Back in my quarters, I pace the length of the room over and over. Guilt burns through me, bitter and sharp in my mouth. Of course Snow has more responsibility than he's admitting, but he wasn't entirely lying, either. If I hadn't tried to present Katniss and I as star-crossed lovers, if I hadn't stirred the imagination of the country with that stupid idea, would she never have been set up as the face of the rebellion? Did I do this to her? If she hadn't been trying to save both of us, she never would have poured out those damn berries. I'd be dead in the streambed and she'd be home with Prim right now. I cringe away from this thought, gripping my hands in my hair and squeezing my eyes shut. What have I done? Not only is she lost somewhere, but people are dying by the hundreds, using her defiance as their battle cry. What have I done?
The small television screen at the desk beeps twice and switches on. Warily, I turn toward it and see a nicely appointed room. Rich drapery and a deep table of dark wood lend an aura of refinement. Seated at the table, Bagda seems wildly out of place. Her bright hair and clothes, her darting glance and the fact that her entire body visibly trembles all belie the quiet dignity of the room. As does the Peacekeeper standing on the other side of the table from her. His face is turned away, the camera shoots over his shoulder.
"Your name again?" he asks in a clipped, businesslike tone.
"B-Bagda. Bagda Clouchen," she stutters.
"Not really," he scoffs.
"Afraid so," she trembles, a reply she has clearly made repeatedly through her lifetime. "My father didn't believe in the luxury names District 1 uses, he wanted to make a statement. He went to the other extreme, I think," she smiles tremulously.
"Your father, executed seven years ago?"
She shivers like a leaf in the wind. "Yes," she whispers.
He waves a hand dismissively, "That bears no relevance to what I'm talking to you about today. I want to ask you your job in District 1."
"I'm head of the Tribute Preparation Team. I worked under Levar this year and last. I prepped Marvel and Gloss," she answers with a flicker of pride.
"Have you ever met the tribute Katniss Everdeen?" My full attention snaps to the screen.
"Oh, no," she demurs, "but I saw her once, before the chariots last year."
He shakes his head impatiently. "But you've watched her Games of course. Tell me, what is your impression of her?"
I lean forward slightly, what is this about? "Well," Bagda hedges, plainly trying desperately to come up with the answer he wants to hear. "I felt bad when Johanna turned on her and almost killed her that last night." My breath catches in my throat. Johanna? I know it makes perfect sense, but somehow I can't believe it. Bagda continues, "I guess – I guess – I mean…" her eyes are huge and terrified. "She killed both my boys!" she blurts, and claps a hand across her mouth. "I'm sorry," she squeaks.
"It doesn't matter," the officer waves it off. "What about the boy you worked with yesterday? Peeta Mellark. What do you think of him?"
"Oh, he seems very nice," she says in a rush. "I think he's – um, very nice," she finishes lamely.
The officer turns to someone behind him. "She blames the girl, but not the boy," he notes.
"Who cares?" Head Peacekeeper Thread's growl is instantly recognizable, even from off-camera. "She works in the Capitol, what does it matter what she thinks about them? That's not what we're asking her about."
"Of course, sir." The officer turns back to Bagda, whose eyes have been flying back and forth between them during the exchange. "You've seen the teleplay of the Games, of course?"
"Of course," she nods vigorously. "I always watch all required viewing. I'd even watch it if it wasn't required, you know. To see how my tributes do, you know. I always - "
"Yes, yes, I'm sure," he cuts her off impatiently. "Tell me, in your opinion, did Katniss Everdeen intentionally destroy the arena?"
My breath draws in with a sharp hiss and I watch, unblinking, for her reply.
"Oh, well, I – I couldn't say, of course, but, I mean, it certainly looked like she did. Yes, I think so."
I drop my head and my shoulders sag. I have no idea where this is going, but it's nowhere good.
"Do you believe Haymitch Abernathy prompted her to do it?" My head jerks up.
"Oh, I never… but – I mean he is missing, right?" Missing? Haymitch is gone as well? What the hell is going on? "That certainly looks suspicious, doesn't it?" she asks. It certainly does.
"Thank you, ma'am," the officer turns back to where Thread must be standing. "Is that all, sir?"
"For now. Keep her here. Get her a drink or something, her sweating is making me sick."
The screen snaps off and I stand staring at it blankly. Slowly, I raise my eyes to the barred windows and gaze unseeing at the sky outside my well-furnished prison. If I'm to believe what I just saw, and that's a big "if" since I was obviously meant to see it, Haymitch has vanished. Finnick had Haymitch's bangle. Finnick was taken by the same hovercraft that took Katniss. Finnick and Katniss were working together instantly in the arena, even though she'd adamantly told me she didn't want any allies. She saw him that last night at the tree, after Johanna apparently tried to kill her, but instead of aiming for him, she'd sent her arrow into the force field.
