capitol people continue to astound me with their ignorance and false reality. A reality where a simple scar is cause for a forty-five minute debate. Forget the fact that I'm pregnant. Forget that Peeta is being held captive and tortured. Apparently, my ugly scar is of more importance.
Only when Plutarch and Fulvia leave do I relax a little. I'm buttoning my shirt as I look up at Venia. "Are they bringing your food here?" I ask them, since they're huddled around the door looking lost.
"No." Venia shakes her head. "We're supposed to go to a dining hall."
Oh, great. Just more of a reason for people to stare at me. Seriously, can they not mind their own business? First, they think I'm having some sort of an affair with Rye, which is completely ridiculous. Then, they're glowering at me for insisting Peeta be granted immunity, no matter what condemning things he may say against 13. Then there's the fact that I'm actually pregnant. Most people thought it was just a ruse to promote sympathy.
And now I get to walk into the cafeteria with my prep team, complete with orange corkscrew curls, green skin, and gold tattoos.
This should be interesting.
"I'll show you where it is," I say, my voice betraying none of my exasperated thoughts. It helps that my prep team just looks pitiful and lost. They really are like children and my budding mothering instincts are demanding that I take care of them. "Come on."
As I expected, when I enter the cafeteria, both me and my prep team are subjected to blatant stares, gapping mouths, and surprised exclamations. "Just ignore them," I tell my prep team. "Keep your chin up."
It's something Cinna would always say to me before I went in front of the cameras, and by the light that enters my prep team's eyes I know that they recognize the source of my words. We grab our trays and make it through the line without incident. The menu for the day is a grayish fish and okra stew with cups of water. Naturally, I get a little more food than the rest. It really bothers me sometimes, the fact that I get more than everyone else. If I didn't absolutely need the extra nourishment for the baby, I know I would give my extra food away.
My prep team and I take seats at my usual table. Gale, Hazelle, and the kids are already eating, along with a few other people from District 12. Haymitch isn't present, but Rye waves me over and I take the empty seat next to him and then my prep team fill the rest of the empty seats beside me.
"Lookin' good, sweetcheeks," Rye says by way of greeting. "Almost didn't recognize you."
I punch his shoulder in response and Rye complains loudly and dramatically, prompting a few giggles from Posy. However, my prep team is staring at Rye, nearly unblinking, and he finally notices. "Um, how's it going?"
Octavia's bottom lip trembles. "You look so much like him," she says, her voice nearly a whisper.
Both Rye and I look down for a moment, trying to hide our pain and grief. Rye looks up again after a moment and says, "Yeah. It's a brother thing. Shared genes and all of that."
"Peeta's features are more chiseled," Flavius notes. "We would need to highlight your cheekbones more."
Rye doesn't take offense. He just smiles sadly. "Yeah, Peeta's the pretty boy. Nothing new, there."
The table falls into a tense silence for a few minutes, and I busy myself with poking at my fish with my fork as I try not to think about the horrors Peeta must be facing. Try to block the horrific images my mind creates to torment me. I know that Rye is trying to do the same.
His hand grasps mine under the table, and I clutch it in a death grip.
Hazelle is the one to break the silence. "It tastes better than it looks," she says, holding up a spoonful of the stew. Neither I nor my prep team have taken a bite, yet. "But I wouldn't let it get cold," she adds. "Doesn't improve the consistency."
We all get down to eating, and I notice Posy staring at Octavia curiously. I'm about to scold her for being impolite, but before I can she says, "You're green." She presses her little finger to Octavia's skin. "Are you sick?"
"It's a fashion thing, Posy," I explain. "Like wearing lipstick."
"It's meant to be pretty," Octavia says softly, looking on the verge of tears.
Posy takes a moment to contemplate the teary member of my prep team before announcing confidently, "I think you'd be pretty in any color."
I can't help but smile at the sweetness of Posy's statement. Octavia's lips turn up in the first smile I've seen since the days during the Victory Tour. "Thank you."
"If you really want to impress Posy, you'll have to dye yourself bright pink," Gale says, bringing a little more life into the conversation. "That's her favorite color."
