A/N: Hey, guys! I'm not going to be as chipper as usual because, quite frankly, I'm feeling kind of down lately. The last couple weeks of school have seemed to only bolster my desire to NOT be there, which is not very conducive to actually accomplishing all the crap my professors have me doing. Never fear, I get my work done. Too many years of overachieving forbid me to get behind. But, regrettably, I'm just not in a very good mood these days. In fact, some days, the only time I smile is when I read your reviews.

So could you please, please, please continue to be my rays of sunshine on a cloudy day? Thanks. I love you guys, I really do.

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.

Rye: Come on, AC! Lighten up! You're all frowny.

Peeta: Yeah, even from my place all the way in the Capitol cell . . . which I've been in for a month . . . patiently waiting to be rescued . . . you seem almost as miserable as me.

Me: (nods) Professors can be the cruelest tortures and bringers of suffering.

Katniss: Don't you think you're being a little dramatic?

Me: Well, duh. I'm eighteen. Nothing can be as simple as it appears. And my world will be clouded in darkness and despair for the foreseeable future. It's just an accepted thing for teenagers to blow things out of proportion.

Haymitch: Life sucks. Get over it, already.

Me: And with those inspiring words, I'll happily carry on to the chapter.


Chapter 9: Breath

You take the breath right out of me

You left a hole where my heart should be

You've got to fight, just to make it through

'Cause I will be the death of you


The impact of the blasts and those that follow are jarring to say the least, but they're not cataclysmic. After the initial hit, you would expect to look up and see a splintering crack running across the ceiling or chunks of the ceiling raining down in a cascade of stone. In reality, neither of those scenarios is what actually happens. In reality, the bunker merely shakes with each hit, not even a smidgen of dust falling from the ceiling.

It is reassuring and petrifying at the same time, because I'm just waiting for the missiles to take their toll and collapse the cavern in which I and so many others have taken refuge. Rye's arm around me is comforting, but I can't deny the intense longing I feel for Peeta. I want it to be Peeta's arm around me. I want it to be Peeta's voice I hear whispering reassurances in my ear.

I just want Peeta.

Another bomb shakes the bunker, causing another round of fearful shrieks and ragged breaths. The whimper of a baby makes my heart clinch and wrap my arms tighter around my stomach. I even hear a gleeful laugh, the kind of laugh that comes from one who is insane.

The noises around me, coupled with the recurring bombs, have me shaking with the need to do something. In every single dangerous, life-threatening situation I've been in, I've always had the ability to do something about it. Fight back. Run away.

Down here, there's no one for me to fight, and there's nowhere for me to run.

Even still, I contemplate running for the doors. I can see them in the faint glow of the lights. The power went out after the very first strike. But, being District 13, they were prepared for such a scenario and after a few seconds of suffocating darkness, the generator kicked on and flooded the cavern with a candlelight-like glow.

It's in this glow that I see the gargantuan metal doors, still guarded by the two guards that were there earlier. I know that nothing I say or do will get them to open the doors, but in my state I've almost convinced myself that it is possible. And I would almost rather face whatever is going on above than the helplessness that drowns me here.

Almost.

The baby is what keeps me in my place. I can't do anything that would endanger the baby. Not after the fiasco in 8. I promised myself and Peeta that I wouldn't do anything that stupid again. No. I was staying here in this terrifying, suffocating hellhole because I knew that at the moment, it was the safest place in 13 and the only chance I had of keeping the baby alive.

"They're probably bunker missiles." Rye has hardly stopped talking since the bombing began. Whether it comforts him or he thinks it comforts me is unknown, but I haven't told him to shut up yet, so I guess he's taken that as his cue to keep talking. Honestly, I don't really mind. It reminds me of Peeta. "We learned about them during the orientation for new citizens," he continues. "They're designed to penetrate deep in the ground before they go off. Because there's no point in bombing 13 on the surface anymore." Rye pauses, and I know he has a poor excuse for a smile on his face as he adds, "Of course. You would know this too if you did what you were told and went to your classes."

"I don't think you'll ever do what anyone says. But that's only one of the many reasons why I love you."

