I stand quietly in the anteroom while Thread talks to Snow in a low voice on the other side of the door. Dark wood and plush furnishings are uninviting in their formality, the rich carpet beneath my feet absorbing sound so I feel oddly isolated. An intentional tactic, I'm certain.
With a buzzing crackle, the television screen on the far wall pops to life. Chaos. Screaming, churning crowds flee from swooping hoverplanes strafing the melee with firebombs. oHorrified, I take a step forward, my hand reaching out by itself to the mothers trying to shelter their children with their own bodies. Fire roars in the night, flames engulfing homes and businesses, a giant factory belching smoke. District 8 is ablaze.
The screen buzzes and the view changes. Peacekeepers move in orderly lines, marching in wide swaths through the open fields of District 11, firing in sweeping arcs at anyone and everyone in front of them as the citizens run for their lives. My feet carry me closer and my hands begin to shake as I watch people claw over each other to get away, bullets zipping through flesh and screams piercing the air.
Another crackle and the scene is dark jungle, almost silent. "Katniss!" my voice screams, distant and despairing. I place a trembling hand on the screen, Katniss is kneeling next to Beetee, her hand on his shoulder. She watches as, from different angles, Finnick and Enobaria glide forward, hidden in the overgrowth, tense and watchful. Katniss takes something from near Beetee, it's the wire -wrapped knife he tried to stab into the force field. She unwinds the wire and then carefully, deliberately rewraps it around her arrow. Enobaria sees the tree and spins on her heel, sprinting into the jungle. My breath catches in my throat as Katniss stands and lifts her bow, taking careful aim. She lets the arrow fly, her aim true as ever, and the golden thread wings upward as the giant crack of lightning descends and all hell breaks loose. She flies backward to collapse in a heap as explosions boom through the arena, Finnick prone a short distance away. And then, through the hole she created, the hovercraft appears, lowering its claw to retrieve first her and then Finnick, and even Beetee. The screen goes black.
"Wait," I press my hands to the screen, willing her to come back. My whole body is shaking. The terrible scenes of devastation, watching Katniss disable the force field, being thrust back into that night so abruptly with no warning. The prickling behind my eyes becomes hot tears welling up to spill over my cheeks and I bow my head against the screen, squeezing my eyes tightly and clenching my teeth. I hear the door behind me click open softly.
"It's terrible, isn't it?" asks the gentle, low voice of President Snow. He stands behind me, hands clasped behind his back and shaking his head sorrowfully.
I lift my head to stare at him incredulously. "You've done this," I choke out, my trembling finger pointing to the now dark screen. "This is all your doing."
Snow smiles benignly and lifts his hands against the accusation. "My dear boy," he is all reasonable benevolence, "surely you know that for the rebel propaganda that it is? Uprisings are put down, that's how government works. None of these people are unaware of the choices they are making. I didn't wake up on a whim and decide to bomb District 8."
"Which morning did you decide you were alright with forcing children into killing each other for your entertainment?" I ask contemptuously.
He nods slowly, holding my gaze thoughtfully. "Again, a choice forced onto us by guerilla insurgents. Surely you know the histories. All this came in response to rebellion. I wonder what will be the result of this rebellion? What consequence will be visited by the victors on the conquered?"
I feel sick at the barely veiled threat. No matter which side comes out of this triumphant, what will they do to the others for vengeance? The television sparks back to life behind me. I don't turn, but I can hear screaming and explosions.
"Oh dear," Snow clucks his tongue. "It looks like District 3 may be offline for a little while." He smiles into my eyes, a hungry fire burning behind his.
"I don't understand," I say, fighting to keep the pleading from my voice. "It's no good for you either if the districts burn. Why are you letting this happen?"
Snow laughs, a rich, deep sound. "I'm not letting anything happen, my boy. I'm responding to events in the only way possible. What would you have me do? Sit back and let any fanatic group who decides it's time for a coup to overrun the system? To have no consequence for anyone who would take up arms against their government? Believe me, this gives me no joy." And though the light in his eyes says otherwise, there's no point in debating philosophy with him.
"What do you want from me?" I ask.
His gentle grin widens, wolfishly I think, but he puts a pensive finger to his unnaturally puffy lips. The smell from the rose in his lapel is sickly sweet and it pervades the room, like his very presence. Something that should be benign and welcome, instead toxic and repellent.
"You know," he says conversationally, "I appealed to Katniss in the very same way." I stiffen at the reminder that he had been to her home to threaten her before our national tour. "I asked her to help me. To try and control this before it got to this point." He tips his head and studies me for a long moment. "Even knowing the security of the nation was at stake, she was unable to convince the public that she felt any real affection for you. Pity." A shiver runs down my spine, but I will swallow a bushel of nightlock before I let him see it. I lift my chin and meet his gaze steadily, unwavering until his snakelike stare blooms into a slimy smile.
"I think you are the more thoughtful of the two of you," he says, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "I think you have a more complex understanding of exactly what is at stake right now." He shakes his head sadly. "Katniss sees only the romanticism, the thirst for revenge blinds her to reason. You know what this war means for humanity."
"And what does it mean?" I ask.
His smile vanishes and his face is a mask of malevolence. "The end," he says flatly. Icy fingers drift over my skin as I stare into his baleful glare. "I will burn every last one of them. I will level their homes and salt their fields. I will bomb their schools and their hospitals and their refugee camps until there is no one left to stand against me. I will decimate the Earth itself like our ancestors did."