Throughout lunch, Hazelle and Rye try to keep the conversation flowing, trying to ease the awkward tension in the air. Of course, the only thing that they seem to be able to come up with to talk about is the baby. I'm bombarded with questions. How am I doing? Am I still puking every morning? How are my ankles? Pants too tight, yet? Dizzy spells? Drinking enough water?
I'm immensely grateful to Hazelle, who's been through this four times. She's a wealth of information and advice. Rye is delighted to hear that I have felt the 'fluttering in the womb.' Hazelle merely smiles fondly, remembering the feeling, and then asks when I'm going to find out the gender of the baby.
This question brings me up short. Technically, I have another doctor's appointment at the end of next week, where I can find out if my child is a boy or a girl. I still don't know if I actually want to know the answer. It just . . . doesn't feel right. Peeta's won't be there to find out with me. I can't let him miss that moment, can I? No. We have to find out together.
"I don't think I'll ask," I finally say, and Posy frowns.
"But don't you want to know?" she asks curiously.
I smile at her sadly. "It wouldn't be fair," I explain to her softly. "I don't want to know if Peeta can't know, too."
"Oh." Posy looks down at her plate. She doesn't really know what's going on. Only that Peeta isn't here with us. "Okay."
Gale glares at his food. He has hardly said a word. Whenever the topic of the baby comes up he goes silent. This is beginning to annoy me. I don't know what his problem is. Yes, it's probably awkward to be in his position, but to be mad at me? That's not his place. I hate the odd distance between us, especially since we'd been growing back together before the Quell after finally getting everything out into the open. Now it's almost as though we're back at square one.
After lunch, I check my schedule and see that I'm due in Special Defense to meet Beetee. Gale's schedule coincides with mine, and together we walk in silence to the elevator. He presses the appropriate level and then stands beside me. The tension continues to grow until I snap, finally succumbing to my irritation that's been building for weeks.
"What's your problem, Gale?" I ask sharply, folding my arms over my chest defensively.
"No problem," Gale shrugs indifferent and I scowl.
"Liar."
Gale's eyes narrow, his expression a mask of stone. "What do you want me to say?"
"I just want to know what's going on!" I cry in frustration. "Things were so much better between us before the Quell. I thought that we—"
"We'll never be the same Katniss," Gale interrupts. "Things will never go back to the way they were."
"Of course not," I agree, confused. "Gale, I just want my best friend back. I need you." The words escape me in a pained whisper, showing my vulnerability, but Gale merely glares.
"Why don't you ask Mellark?" he questions spitefully. "Thought you two were pretty close."
All of my hurt morphs into anger at his implication. "There's nothing going on between me and Rye," I hiss. "I'm the last of his family, Gale. He doesn't have anyone else to turn to! The rest of his family got blown up and Peeta is . . ." I choke on my words, fighting back tears. "He's . . ." I shake my head, not finishing the sentence. "Of course we're going to help each other. Are you jealous or something?"
Gale scowls. "Don't think so much of yourself, Katniss."
I don't really believe him, not entirely, but I let it drop for now. "Then what is it?" I demand. "Is it the baby?"
Gale's eyes narrow dangerously and he looks away from me. His silence is all the answer I need.
"Gale," I sigh tiredly. "We didn't plan it."
"He should have been more careful," Gale finally mutters and my eyes widen.
"This isn't his fault!" I defend Peeta. "It takes two to make a baby, Gale."
In response, Gale's jaw clenches.
That's when I finally realize that Gale is still jealous. Maybe he'd even harbored a fleeting hope that I would eventually leave Peeta and choose him instead. That's why the baby bothers him. It must be a guy thing, but the knowledge that I had sex with Peeta really upsets him. Maybe to Gale it really cements the fact that I chose Peeta. Gale will never be my lover. That leaves him to be my best friend, but I've been spending so much time with Rye.
Gale feels threatened. He thinks he's losing the last connection he has to me.
