"I definitely think so!" Clint says ecstatically.
"No, no, no, no, no," I say while wiping my face with a napkin. "Absolutely not!"
"Why not?" General Snow asks. "You're combat record is stellar, you're a natural leader, and you already have experience working directly for a Chief of Staff."
"Exactly!" I yell. "I've already worked for the only Chief of Staff of the Defense Forces I ever want to work for, and he's sitting right there," I say pointing directly at General Snow.
"C'mon, Liv," Clint says to me, "As SMDF, you actually have a direct hand in making policy for the whole Defense Forces."
"I don't want to make policy for the whole Defense Forces!" I say getting a little angry. "I'm already too removed from the soldiers as it is. If I became SMDF, the only time I would ever see them was when they marched passed me in a parade!"
"That's not true and you know it," General Snow says, "You can be involved with the soldiers as much as you want."
"You mean, as much as I have time for, which will be none."
"At least consider it, Hatch. For me."
"Fine, Sir," I finally concede. "I'll consider it, but only because it's you."
The night winds down and it's finally time to say goodbye. It practically took a crowbar to pry Aurora away from Octavian, but soon we're giving our final embraces till we meet again.
"Are you sure you can't stay for another day or two?" I say as I wrap my arms around Lizzy.
"Afraid not," she says sadly.
"The Mellarks are expecting us," General Snow says. "We're going to spend a few days with them in District 12 on our way back to District 4."
"Well, safe travels and you're always welcome in our home," Clint says as he hugs Lizzy as well.
"Thank you, Hatch," General Snow says.
"No, thank you, Sir," I say as we wrap our arms around each other a final time.
"Good luck, Liv," he whispers in my ear, "with whatever happens."
After they leave, we get a very tired and grumpy Aurora to bed. She keeps asking when the next time she can see Octavian again from the time I help her into her pajamas all the way until Clint and I tuck her in.
Finally, Clint and I climb into our bed together. He lies down next to me and pulls me close to his warmth. It helps to calm my spinning head.
"I did have too much drink tonight," I admit a little bashfully.
"It definitely loosened things up…until you spit everywhere." Even though his face is behind me, I know Clint is grinning.
"Cut me some slack, it was big news," I say.
"I know," Clint says quietly. "By the way, you're an idiot if you pass up SMDF."
"You know," I say firmly, "I can snap your neck with my bare hands if you annoy me too much."
"Yes I do, and I find it a bit of a turn on. Does that make me weird?" We both laugh together. "But seriously, you could do amazing things with that authority."
"I can do amazing things with the authority I have now."
"True, but right now you're still limited by incompetent commanders like Bixby. As SMDF, you could tell them all to go to hell."
"Not the Chief of Staff. He'd still be my boss."
"No, you could still tell him to go to hell. What is he going to do? Fire you? You don't want the job anyway, remember?"
The next morning, I'm in no condition to do any sort of physical activity with the battalion, so I leave it to the First Sergeants and head to the gym. After a brief warm-up, I head over to the free weights. I pick up two dumb bells, have a seat on a bench, and start some bicep curls. Just when I think I'll have a nice quiet workout, I hear a voice from behind me.
"Enjoy yourself last night, Hightower?" I slowly turn around to see Bixby, covered in sweat and holding the ends of a towel that's around his neck.
"It was an enjoyable evening…" I say trying to conceal my slight case of nausea compounded by a throbbing in my temples.
"Certainly looks that way," he says strolling over to the weight rack. "Decide the gym was your best bet this morning?"
"Yes, Sir!" I say in a chipper simper. "Sometimes, you just feel like pumping iron!" I'm sure that my sarcasm is abundantly clear as I finish a set of fifteen repetitions, but soon it's clear he doesn't get it.