I feel my lips threaten to turn up at the memory. My tendency to flaunt my disregard for anything from rules to instructions is something I know Peeta finds endearing and infuriating at the same time. Endearing, because it is simply a part of who I am. I march to the beat of my own drum, and Peeta loves that about me. Infuriating, because I will still do what I think is right, like run to the Cornucopia in the Quell, even though he'd told me the night before to run away. Sometimes I wonder how I don't drive Peeta insane.

"I have better things to do," I tell Rye, though my voice doesn't hold the amused superiority that I would have liked it to. Instead, my voice is tremulous as I glance up anxiously at the shuddering ceiling. "Do you think they're nuclear?" I ask him, feeling a chill creep up my spine at the thought.

"Nah," Rye shakes his head. "Some just have a lot of explosives in them. I don't think the Capitol would resort to nuclear missiles. If they did, they'd just be inviting a counterstrike and then they would be just as damaged as we are." We both pause as a particularly rough blast shakes the bunker, causing more than one small child to scream in fear. "We're so far down, I'm sure we're safe," Rye adds.

"It was a close call, though," I say quietly. "If Peeta hadn't warned us . . ."

"We'd be toast," Rye agrees. "But that's Wonder Boy for you. Always being the hero."

We fall into silence until it's broken by President Coin, announcing over the audio system that Peeta was, in fact, correct. "Apparently, Peeta Mellark's information was sound and we owe him a great debt of gratitude. Sensors indicate the first missiles were not nuclear, but very powerful. We expect more will follow. For the duration of the attack, citizens are to stay in their assigned areas unless otherwise notified."

Rye mutters something unintelligible under his breath, but I don't need to ask what he said. I know that it was something derogatory about Coin. How do I know this? Because I'm currently entertaining the same thoughts. Why people in 13 were so quick to assume Peeta had switched sides is beyond me. Nothing in his previous actions could ever lead them to believe that he had any inclination whatsoever to be a part of the Capitol's cause. Peeta's world consisted of me and the baby. He'd told me so, in so many words. In a variety of ways.

But that's just Peeta.

For the next three days, we're huddled in the bunker, which occasionally shakes with the force of the Capitol bombs. We're allowed to go to the bathroom and brush our teeth in groups and receive three meager rations a day. Just enough to keep you alive.

Rye spends nearly all of his time in my space with me. Silence pervades the space the majority of the time, but that doesn't bother us. Words are not necessarily what we want. Just silently supporting the other, merely by being present, is enough. There's not much to say anyway. Our thoughts are with Peeta, wondering if he's dead or alive.

Did his warning cost him his life?

The question taunts my mind mercilessly. I'm haunted by my nightmarish imaginings, all of the frightening scenes running on a constant loop before my mind's eye. I shut my eyes tightly, as if I could force the images away, but it doesn't work. Is Peeta still fighting? Or is my mother right? Has his strength run out? Can his body take no more? Has Snow decided that Peeta is no longer needed?

No. No, my mother is wrong. She has to be. She can't be right. Peeta can't die. He can't. He wouldn't do that to me. He wouldn't leave me alone. He wouldn't deny himself the joy of watching his child grow up. Peeta wouldn't do that.

He can't die.

On the second day, Rye and I decide to look through one of Peeta's sketchbooks that I brought back from the house; the one that is nearly full with his drawings. We commiserate over each page silently the majority of the time. The book is filled with portraits for the most part. My face is on the first page, a playful smirk toying at the corners of my lips. Haymitch is next, scowling. Rye and I both comment on how Peeta's rendering of our mentor is flawless. Prim's sweet smile adorns the third page. On and on, Peeta draws the members of his family, including Portia and Effie. Even Maya occupies a page.

However, the portraits slowly transform into pictures, pictures that no camera could possibly capture more beautifully than Peeta's capable hands. A day spent in the kitchen, my laughing form sprinkled with a handful of flour that Peeta had tossed in my face. Prim and Haymitch sitting opposite each other, looking serious as they stared at the chess board resting atop the table placed between them. A gleeful Rye holding a flustered Chris in a headlock. Maya lying contently on a blanket in front of a flickering fire.

The snapshots of time pass through every page, and I find the corners of my lips twitching as I fight to smile. Finally, I manage, and the smallest of smiles appears on my face as I soak up the way Peeta views the world. I'd asked him once, why he drew memories instead of creating his own scene. Peeta had shrugged and said, "Moments pass and then they're gone forever. But if I paint them, I can keep them alive in my own way."