"You're such a dumbass," I tell him bluntly, though I'd like to think I said it somewhat endearingly. I meant it to be. I take his hand. "Gale, you have always been and will always be my best friend. There's no replacing you."
Gale doesn't have time to respond because the elevator doors suddenly open. He drops my hand, but not before I swear I feel his grasp tighten ever-so slightly. I duck my head to hide my smile. Something good happened today. I managed to save my friendship with Gale. We've still got work to do, but we'll grow back together. True friends always do.
Special Defense is nearly as far down as the dungeons where we liberated my prep team. The room itself is monstrous in size, but compacted into little sections that are filled with computers, labs, research equipment, and testing ranges. It's Beetee realm through and through.
When we ask for the tech wiz we're led through the maze-like room until we come face to face with a large plate-glass window. The view that meets my gaze is astonishingly beautiful. Color does exist in District 13. I'd almost lost all hope.
The sight before me is a lush meadow, full of the deepest green grass that looks soft and springy. Real trees grow and tower above the scene. Flowering plants are scattered about, giving even more life and color to the place. Hummingbirds flit from flower to flower.
I've now found my refuge. I wonder if Beetee will allow me to sneak in here and hide.
Speaking of Beetee, I spot him sitting frozen in his wheelchair as he watches a fluorescent green hummingbird sip nectar from a lovely orange blossom. Beetee looks up at us when the bird flies away to another flower, and waves for us to join him.
I don't need to be told twice. Gale must see my excitement, not that I'm really doing much to disguise it, because I catch him trying to suppress his smile. The air is surprisingly cool and breathable, which is a wonderful change. I know it's all in my head, but we're so far underground in 13 that I sometimes feel as though the air is suffocating me with its staleness.
"Aren't they magnificent?" Beetee asks excitedly. Though his skin still retains a sickly pallor, his eyes are bright with acuity and delight. "13 has been studying their aerodynamics here for years. Forward and backward flight, and speeds up to sixty miles per hour. If only I could build you wings like these, Katniss!"
"I doubt I could manage them, Beetee," I say with a small smile. "Especially now."
"Ah, yes!" Beetee looks under his ill-fitting glasses to sneak a glance at my growing stomach. "How are you? It's regrettable that I can't see you more often, but I'm needed here."
"I'm as good as I can be," I say truthfully. "Given the circumstances."
"No intelligence of Peeta?" Beetee asks, and I shrug, trying to squash the pain in my chest.
"Not that I know of."
"I've been keeping a special eye on communications," Beetee reassures me. "If I hear or see anything, I'll be sure to let you know."
It's wonderful to know that he's still my ally, even out of the arena. "Thanks, Beetee."
Another hummingbird flits in between us before darting off and Beetee shakes his head. "Incredible creatures," he murmurs. "Do you think you could shoot one with an arrow, Katniss?"
I raise my eyebrows dubiously. "I doubt it. Too small."
"You could snare them, maybe," Gale suggests, his face taking on a contemplative expression that is calm and calculating. "Take a net with a very fine mesh. Enclose an area and leave a mouth of a couple square feet. Bait the inside with nectar flowers. While they're feeding, snap the mouth shut. They'd fly away from the noise but only encounter the far side of the net."
"Would that work?" Beetee wonders.
"I don't know," Gale shrugs casually. Always so modest. "Just an idea. They might outsmart it."
"They might," Beetee concedes with a nod before adding, "But you're playing on their natural instincts to flee danger. Thinking like your prey . . . that's where you find their vulnerabilities."
I'm reminded of how Beetee won his Games. Setting up an elaborate electrical trap that fried a pack of kids chasing him. Their twisted, convulsing bodies will be forever imprinted into my mind. All Beetee had to do was connect two wires. Two little wires and he killed four tributes. But it was self-defense. It wasn't his fault. All of us . . . it was only self-defense . . .
"Beetee, Plutarch said you had something for me," I say, trying to rid my mind of images of past Hunger Games, both Beetee's and my own.