"That's the spirit!" he says picking up two dumbbells three times heavier than the one's I'm using and starts banging out bicep curls with an exaggerated grunt as he heaves the weights upwards. He knocks out twice as many as I did and then triumphantly drops the weights to the ground with a tremendous thud. I feel embarrassed for the both of us as other people around start staring. "What do you think of that, Sergeant Major," he says in a tone that reeks of hollow machismo.
"Congratulations, Sir," I think as I roll my eyes in my mind, "You're stronger than a 5 foot, 6 inch, 125 pound woman…do you want a medal?"
"Impressive, right?"
"Definitely, Sir," I say placing my weights back in the rack and walking over to the pull-up bar. "Maybe, he'll get the hint and leave me alone," I silently pray as I jump up to the bar and lift my chin over the top ten times. No such luck, however, because as soon as I drop to the ground, there's Bixby right next to me.
"Good exercise, Sergeant Major," he says jumping onto the bar and looking back at me over his shoulder. "Great for the biceps, back, and lats!" he quips as he lifts his giant frame upwards. He does fifteen just to show up my ten before he drops down. "Whew," he says as he wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead. "So, what's next?" he asks in a tone that makes me think he's almost challenging me.
"You want a challenge, Sir? Alright, I'll give you a challenge." I walk over to the center of the weight room so everybody can see us. Bixby's actions have drawn a lot of attention. "Sir, next I think we should work on our flexibility." I suddenly let my feet slip apart and drop down to the floor in a full split. Bixby's jaw almost drops as I look up to him with wide and innocent eyes. "Well, Sir, It's your turn.' I say slightly cocking my head to the side.
"Flexibility is…well…." he stammers as he tries to find the right words. "It's not one of my fitness goals right now! I'm gonna hit the showers." He storms out of the weight room as I push myself back to my feet. When I'm sure he's out of earshot, I burst out laughing.
My sense of smug satisfaction gets me through the rest of the day without any problems. I actually get home at a decent hour, remember to take my boots off at the door, and call out to Clint with a loud and happy, "I'M HOME!"
At first, I'm met with only silence.
"Clint?" I ask softly as I tiptoe toward the living room.
"I'm in here," he finally responds. The television is on, but it's not the usual announcer talking about tire pressure and fuel injectors. Instead, it's a single voice speaking in a somber monotone. I look to the couch to see Clint, sitting as rigid as a statue, completely glued to the screen.
"Where's Aurora?" I ask nervously.
"Playing in her room…I didn't want her to see this…" he says trailing off.
"What are you watching?" I ask as I cautiously sit down beside him and look.
"Hearing the Sir talk about Africa last night made me think I should probably start watching the news….I wish I hadn't."
I gaze at the pictures of windswept, barren sand dunes when suddenly a girl's face, barely older than Aurora's, appears on the screen. It is gaunt, frail, and almost lifeless: dark skin stretched over bone. She stares at the camera lens completely numb to the presence of the reporters.
"The situation here in Tripolitania grows more desperate by the day," the announcer says continuing his report. "Bedouin tribes that have co-existed peacefully for centuries have turned on each other as drought and punishing heat have caused water sources to turn to dust and famine to grip the land.
Perhaps, inevitably, large amounts of weapons left over from the TEC conflict have found their way into the hands of many, and bloodshed has become an everyday reality."
The screen cuts to a picture of men piled in the back of an ancient looking truck. All are dressed in tattered military fatigues and their faces are obscured by native headscarves. Each of them has either a machine gun or an assault rifle in front of them. Some, even have shoulder launched rocket propelled grenades strapped to their backs. They chant in a language I can't understand in an angry, hostile rhythm.
"Both UDP and European diplomatic agencies have pledged help, but the firepower now in the hands of a few, has resulted in the misery of many. Food is intercepted and seized by the powerful militias before it reaches the hands of the hungry." The screen cuts again to a scene of women and children desperately fighting over a small bag of corn. "It is not because these fighters are starving, it is because food here is political power, and these fanatic militias dole it out only to their supporters."