"You know, he didn't always draw," Rye says after we close the sketchbook. "Sure, he took to frosting quicker than me or Chris, but he didn't literally start drawing until he was about . . ." Rye trails off as he does a mental count. "Thirteen, maybe?"

"Only four years?" I question, stunned. "He's only been drawing for four years and he can create something like this?" I hold up the entire sketchbook as evidence.

Rye smiles a little. "He's always been the Wonder Boy. Smarter. Stronger. Braver. Wiser. Kinder. And, not that I'll ever admit it to him, but he's the prettiest of us all."

We share a small smile.

It's the morning of the third day trapped in the cavern that I make my over to Prim. I realize that I should have gone to her sooner, but I couldn't make myself for a few reasons. Reason one is that I still harbor guilt. Guilt because I'm grateful she risked her life to bring me Peeta's things. Things that would have surely been destroyed if she'd left them. A second reason is Rye. We need each other because out of everyone, except Haymitch, we're the ones who fear the most for Peeta. We're the ones who would be the most effected by his death . . .

But Peeta won't die. He can't die. No, no he can't leave. Can't leave me in this alone.

Rye and I need this time together because we know exactly how each other feels. Shared pain, grief, worries, and most heartbreakingly of all . . . a shared hope. I'm clinging to that thin shred of hope with all that I am.

So, between all my chaotic feelings, I haven't had the chance to talk to Prim. But as I walk down the row to the space that she shares with our mother, I feel a little bit lighter. Almost like relief. It's only when I see her sweet face that I realize how I'm still reeling over the fact that she could have been trapped behind those doors, so close and yet so far from safety.

Again, all because she'd gone back to get Peeta's things. For me. Because she knew that I needed them. Because she knows that those things aren't merely things to me. They're Peeta. They're all that I have of him.

"Hey Katniss," she says with a small smile. "How are you?"

On the brink of losing my mind, but that's not what I say.

"Right now?" My voice would normally hold some teasing, but not now. I'm too weary.

"I miss home sometimes," Prim says as I settle onto the little cot beside her. "But then I remember there's nothing left to miss anymore. I feel safer here." She pauses, a small and yet sly smile gracing her lips. "I think they're going to train me to be a doctor."

I raise my eyebrows, feeling my own proud smile pull at my lips. "They'd be stupid not to," I say. "You deserve it. You'll be a great doctor."

"They've been watching me when I help out in the hospital. I'm already taking the medic courses. It's just beginner's stuff. I know a lot of it from home. Still, there's plenty to learn." It's an answer not unlike one Peeta would give. Modest, but eager.

"That's great," I tell her honestly, glad that there's a little something good happening. A little light amongst the darkness, Prim getting to strive to achieve her dream.

Prim and I fall into silence for a while. I don't know where our mother is, but I'm not curious enough to ask. I'm still angry with her for her seemingly failing faith in Peeta. The idea that Peeta would die is preposterous. I refuse to believe that it's a possibility. Peeta will live. He will not die.

He can't die.

"How are you?" Prim asks finally, breaking the silence. "And don't say you're fine. We both know you're not."

I sigh heavily, hating the moisture that wells in my eyes. "I'm scared for him, Prim," I admit softly, before I acknowledge the fear that has been haunting me ever since I saw Peeta's blood splatter the floor of the Capitol's film room. "They might kill him for this."

My voice is a tremulous whisper as I force back my sobs. I've cried myself to sleep every night, the image of the red-stained white floor imprinted in my mind. "I saw him, Prim. I saw the look in his eyes. He thought it was a possibility. He thought that they might kill him for warning us . . . but he told us about the bombing anyway. And now . . ." I trail off as my tears begin to slip from my eyes, my sobs building in my throat. "And now they might have . . . he could be . . ." The sobs finally escape me, causing me to be unable to continue.

Prim immediately begins to console me, rubbing a soothing hand on my back and whispering reassurances. I try to believe her. I try to believe her when she says that Peeta isn't dead. I want to believe her desperately. I'm desperate, holding on to my last hope. My last unfailing hope that Peeta is surviving for me and the baby like Dr. Riley said. That he's living because he has something to live for.

Because Peeta dying is simply not possible.

He can't die.

Traitorously, my mind dredges up a memory. A steaming hot arena surrounded by dense greenery. Peeta's knife swinging down and hitting the force field, blasting him backward. His body landing lifelessly on the ground. Placing my fingers over his lips only to feel no breath. Placing my head on his chest only to feel no heartbeat.