"Right, I do. Your new bow." he replies with a smile. "Follow me." Beetee presses a control on the arm of his wheelchair and begins to glide forward out of the meadow. As we follow him through the meandering halls of Special Defense, Beetee explains a little about his chair. "I can walk a little now. It's just that I tire so quickly. It's easier for me to get around this way. How's Finnick doing?"
I frown sadly, thinking of the distant, tormented look that seems to be perpetually on Finnick's handsome face. "He's having concentration problems," I understate.
Beetee sees through it, though my answer was obviously transparent. "Concentration problems, eh?" Beetee sighs. "If you knew what Finnick's been though the last few years, you'd know how remarkable it is that he's still with us at all. Tell him I've been working on a new trident for him, though, will you? Something to distract him a little."
I nod. Distraction is good. Maybe working with his new trident will give Finnick some incentive to get better. "I'll tell him."
Beetee leads us to a hallway that's guarded by four guards. Their hard expressions remind me of the Peacekeepers in District 11 on the Victory Tour. Harsh and shoving. I can imagine Peeta standing right beside me like he had been that day, his arm wrapped tightly around my waist, glaring at the Peacekeepers.
Back off.
Somehow I get the feeling he'd say the same thing now. Especially when I have to go through DNA scans, retinal scans, and fingerprint scans. Not to mention I get frisked. That, Peeta would have definitely had a problem with. As it is, the guards are lucky that I didn't punch them in the face.
Eventually, we're allowed through. Honestly, I have no idea why they deem such security measures necessary. I can't imagine anyone from 13 breaching security . . . or breaking any rule for that matter. These are people who glare at you if you use a full sheet of paper to write a single sentence.
Maybe Coin is secretly paranoid . . . or maybe the extra measures are due to the influx of immigrants. Probably the latter.
At the end of the hallway, we go through another round of identification checks. Like my DNA changed during the five seconds it took to walk twenty yards to the end of the hall. This is just ridiculous. However, I admit that my ire fades somewhat once we're finally allowed into the armory and I see the glory of the weapons surrounding me. Rows of various firearms, ranging from handguns to machine guns. Rocket launchers. Explosives. Armored vehicles.
However, it's a wall of archery weapons that catches my eye. The grandeur of some of the bows look far too weighted down with gadgetry and scopes for me to even think about holding steady long enough to take a shot. I know that my eyes are wide with delight as I take in my favorite weapon in so many different styles and forms. I can just imagine Peeta's eye roll and then the indulgent smile that would appear on his face as he watched me check out the weapons.
How I wish he was here with me to do just that.
"Gale, maybe you'd like to try out a few of these," Beetee says.
Gale raises his eyebrows, a glint of excitement in his eye. "Seriously?"
"You'll be issued a gun eventually for battle, of course. But if you appear as part of Katniss's team in the propos, one of these would look a little showier. I thought you might like to find one that suits you."
"Yeah, I would," Gale says with a smile before quickly glancing over the weapons in sight. He picks up a very lethal-looking bow that has so many different scopes on it, I'd never know which to use when. Gale hoists it up and points it, pretending to take aim.
"That doesn't seem very fair to the deer," I say, still eyeing all the scopes and gadgets on the bow.
"Wouldn't be using it on deer, would I?" he retorts.
Beetee says something about going and getting my bow, leaving Gale and I alone. I wait until Beetee is completely out of sight. "So it'd be easy for you?" I ask. "Using that on people?"
"I didn't say that," Gale defends as he drops the bow to his side. "But if I'd had a weapon that could've stopped what I saw happening in 12 . . . if I'd had a weapon that could have kept you out of the arena . . . I'd have used it."
"Me, too," I agree, though I have to admit that the time I spent with Peeta in the arena wasn't all that bad . . . most of the time. The cave was actually kind of nice. I really miss that sleeping bag . . .
But that doesn't matter, right now. I don't know how to explain to Gale how killing a person, taking a life, effects you. How their ghost will always haunt you. Peeta understands. Haymitch understands.
Gale doesn't understand, and I honestly hope he'll never have to.
Beetee returns with a long black case in his lap. He's wearing an excited smile as he comes to stop next to me and says, "For you."
