Gale

I don't chance a glance over my shoulder as I storm out of the cafeteria, positively furious at Katniss. Yes, I know and understand it's not her fault. Obviously she has much more on her mind than just whatever feelings she may or may not have towards me.

Suddenly, the fury changes. It's not so much anger as irritation, but not for her—for myself. What kind of rebel have I become, when my own personal love life has become a larger matter to me than my country's well-being? I get the sudden urge to barge my head against a nearby wall. I barely manage to suppress that urge by clenching my fists tightly, my jaw locked and teeth gritted as I turn a corner. What I see is a long corridor, the end blocked by a door I haven't bothered to notice before. What I do notice, however, is what is blocking the door itself.

A rebel soldier is standing at the other side, watching me. I say soldier because not only is he wearing the mandatory gray uniform of District 13, but in his arms he holds a large gun, though thankfully it's not pointed at me. His eyes are narrow, as if he is trying to figure me out. What the hell? I wonder, taking tentative steps forward. For a foolish moment, I had thought that the soldiers had given me enough trust so as to not stare at me in such a calculating way. Still, I don't stop walking. The only thing worse than being doubted is to acknowledge it.

"Soldier Hawthorne?" he asks in a gravelly voice, lifting a thick eyebrow. That stops me in my tracks; typically, they won't address anyone not native to District 13 if there isn't an urgent matter. General information is usually given via the speakers lodged in every corner, right next to the security cameras. Oh, yeah. Don't even think that I'm not aware of those.

I nod. "Yes, sir?" I ask, standing up a bit more rigidly. I have learned throughout our thus far short stay in the underground tunnels that it's best to address these people as if they were all figures of authority. Here, the only commanders that are evident are Coin and Boggs. Anyone else is not distinguished from his or her superiors, which obviously makes it increasingly more difficult to not make some sort of wrong move.

"You are required in sector C," he announces, lifting his chin and staring at me squarely. It is clear that I don't really have a choice as to whether or not I should show up. I nod, and without much more ceremony, duck out of that passage, speedwalking towards sector C.

I know for a fact that Katniss hasn't made an effort to learn the hallways of the underground canals, but I've made it my responsibility to memorize the passages and where they lead. Not only is it a bit of a "better safe than sorry" mentality, but it makes emergency reactions that much quicker. I turn corners almost expertly, my palms clammy from wondering what they could possibly need of me. Sector C is the arrival corridors, where the people are introduced to everything as soon as they arrive. My brow furrows as I continue my stride: has someone arrived?

Finally, I push through the last remaining doors between me and the arrival corridor, and the first thing I am greeted with is a childish, high voice, screaming, "Gale!"

Without hesitating, I run through, my arms looping under Posy's as I lift her. I nearly crush her against my chest, but I don't give a damn at the moment. She's here, she's here, and she's safe. One hand reaches up to cup the back of her head, and I bury my face into the crook of her neck, my eyes shut. I had spent so much time wondering, and hoping, that they were safe, that they were fine. Nobody knew what the Capitol might have done to them, had they stayed longer. Nobody knew what to answer me when I asked them if they would live to see me again—and now she's here. "Posy, Posy, I'm here," I gasp out in choked breaths, tightening my arm around her. I feel a tap on my elbow, and allow myself to look down.

"Yeah, thanks for ignoring me, you prick!" snaps Rory, his arms crossed. I am suddenly amazed by how much older he seems now. Have I really been gone that long?

One arm pulls him towards me, and, though he insists that he is a tough guy and never tries to display much emotion, he immediately wraps his arms around me in a hug. Another dainty hand touches his shoulder, and I follow the trail of its arm until I reach my mother's face. She is looking disapprovingly at Rory. "Watch your language, young man," she reprimands him, frowning, before she turns to me. Her dark gray eyes soften and well up with tears, and the worry creases on her forehead strike me. Though it cannot have been more than a month since I saw her, she seems to have aged years with worry. I notice that there are more gray streaks in her hair—not too noticeable, though it is obvious for someone who has grown accustomed to seeing her every day. Her hair remains mostly mousy brown though. Her eyebrows are creased as she studies me, but when her lower lip starts to tremble I swiftly lower Posy and bring my arms around her. She buries her face into my shirt, taking in deep, ragged breaths as she tries not to sob.

"Gale, I d-didn't know what t-to think, I—I thought I'd n-never see you again!" she cries, her arms around my waist nearly crushing me. One hand rests on her head, smoothing her hair as I crane my neck to leave a light kiss on her cheek.

"Mom, Mom, I'm fine," I croak in a raspy voice as I try not to leak some stray tears as I speak. "I just—thank god you're okay," I tell her, not for the first time noticing how small she seems to me now.