Peeta has died before. For a brief few minutes, he left me alone to survive the arena, lead a rebellion, and raise our child alone.

But he came back. He came back because I'd asked him to.

Only because you said please.

"Katniss." Prim's voice cuts through the memory, distorting it. When I blink back my tears, I see her expression—worried, but confident. "Katniss, listen to me. Breathe, okay? Deep breaths." I hate that I'm so weepy, that I can almost cry on cue these days because of pregnancy hormones. Not to mention the stress that I'm under, but nonetheless I focus on Prim's face, breathing with her, until my tears have ceased to fall and I'm relatively calm.

Only then does Prim continue. "I don't think Snow will kill Peeta," she says surely. "If he does, he won't have anyone left you want. He won't have any way to hurt you."

The logic is cruel, but true.

Prim is right. Snow can't afford to kill Peeta, especially since I, as the Mockingjay, am wreaking so much havoc. He may have killed Cinna and destroyed my home, but my family, my child, Gale, and Haymitch are out of his reach. Peeta is all that he has in his arsenal. While I may not like the situation, I have to admit that Prim's words give me hope. It means that Peeta won't die.

He can't die.

Before I can stop myself, I ask, "What do you think they will do to him?"

Why did I ask? Don't my nightmares haunt me enough? Aren't my imaginings enough torture?

But those frightening images don't hold half the fear that Prim's answer does. Her voice sounds thousands of years old as she replies, "Whatever it takes to break you."

For the rest of the day, my little sister's words consume me. Not even the missiles that shake the bunker have enough force to draw me from my mind. In a futile attempt that only lasts minutes, I try to redirect my mind to focus on the bombs. The attacks are more spread out now, occurring every few hours. Just to keep you on edge. Just so when you start to think that it's over, the Capitol shocks you with the truth that it's not. Coin was right when she said that the Capitol wouldn't destroy us. You don't destroy what you plan to acquire in the future. The Capitol's main goal is damage. Damage 13 so that we can't focus on our Airtime Assault. Keep me off the television screens.

Coin rarely gives updates, and when she does they are brief, less-than-a-minute summaries of what has happened. She ends each update with a, "Thank you for your cooperation" and then the audio link clicks off sharply.

But this doesn't hold my attention for more than a few minutes. I ignore the calls for food. Rye brings me my rations for the day. I ignore the time allotted for socialization, and no one tries to talk to me. The only time I move is to go to the bathroom and to bathe. Otherwise I'm lying down on my pitiful cot, staring blankly at a spot on the wall.

What will break me?

That pesky voice in the back of my mind tells me that I'm already breaking. Slowly but surely, the knowledge of Peeta's suffering is chipping away at my heart. My strength is failing, little by little. I'm reminded of Gale's words to me in the hallway, the day after Peeta's second interview with Caesar.

You're this close to breaking, Katniss. This close. You can try to convince yourself otherwise and so far you've been doing a good job, but don't think for one second you can fool me. I can see it in your eyes, Katniss. Half of you isn't there, and I know it's because of him . . . you can only live with half of yourself for so long . . .

I can only live with half of myself for so long before I break. Gale thinks it's just a waiting game. Like a time-bomb. Seconds just ticking by, every tick closer to the explosion of grief and despair that will consume me.

It's just a matter of time.

But I refuse to believe it. I won't break. I will ignore that voice in the back of my head, like I have been. It's lying. I am strong. I will not break. I will not break because Peeta will not die.

He can't die.

I don't know at what time, but Rye rouses me from my semi-conscious state, pleading with me to move around and stretch my legs. That's his excuse at least. I think he just wants me to prove that I'm still sane. That I haven't succumbed. So, to prove that I'm still strong and still fighting, I oblige and swing my legs over the side of the cot and get up to walk around.

I ignore the thought that I'm doing this to prove to myself that I haven't succumbed to the grief. Instead, to thwart the thought, I fill myself with determination. I will get Peeta back. No more puppet strings, having Coin or 13 pull me every-which-way. When we get out of this damn cavern, I'm demanding that she rescue Peeta. There's no other option. After all, if it hadn't been for Peeta, I'm sure that many would have died. Peeta probably saved thousands of lives. 13 owes him. This fire fuels me, and I feel better. The desperation that floats in the back of my mind is nearly pushed to nonexistence.