I can't help the puzzled smile that stretches my lips. What's so special about this bow? What has Beetee's genius brain come up with? I take the case from him and set it on the floor, flipping open the clasps on the sides and then lifting the lid. "Oh," I breathe in surprise as my fingers unthinkingly stroke the bow. Nestled in the maroon velvet-lined case is my bow. It's completely black and sleek-looking and yet radiates power and danger. It's a force to be reckoned with, and a beautiful one at that.
I lift it carefully from it's confines and I have to admire Beetee's craftsmanship, as well as his aesthetic taste. The balance is perfect. The curves of the bow are elegant and precise, alluding to wings extended in flight. But there's something else. Something odd. The bow is vibrating in my hands. It feels alive. I press it to my cheek just to make sure I'm not imagining things and a hum goes through my body.
"What's it doing?" I ask Beetee.
"Saying hello," he replies with a grin. "It heard your voice."
"It recognizes my voice?"
"Only your voice." Beetee looks very proud of himself and I can't help but find it cute. "You see, they wanted me to design a bow based purely on looks. As part of your costume, you know? But I kept thinking, What a waste. I mean, what if you do need it sometime? As more than a fashion accessory?" Beetee pauses, glancing at my obvious pregnant belly. "Of course, it's just a precaution."
"Thanks for the thought, Beetee," I smile in gratitude, and Beetee takes my response as permission to continue.
"Anyway, so I left the outside simple, and left the inside to my imagination. Best explained in practice, though. Want to try those out?"
Gale and I spend the rest of the hour at the shooting range, shooting arrow after arrow into the targets. Not only are the bows remarkable, but the arrows are as well. With Beetee's weapons, I can accurately shoot at a hundred yards. I have three types of arrows to choose from in my arsenal—razor sharp, incendiary, and explosive. He even color-coded them for me so I know which is which by sight. I can override the bow with a command, though I have no idea why I would do so. To deactivate the bow, all I have to do is say, "Goodnight." Then it will wait until the sound of my voice wakes it once again.
We say goodbye to Beetee and then check the schedules on our arms. We're both due in Command, and I barely control my urge to bang my head against the wall of the elevator as it takes us up to the correct level. I have no idea what this meeting can be about, and when I walk through the doors and see that the room is filled with even more people than normal, I become even more suspicious. I even spot Greasy Sae in the corner of the room, who shoots me a wink when she sees me.
By the way Haymitch is greeting everyone, it's clear that some people are here by his personal request. My eyes narrow, my suspicion being replaced by sheer curiosity. What does my mentor have up his sleeve?
I spot Plutarch and Fulvia sitting at the long table in the middle of the room, Fulvia looking more than a little disgruntled, like a toddler who had her favorite toy taken away or was denied a treat. Coin, of course, sits as impassively as always at the head of the table, and when our eyes meet we have a brief stare down. I know that if I look away first, it would be a sign of weakness, but I can't be seen glaring at her like I hate her guts. Which I do, for two reasons. One, she refuses to rescue Peeta, and two; she's probably planning to kill me eventually.
Haymitch clears his throat, automatically drawing my gaze. "Alright," he says. "For those of you who don't know already, we're here because Katniss can't act to save her life."
Wow. Thanks, Haymitch.
I know that he feels my glare drilling holes in the side of his head, but he ignores me. "I've looked over your propo ideas," he says, looking at Fulvia in particular. "And it's not going to work. It's too fake and too forced. You can't bloody her up and make her look sexy or whatever the hell you're goal is. That's not who the people fell in love with."
"Then what do you suggest?" Coin asks crisply.
"I'm getting there," Haymitch retorts back and Coin's eyes narrow ever-so slightly. I watch the exchange curiously. I remember Haymitch's words to me this morning . . . Let me deal with Coin. Coin versus Haymitch . . . a dangerous battle of cunning, cleverness, and manipulation that can only end so many ways, none of which make me feel at ease.