Suddenly I pull away and whip my head around in alarm. "Where the hell is Vick?" I ask, my voice taking on a panicked tone.

She shushes me calmly and explains that he had to go straight to the medical care. If she thinks this is supposed to calm me down, she is gravely mistaken. "What happened to him? Is he alright? Is he badly hurt? Mom, what happened to him?"

Huh. Maybe it's true what they say that, in the presence of his mother, a man is reduced to a boy.

"He's fine, he just—he's a bit injured. The Peacekeepers put up quite a fight when the rebels tried to evacuate us," she tells me. She says this with a slight smile, but her voice betrays her panic at having been forcibly taken out of her home. The corners of her mouth quiver, and I can tell it's worse than she lets on.

"Alright," I decide, "I'll take you to my compartment, and then I'll go see him." I silence her protests, and, with Posy once again in one arm, I lead them down the halls and through the corridors until we reach my rightful room.

Posy looks around, and her displeasure is evident. We didn't have much back home, but it was larger than this. The compartments in 13 are practically claustrophobic. I drop her onto the bed, and she runs her hands absently over the rough blankets. "Is this where we're going to sleep?" she asks in a small voice.

I shake my head. "No, this one's just for me. I'll make sure you guys get a larger one." I crack a grin. "Don't worry, Princess Posy, you'll get your chamber yet!" I joke. She smiles in return, flopping backwards and curling near my mother. Mom looks up at me from her seat on the bed, and nods her consent to me as I hastily leave the compartment.

I'm not even aware of which corridors I take. By now, I have studied the map so thoroughly to arrive to the medical care—just in case, of course; in a war, you never know—that it's nearly automatic for me to get there without the actual path registering in my mind. Before I know it, I arrive at the large, white doors to the infirmary, and I barge in without a sideway glance at the soldiers at the door. That's another thing I can't help but notice about 13's underground system: there are soldiers poised at every single door. It's gotten to a point where I honestly have to wonder which one they're ensuring: that nobody comes in, or that nobody gets out.

"Hawthorne, Vick; where the hell is he?" I demand at the nurse sitting behind the counter. She stares back with wide, alarmed eyes, before quickly searching through her files.

"Room 389," she informs me. I scan the room numbers, before taking off in a sprint down one hallway.

378…380…382…384…

The passage seems to elongate as I venture forward, my speed increasing as I peer in through the square windows at every door. As I run, the injuries seem to worsen. Vick, I think near hysterically, almost running past 289. Without knocking or waiting for the OK to enter, I burst through the door.

Vick is propped up against some pillows on the plain hospital bed. His eyes are open and expectant, as if he's just been waiting for my arrival this whole time. He smiles calmly, and I almost miss the needle in his forearm.

His injuries are at the same level that I feared. By what I can see, his right calf has been badly cut, with the missing skin exposing his muscle tissue. The white sheets underneath are stained with blood, though I presume that they were logical enough to clean the wound before putting him into the bed. His arm—not the one with the needle—is in a poorly-fabricated sling. Other than those two gaping injuries, however, he seems alright.

Wordlessly, I sit on the chair by his side, and he turns his head to keep smiling at me. We don't say anything. Both of us near each other is enough.

Vick is under the doctor's orders to stay in bed for three more days unless there is an attack, so by the time lunch is announced I have no choice but to leave him behind. He falls asleep minutes before I go, making it easier for me to slip out without worry and jog back through the hospital to my compartment.

My mother is still sitting on the bed, Posy asleep beside her. Rory, as I enter, is hastily trying to untie my boots from his feet.

I laugh. "Like them, buddy?" I ask sarcastically, knowing that the boots are beyond terrible.

He wrinkles his nose, shaking his head quickly. "God, no. Do you really have to wear these?" he complains, standing up and dropping them into the closet. I smirk at him, before turning towards my mother again at the sound of her clearing her throat.

"Posy woke up a while ago wondering when we would eat lunch," she informs me.

I answer the question she doesn't ask. "We are to be heading down to the cafeteria right about now," I reply, picking up my little sister and starting towards the door. I hold it open, allowing my mother and Rory to walk past.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: No excuse. Absolutely no excuse. And I am so so sorry, but—okay, here's an excuse, sorry bout that—I have seriously been so uninspired. I've basically been rereading the Harry Potter books for like 5 months, and obsessing over Sherlock. Needless to say, the Catching Fire trailer sort of jumpstarted my Hunger Games muse, so to speak. This chapter's short, but I've already begun the next one, so hopefully that'll make up for it?

Thanks for reading and for keeping up with the story, and please leave a review! (:

-Andee