I'm getting my husband back.

My feet eventually wander over to Finnick. He's playing with his rope, tying knots swiftly and efficiently. When he hears my approach, he looks up and then pats a spot on his cot beside him. I take the seat offered, but Finnick doesn't strike up a conversation. He simply goes back to tying knots in his rope, which leaves me to my thoughts.

Peeta.

Too many images. Too many ghostly screams. Too many heart-wrenching memories. What will break me? No. No, I'm getting Peeta back. I'm getting him back. 13 will rescue him. I will make it happen because it's my one last desperate attempt to keep myself together. Because if I don't get Peeta back soon . . .

. . . you can only live with half of yourself for so long . . .

"Tell me about Annie."

Finnick's hands freeze, the half-finished knot in his fingers slipping from his grasp and falling onto the floor at his feet. I would normally feel guilty for shocking him so, but I'm being selfish. I need a distraction from my thoughts. Desperately.

"Anything," I continue. "How'd you meet? What made you fall for her? What's she like?"

Finnick gaps at me for a moment, like a fish out of water, before he swallows and looks at his feet. "She's beautiful," he admits softly. "And sweet and . . . innocent." He looks up at me, a sad, wry smile on his lips. "And yet, at the same time, she's the wisest person I know. I think it's just how she sees things, you know? She sees the simple things, things that you wouldn't normally spare a thought for, but she sees them and she makes sure that you do, too. She's just . . . a breath of fresh air."

I force myself to focus on Finnick's words, not giving myself time to think of my own mind-lurking shadows. "How'd you meet her?"

"I was her mentor," Finnick answers. "She was one of my first tributes . . ." he trails off. "I was attracted to her, sure, but I didn't give her much thought. I was too torn between the pressure of mentoring two kids my age, knowing that I would have to choose which one I wanted to try to save."

"But it didn't really matter, did it?" I say, remembering Annie's games, and how the entire arena had flooded. Annie survived simply because she was the best swimmer.

"No, not in the end," Finnick agrees. "But . . . before the Games had started . . . Mags and I had chosen to save Erik."

I'm shocked. "What?" He hadn't immediately chosen Annie?

Finnick shrugs. "Erik had the higher training score, showed the most potential." His sea green eyes lock with my steel grey. "Not everyone has a whirlwind romance, Katniss. You and Peeta . . . you two are like magnets. Always been drawn to each other, whether you acknowledged it or not. It wasn't like that for me. Initially, I only thought that Annie was beautiful, and that I hated knowing that I would probably watch her die."

"Of course, that didn't happen," Finnick continues. "The arena flooded and Annie won . . . but her battles were far from over." Yes, I image Annie's battles had only just begun. "She wasn't the same girl when she came out of the arena," he says. "None of us are, but Annie . . . well, she was . . . shell-shocked. I remember when Mags and I and her stylist came to collect her from the hospital. She was just laying there on the bed, staring at the opposite wall. I don't know what she was seeing, but it kept her frozen. And seeing her like that, so trapped, made me feel something for her. I didn't know it back then, but I think that's when I made the first step toward her. To falling for her. Because I wanted to protect her. I couldn't do that in the arena. But now that we were out of the arena, I wanted to protect her. Even from her own mind."

"Eventually, over the years, we became good friends. The Capitol tried to keep her on drugs. Sedatives and things . . . they said it would "help" her, but they just drained all the life from her. Annie didn't want to take them, and so I didn't make her." Finnick looks at me. "She's not crazy like everyone says. She's just more . . . fragile in some ways. Sometimes she'll zone out. Sometimes she'll talk to someone who isn't there. But she's still the sweetest girl I know."

"When did you know?" I ask softly.

"That I loved her?" Finnick assumes and I nod. A light has entered his eye, a fondness that I haven't seen. For a moment, it eclipses the sadness and the pain in his green orbs. "Honestly, she snuck up on me. Thinking back, I'd known subconsciously that I'd been in love with her for years, but Annie never made a move and I didn't either. We were best friends."

"Until?"

"Until she saved my life." Finnick must see the confusion and shock that's on my face because he smiles faintly. "Surprised? So were a lot of people."

"What happened?"