I gape at him, has he snapped completely? He straightens and smooths the front of his jacket. I notice for the first time he is dressed as a mirror to me, white jacket and pants over black shirt. He smiles gently again. "Of course, you can save them all."
"I won't help you," I whisper, appalled.
He chuckles at my horror. "Not me, dear boy. Them." He gestures to the television screen and I turn to see a fleet of hoverplanes darken the sky over District 7. Workers are streaming up the trees like insects, trying to find cover from the deadly barrage raining onto them from above. One plane breaks away, then swings back and fires a missile at the base of one of the trees. It goes up like a rocket flare and shrieking bodies tumble from the flaming branches.
"Please, stop," I murmur. How can he watch this so dispassionately?
"I can't stop until they do," he growls. "And now she's out there, riling them up even more. She thinks if she closes her eyes and believes hard enough, anything is possible." The disgust in his voice is palpable. "But you and I know better. I have all the resources. I have all the manpower. I have all the armories." He watches me steadily, sees the sickness and revulsion I'm unable to hide. "I have all the time in the world. They have sticks and heart. How many more of them will have to give their lives, their children's lives, before they realize how desperately outgunned they are? And in the end, the result will be the same. I will win. The only thing that can change is how many of them will die before I do."
He nods to the television again and I turn, a chill running over my skin at what I might see. It's District 12. Home. Katniss and I are in front of the bakery talking to Prim and my father. Prim grins slyly up at him and my father throws his head back, laughing. Katniss looks chagrined, but he reaches into his apron pocket and hands over a daintily decorated duckling cookie which Prim clutches delightedly. I remember this day so vividly, how peaceful and relaxed we had been. I had no idea we were on camera and I turn to Snow with narrowed eyes.
"How many more will die?" he asks innocently, the threat laid bare before him.
"What would you have me do?" I demand. "We tried to convince them, you saw us. It didn't work. It's so far past that now, what can I do?"
"Everyone thinks she is the one," he says vehemently. "But it's been you all along. She is the symbol, but you are the one that made anyone care about her in the first place. If you hadn't declared your undying devotion in that first interview, she would have been a feisty but forgettable tribute and that would have been that."
His words pound at me, each one hitting like a blow. Have I done this? Have I caused this?
"After you turned her into a symbol of 'love conquering all', everything she did became hallowed, sacred. They watched her with those damn berries as though she were a saint! She was just a coward!" His voice is rising and he clamps his lips together, breathing through his nose to calm himself. "Nothing she did was of any interest except for how it related to you. And then that idiot Seneca Crane-" He looks like he wants to spit on the floor at the mention of the name.
He looks up at me like a beseeching defendant. "What could I do? They saw her move against me with no consequence, rewarded for it even, because of your love for her. And then, you volunteered to go with her again this time. Every person who died in the Reaping Day Riots in Eight can thank you for that." He meets my eyes and I see that he really believes what he's saying. He waves a hand impatiently at my frozen horror.
"It's no use crying over it now," he says dismissively. "Stop them. They will listen to you. They believe in her, but they listen to you. Tell them she did this for her own ends, tell them to stop the fighting. Tell them to stop dying for her!"
His words hang in the air between us. Guilt scrapes through my belly, clawing its way up my throat until I want to scream with it. A shudder runs over me as I face the consequence of my silly act of strategy. I never intended any of this, I only tried to get Katniss back to her sister. Nothing more. But then again, what Snow says is only partially true. If he weren't so oppressive, if the districts weren't so desperate, the spark wouldn't have found a blaze to ignite in the first place. Return to the status quo is out of the question, but I agree with one point. This war will only doom our species forever. We need to find another answer.
I lift my head and he raises an eyebrow at the resolve he finds in my eyes. "You haven't been paying attention," I tell him. "Katniss was the one trying to fake it. There is nothing on this world or any other that will compel me to incriminate her. I will never speak against her," I override his angry protest. "But I do believe we cannot survive this war. I will go on camera," I swallow the spiky knot in my throat at the idea of complying with anything he wants, "and I will ask for a cease-fire. I will do my best to convince the districts that fighting is madness. But that is all I will do."
He shakes his head adamantly. "It's no good without condemning her," he insists. "She must be stripped of her influence, you must show them that you oppose her ideals." He narrows his eyes and lowers his voice to a menacing growl. "If I have somehow given you the impression that you have a choice in this matter, please forgive me. You will do as you're told!" his snarl rings across the room.
"Enough with the empty threats," I fire back, "pretending this is costing you nothing. Every day you are losing ground. Every day you are one step closer to disaster. You need me and you know it, so stop imagining you don't. This is what I will do and if that's not enough, you can execute me and find yourself another puppet!" Momentarily frozen, we stand facing each other, eyes locked and fists clenched. The fury in his gaze I'm certain is matched in mine. And then, he smiles.
"Peeta," he says, the anger draining from his frame. "The things we could do together, you and I." My lip curls at the suggestion and I don't try to hide it, but he only laughs. "You're right," he nods. "I do need you. I'm sure you can calm the rabble." He raises his hands and chuckles when I bristle. "The good citizens of Panem," he amends. "I'm sure you can do it because I'm just as sure you realize they will all die if you don't. For me that means it takes a few days longer to get my fresh orange juice for breakfast. For you it means a lifetime of torturous, guilt-ridden nightmares of children pleading with you not to let them burn. Do not misunderstand. I do need you. But only until I don't."
With that, he turns and leaves the room, closing the door quietly behind him. The television continues to blare its message of death and destruction and I stand in front of it, letting the litany of blame wash over my bowed head and shaking shoulders.