"My God," I say clutching my hands in front of my face. "It's exactly like how it used to be here…"
"Except a thousand times worse," Clint says without looking away from the scenes of devastation. "At least the people of Panem had hope for something better…these people don't even have that."
"Sources close to PNN in the UDP Ministry of Defense say that all attempts at a diplomatic solution to the crisis have failed.
When we asked President Reefs' office for comment on whether a military solution has been considered, the President's Press Secretary simply replied, 'No options have been taken off the table."
"That usually means yes…" I mutter under my breath.
"One thing's for certain though," the announcer says completing his news story, "Whatever solution there is for this disaster…these people are running out of time. From Tripolitania, this is Grigori Tesla reporting for Panem News Network."
Clint slowly reaches for the remote and turns off the television. We sit for a few moments in total silence, before something inside finally forces me to fly off the couch and run upstairs. I grab Aurora and take her straight to the kitchen.
I insist that we eat dinner as a family tonight. On the surface, it appears that all horrible images we've just seen are forgotten. The sounds of laughing and joking fill our house and I smile from ear to ear. However, on the inside I'm being torn to pieces.
Every time I see Aurora take a bite of her food, my mind flashes back to the image of the starving girl on the news broadcast.
"How far we've come," I think as my thoughts drift back to the stories my mother told me about growing up in District 7 under the old regime. She was sawing lumber by the time she was eight, but it was never enough. The Capitol would take such a large share, there was never enough left to trade for food. As my uncles would become old enough, they would take their tesserae, but it still couldn't feed four growing children. During the cold, brutal winter months, my grandmother would have to bake sawdust into their bread just to stretch out their supplies until spring would bring the woods back to life enough to forage. Even the threat of death from both the peacekeepers on our side and the feral cannibals on the other wasn't enough to keep them from constantly crossing the border into the Canada in hopes of finding anything to eat.
As the youngest, my mother would receive whatever they could spare, but by the time she was twelve, she still had to draw more tesserae to survive. Eventually, it won her a place in the Hunger Games and the rest is history…But now, just two generations later, I can literally give more food to my child than she could ever eat without any kind of fear or hardship.
When it's finally time to tuck Aurora in for the night, I kiss and squeeze her more than usual.
"What's wrong, Mommy?" she asks with confused eyes as I had her Ears the rabbit, but all I reply is.
"Nothing, Baby," just sleep safe and sound.
Clint and I spend the rest of the evening in near silence. When we finally climb into bed, I charge straight forward to him and bury my head in his chest close enough to hear his heartbeat. It's slow, steady pounding gives me a small bit of peace, but I still feel a tear run down my cheek.
Finally, he wraps his arms tightly around me and whispers in my ear.
"It's only a matter of time, isn't it? They're going to send you over there."
"Probably…" is the only response I can muster.
Suddenly, he lifts my face to his and wipes away the tear with a gentle stroke of his hand.
"Then be strong," he says with a voice that is somehow tender, but still hard as steel. "You're a warrior, Hatchet."
When he calls me that, I'm a little shocked. Clint never uses that name for me anymore. "You need to be a leader now, even more than you had to be for us. Bixby's an idiot. If you don't do your job for one second, he's going to get people killed…and not only your soldiers, but possibly some of those innocent people we saw on the news tonight too."
I take a deep breath and try to express what's going inside of me. It's something I've never been good at.
"Before the war, it was all so simple. I was alone and unafraid. I had nothing to lose. Then, when I was with the Mockingjays, it was still simple…I knew I could count on every one of you to do your best, fight hard, and pull through. It was like we were invincible. I was never scared before, but now I'm terrified…I'm terrified that if I leave and go over there, that I'll never see you or my baby girl again." That's when the tears start pouring from my eyes.
Clint just smiles and places a soft kiss on my forehead.
"You can still be unafraid, Olivia," he says gently. "But know this. Know it down in the deepest part of your heart. You'll never be alone."