"Whenever I'm home, I always take the boat out to sea," Finnick begins. "There's nothing better. Crisp, salty air. The waves lapping against the boat. The birds overhead. The sun warming your skin . . ." He sighs. "Anyway, I was out fishing when out of nowhere a storm blew in. I barely had any warning, just a change in the air. It wouldn't have been so bad if I wasn't so far from shore, but I was miles out. I managed to get halfway back before the storm was on me. Worst storm I've ever encountered, and that's saying something because in 4 we'll fish in just about anything. A little rain, a little wind—no problem. But this rain was filling up the boat. The wind blew through my sails. And then lightning struck, and suddenly I was in the water."

"I could barely keep my head up. The waves had to be forty feet and the wind . . . the wind kept blowing water into my eyes. Only because I managed to get air into my lungs did I know for sure that I was even above the water. But I was wearing out fast. I tried to ride the waves as much as I could, but the current was stronger than ever. I thought I was going to die. Ironic death for a guy from 4, right? Drowning."

"But then Annie was there, cutting through the water like butter. She grabbed a fistful of my shirt and we managed to make it back to her boat. We made it back to shore, but not without almost capsizing a few times." Finnick shakes his head. "I still don't understand how we made it through."

"How did she know you were in trouble? Or where you were in the first place?" I ask bewildered.

Finnick smiles. "She says that Erik told her. So she went out to get Ernie, one of our friends and coincidentally, the best captain in 4. Ernie's the only one who would have had the guts to go out into that storm. So, she and Ernie set out, and the moment Annie saw me in the water, she dove in."

"When we made it back to my house, we were both soaked to the bone, freezing, and on the brink of collapse. But when I looked at her, she still looked just as beautiful as she did when I first laid eyes on her." Finnick looks puzzled for a moment, though a wry smile quirks his lips. "I don't know what it was, but that's when it all hit me. I loved her. So, in my naturally charming way, I flashed her my most devastating smile, took her in my arms, and said, 'Thanks for saving me, gorgeous.' Then I kissed her, and, much to my surprise, she kissed me back."

We're silent for a few more minutes before Finnick suddenly turns to me, and I know by looking into his eyes that the somewhat normal Finnick I just spoke to has retreated back into the depths of his mind. Worry and fear begin to coalesce in his eyes as he pins me with his stare. "I love her, Katniss," he tells me sincerely, almost like a plea.

He quickly reaches down to pick his rope up off the floor, his fingers automatically beginning to manipulate it as he suddenly trains his eyes on the rope. "I try to distract myself, you know? Because I can't bear it. Obviously, I don't. I drag myself out of nightmares each morning and find there's no relief in waking . . ." He stops, because he must see the knowing in my eyes. I know exactly how he feels. "Best not give in to it," he tells me. "It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart."

Finnick would know.

For the rest of the day, I sit on my cot and focus my attention on the baby. I count the number of times I feel him moving around. I rub my stomach, as if to soothe him. I wonder what he'll look like. If he'll take after me or Peeta. Will he like to paint or will he like to hunt? Will he have my determination or Peeta's rationality? Will he have my cunning or Peeta's kindness?

Is he even a boy? What if he is a she?

I don't know why exactly, but I'm nearly positive that it's a boy. Call me crazy, but it's just a feeling I have.

Eventually, I'm drawn from my thoughts when Coin comes over the audio system and announces that it's safe to return to our quarters, if they haven't been destroyed by the bombs. If they have been blown to smithereens, new quarters will be assigned. I grab all of Peeta's things and place them in the game bag before beginning to make my way toward the doors with Rye, when Boggs suddenly cuts through the crowd and takes me by the arm, beginning to lead me in a different direction. Rye sticks to my side the entire way, and as we slither through the crowd, Boggs spots Finnick and Gale and motions for them to join us.

A long few flights of stairs, an equally long hallway, and a multidirectional elevator ride later, Boggs is leading us all toward Special Defense. I can't tell if anything has been damaged, so I'm assuming that the division made it through the bombing unscathed.

Haymitch suddenly walks out of a room, shutting the door behind him with a bit more force than needed. His eyes catch mine and I immediately know that he's pissed . . . more so than usual. I raise my eyebrows in question, but he merely scowls before he says. "You're headed to your new Remake Room," he says. "Coin wants you suited up and aboveground. Need two hours of footage to show the damage from the bombing, establish that 13 isn't dead, and that you're still alive and kickin'."