"So, my point is that Katniss can't be someone she's not," he continues. "That being said, I want everyone to think of one incident where Katniss genuinely moved you. Not where you were jealous of her hairstyle, or her dress went up in flames or she made a halfway decent shot with an arrow. Not where Peeta was making you like her. I want to hear one moment where she made you feel something real."
Silence stretches on for a long moment, and I'm afraid it will never end when Leevy speaks up. "When she volunteered to take Prim's place at the reaping, because I'm sure she thought she was going to die."
"Excellent example," Haymitch praises before writing with a purple marker on a notepad, "Volunteered for sister at reaping." He looks around. "Somebody else."
A person who I typically think of as a muscular robot that does Coin's bidding, Boggs, speaks up next, surprising me. "When she sang the song while the little girl died." A brief flash of Boggs in the dining hall with a small boy perched on his hip filters into my mind and I think that Boggs might not be a robot after all.
"Who didn't get choked up at that, right?" Haymitch asks, writing it down.
"I cried when she drugged Peeta so she could go get him medicine and when she kissed him good-bye!" Octavia blurts, before clamping her hand over her mouth as though she's sure she's about to be punished. I frown at her reaction, but I can't help but be thrown into the very memory she's referencing.
You drugged me.
You were being difficult.
The memory of Peeta's angry face actually makes my lips twitch as I fight not to smile, especially when I remember my surprisingly coherent rant that soon followed.
"Oh, yeah," Haymitch says absently, his sarcasm bleeding into his words. "Drugs Peeta to save his life. Very nice."
Many different examples of me being, well, me, begin to be voiced. When I took Rue on as an ally. When I admitted my love for Peeta. When I took Chaff's hand on interview night. Tried to carry Mags. Comforted Peeta when we were under attack by the jabberjays, though I really think that was a team effort on our part. I would have completely broken if Peeta hadn't been with me. But the point that keeps coming back is the berries. The damn berries that started everything, and how they meant different things to different people. The Capitol's injustice and cruelty. Refusal to give in under unbeatable odds. Love for Peeta.
Finally, Haymitch looks up and holds up the notepad that's covered in purple ink from the many voiced examples. "So, the question is, what do all of these have in common?"
"They were Katniss's," Gale says quietly and Rye nods in agreement.
"No one told her what to say," he finishes.
"Unscripted, yes!" Beetee is all smiles. "So we should just leave you alone, right?"
Despite it all, I smile a little at that.
"Well, that's all very nice but not very helpful." Fulvia is obviously insulted that Haymitch just trashed her entire idea. "Unfortunately, her opportunities for being wonderful are rather limited here in 13," she says snidely. "I think we can make the propos work. A little less smoke. A little less . . . grime. Keep her natural. After all, we already have the tagline!"
"Yeah, about that." Haymitch hands me a piece of paper. "Read that."
I scan the words on the page. "People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice."
I raise my eyebrows. It's kind of a mouthful, but I get the feeling the people of 13 are quite proud of it.
So they're probably not happy when Haymitch smiles (which is always a little creepy), and then says, "And that, my friends, his how a revolution dies."
I scowl. Haymitch's confidence in me is overwhelming.
"So what do you suggest?" Plutarch asks. "If we have to evoke real, genuine emotion within Katniss to get quality footage, how do you suggest we go about doing it?"
Haymitch opens his mouth to answer, but Coin interrupts him, her words causing both me and Haymitch freeze.
"We send her into combat."
And we're finally through! Woo! That took awhile.
So, alas, the summary for this chapter is: Katniss has a freaky dream but is against being committed to the asylum, Haymitch's evil twin actually shows compassion and comforts Katniss, Gale is still holding out hope that Katniss will join him on Jerry Springer when Peeta gets back, Maya has put all other dogs on suicide watch, Rye is obsessed with "fluttering", Plutarch and Fulvia are vying for Ultimate Douche Bag, and Coin is auditioning for a role in Horrible Bosses 2.
Quote from next chapter comes from . . . Rye!
"Now, would you rather deal with an alive me for an unknown amount of time or be subjected to my ghostly cries of vengeance until you die?
Lots of love,
AC