I open my mouth to ask about rescuing Peeta, but Haymitch cuts me off, almost as if he knows exactly what I'm thinking. "Working on that, sweetheart, but it's hard to accomplish something when I'm surrounded by idiots."

Boggs looks offended, but Haymitch doesn't care.

"Now, go get fixed up," he barks. "Ready in twenty."

And with that, Haymitch stalks down the hallway. I glance at the door from which he appeared and deduce that it's the new, hastily constructed Command. But I barely have time to wonder if Coin is behind the door before Boggs begins to lead me further down the hallway. I assume that he, Rye, and Gale will go get suited up as well.

When I enter my new Remake Room, my prep team quickly and efficiently makes me camera-presentable. Quicker than I would have thought possible, Octavia shapes my nails, Venia applies my minimal makeup, and Flavius's fingers work their magic with my hair. They put me in my Mockingjay suit, which is a little bit snugger around my chest than the last time I wore it, but I don't complain, even though it's quickly growing uncomfortable.

Boggs comes to collect me and then leads me through the labyrinth that is District 13. After a series of hallways and ladders leading higher and higher, we finally reach a trap door. Boggs opens the latch and in the next few seconds, I'm standing in the middle of the forest.

Gale, Rye, Haymitch, Cressida, and the rest of the camera crew are already there. Immediately, I retreat from Boggs's side to stand by Haymitch. We begin to trek through the woods, and I take deep breaths of the clean air. It's only now when I'm in the open expanse of the forest that I realize just how much I truly detested the bunker. I let my fingers trail over the leaves that we pass that are within my reach and that's when I notice that some of them are starting to turn. Green fading into a variety of orange, red, and yellow. I turn to Haymitch. "What day is it?"

"First week of September," Haymitch says grimly, and I know why.

If it's the first week of September, Peeta has been in the Capitol's clutches for a little more than a month. A little more than a month of torture. A little more than a month of painfully approaching a death that seems so close and yet so far.

A little more than a month since I last felt his arms around me. A little more than a month since I last felt his lips on mine. A little more than a month since I heard him tell me he loved me. A little more than a month since I felt whole.

. . . you can only live with half of yourself for long . . .

My breathing begins to quicken without my consent, as we continue to tread through the forest. Debris begins to litter our path, and only a minute later we come to our first crater. Thirty yards wide and I don't know how deep. All I see is a black pit. Darkness.

Trying to smother me . . .

. . . you're this close to breaking . . .

Vaguely, I hear Boggs explaining that anyone on the first ten levels would likely have been killed.

"Can you rebuild it?" Gale asks.

"Not anytime soon. That one didn't get much. A few backup generators and a poultry farm." Boggs doesn't seem too worried. "We'll just seal it off."

The trees give way to the area inside the fence, which is peppered with gigantic black holes, the evidence of the Capitol's attacks. Old and new rubble litter the area and Cressida maneuvers through it all almost mindlessly as she scans the area around her, looking for what will give her the best footage.

"How much of an edge did Peeta's warning give you?" Someone asks, causing my heart to jumpstart at the sound of Peeta's name. A shuddering breath escapes my lips and a tremble begins to build in my hands. I clench my fists tightly.

Peeta . . .

"About ten minutes before our own systems would've detected the missiles," Boggs answers.

"But it did help, right?" Rye pursues.

"Absolutely." The tremble slowly taking over my body is only exacerbated by the affirmative answer. Peeta saved people. District 13 owes him. District 13 will save him. They have to.

He can't die.

". . . civilian evacuation was completed. Seconds count when you're under attack. Ten minutes meant lives saved."

Lives saved. Peeta saved lives. District 13 should save his.

He can't die.

Cressida wants to film me in front of the Justice Building, and as we make our way toward what was once the grand entrance (after skirting around the edge of a massive crater), Gale points to something, causing everyone to pause and glance in that direction. It takes me a moment to put a name to the spots of bright color that dot the ground, but when a sickeningly sweet familiar smell assaults my nostrils, I realize exactly what the atrocities are.

Roses.

"Don't touch them!" I yell in a choked voice before adding in a whisper, "They're for me."

They must have been dropped after the bombing. Slightly wilted, but no less disgustingly beautiful. President Snow's second delivery. While the first rose he'd delivered, the white rose that used to lay on mine and Peeta's bed at home, had fueled my anger and nearly possessed me with rage, this second delivery nearly has me in tears.

Two dozen pink and red roses. Flowers not meant for one, but for a pair of lovers.

I try to explain the roses to the others, and upon inspection the flowers appear to be harmless, but nonetheless they're carted off by a crew of men in special suits. They won't find anything special about the roses, if only the fact that they're genetically enhanced. They don't understand the purpose the roses serve. Like watching Cinna be beaten before the Quell. President Snow wants me to break.

I try to rally, like I have in the past. Try to summon my anger, my determination, but none of that consuming fire fills me. Instead, a cold begins to creep up my spine, only further inciting my trembling that's now taken over my entire body. My breathing is becoming even shorter, almost gasping.

I'm drowning . . .

I'm barely aware of Cressida positioning me in front of the Justice Building. "Now, just a few quick lines that show you're alive and still fighting," she tells me. "Okay?"

"Okay." I stare at the camera, at the little red dot that tells me it's recording. I stare and stare, but nothing comes to me. All I can think of is Peeta and roses. Peeta and roses. Life and death. "I-I'm sorry," I stammer. "I've got nothing."

Nothing. I've got nothing left.

"You feeling okay?" Cressida asks concerned, blotting my face with a handkerchief. "How about we do the old Q-and-A thing?"

"Yeah, that would help, I think." I'm still shaking, and so I cross my arms, as if to lessen the action. I glance at Gale, and see that he's watching me cautiously, like he's just waiting for something to happen and doesn't quite know what to do.

. . . you're this close to breaking . . .

Cressida's back in position by the camera. "So, Katniss. You've survived the Capitol bombing of 13. How did it compare with what you experienced on the ground in 8?"

Everything I do, I do for you . . . Peeta . . .

"We were so far underground this time, there was no real danger." Not for me, anyway. "13's alive and well"—but not Peeta—"and so am . . ." My trembling evolves to full-fledged shaking. My eyes burn. My heart cracks.

I gasp.

"Try the line again," Cressida encourages. "13's alive and well and so am I."

"13's alive and . . ." I can still smell the roses. Death. I can still smell those damn roses. "13's alive and well and . . ."

I'll do anything to keep you safe.

Peeta, you can't die.

"Katniss, just this one line and you're done today. I promise," Cressida says gently. "13's alive and well and so am I."

I take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm myself just enough to say the line and be done with it. Just say the line, be the Mockingjay, and then be done for the day. Be the Mockingjay.

But . . .

Every step I take as the Mockingjay is just one more tortuous second for Peeta. All this time, I've been doing this to get him back, but every time I strike as the Mockingjay, Peeta is punished. I'm hurting him. I'm the one responsible. He's being tortured because of me. It's all my fault.

I have been helping the Capitol kill Peeta.

. . . you're this close to breaking . . .

"Come on, Katniss," Cressida encourages. "Just that one line."

. . . you can only live with half of yourself for so long . . .

I open my mouth to say something. Anything. But all that escapes me is a choked gasp. My body shivers with despair. My eyes burn with tears as a sob rips through my throat, and I collapse, falling to my knees due to the shattering pain of my heart.

I'm broken.


And . . . end scene! It's finally happened, folks. Katniss has succumbed . . . or has she?

I know, I know . . . I can never seem to be straightforward . . . which is odd because in real life I'm an incredibly blunt, straightforward girl. Seriously, never ask me if your "butt looks big in these pants." Because, if it's true, I will reply, "Yes, honey, you're butt looks as big as Alabama. You've got the Bama-Butt goin' on."

Anyhoo . . . back to the story . . . summary time!

Katniss has a mental breakdown due to I-Might-Have-Just-Killed-Peeta Syndrome; Rye likes to hold singalongs as bombs are threatening to kill them all; Haymitch is surrounded by idiots; Finnick was in the boat when the boat tipped over, but no . . . he was in the water!; Annie is revealed to be the Ghost Whisperer; Gale proves to be a Fortune Teller as his latest prophecy comes to fruition; and Coin is . . . she's . . . well, where is she? Oh, yeah, she actually wasn't physically here this chapter . . .

Quote from the next chapter comes from . . . Boggs!

"We got him."

Lots of love,

AC