Images begin to flash through my mind. Finnick and Katniss talking so familiarly before the chariot parade. The two of them taking watch together that first night. Joking and laughing on the beach, waking me with ointment covered faces. Her willingness to go with Johanna that last night.
"Enough!" I cry out loud. I shake my head vigorously, trying to dislodge the vision of the two of them heading into the jungle together while Johanna intentionally kept me on the beach. This is exactly what Snow does, it means nothing. I haven't slept or eaten properly while expecting to die at any moment for days. I've been fighting for my life and taking lives myself. I feel like I never left the arena, it's only changed what it looks like. I can't panic and make stupid decisions. Remember what's important. Whatever happened, the only thing that matters is that Katniss stays safe.
The door swings open and Sek and Tek enter behind an armed guard, they're pulling a giant rolling crate filled with equipment to make me camera ready. Both look scared to death.
"Hey, guys," I greet them with a wave and say pointedly, "I was just watching Bagda on television."
"No talk, please," the guard cuts in, lifting his gun between the twins and me. They are visibly relieved, but still nervous, so I don't make it worse for them by defying the ridiculous order. Sitting quietly as they work, I notice so many differences between their methods and my own team's. Granted, they have no interest in me personally, aren't devoted the same way, but other things as well. My hair is more severely formal than Junius would ever have gone for, swept back and the curls tamed. And I can't imagine Selt allowing my fingernails to be gilded, though the makeup is similar to what Lyra would like. Subtle, just covering dark circles and highlighting cheekbones and eyes. It's ridiculous to miss my team whose job was to make me as pretty as possible when I was murdered.
The outfit chosen for me screams Capitol. White on white, a jacket and stiff, stylized collar. Slim white trousers over white boots. With a start, I realize I am wearing the same outfit President Snow was wearing in the tape of the announcement of the 2nd Quarter Quell. I feel sick and grab for the buttons but the guard lifts his weapon and aims at one of the twins.
"Has he chosen poorly for you, sir?"
I freeze. Slowly, I lower my hands. "No, not at all," I assure him. "Just a little tight around the neck."
The guard nods and removes the gun from the twin's rib cage. A slow tear creeps halfway down the midnight black cheek before being wiped hastily away. Clenching my jaw, I walk steadily to the door.
"Are we ready?" I ask. The guard nods politely and gestures me to go in front of him, as naturally as though nothing had happened.
We go back up the long hallway to the anteroom where I had my extremely unpleasant discussion with President Snow this morning. It has been rearranged to accommodate the lights and cameras for the broadcast, and two deep chairs are set together, angled slightly outward. I don't see President Snow anywhere and the guard stands next to me, keeping me corralled in a corner. The door on the opposite wall opens and instead of Snow, Caesar Flickerman walks through, all lavender hair and sparkly suit just as though we were having the Victor's interview as usual. Of course. Snow wants to reassure the nation it's all going to plan, everything is under control. Caesar busies himself with notecards and finishing touches to makeup, he doesn't even make eye contact. I laugh out loud as I realize, he's disappointed in me! I've let him down by not dying bravely like a good little tribute. Sorry, old boy.
I'm led to one of the chairs and a microphone is clipped inside my jacket. A nervous younger man hands me a glass of water and I drain it thirstily. I hand the glass back, thanking him, but my lips feel a weird tingling. I look up questioningly and he smiles an apology.
"Mr. Flickerman thought a nip of liquor might help you relax?"
Fantastic. Trying to loosen my tongue, more likely. I resolve to be alert, but just then I notice Bagda, seated on a plain stool in a corner, looking miserable. It's so odd that she would be here that my suspicion is aroused immediately. After her interrogation today, it does not bode well to have her here, planted very obviously in my line of sight.
Caesar takes his seat, nodding quickly and the cameraman signals the beginning of taping. Caesar watches me for a long moment. "So…Peeta…welcome back." Only a hint of irony. My lips quirk up.
"I bet you thought you'd done your last interview with me, Caesar."
"I confess, I did. The night before the Quarter Quell…well, who ever thought we'd see you again?" He sounds mildly reproachful. I wonder if he's playing for the audience. For Snow?
"It wasn't part of my plan, that's for sure," I say darkly.
At this, Caesar warms up a bit, leaning forward. "I think it was clear to all of us what your plan was," he says, his voice almost nostalgic. "To sacrifice yourself in the arena so that Katniss Everdeen and your child could survive."
Almost right. "That was it. Clear and simple." It did seem simple going in. A vision flashes behind my eyes of Finnick swimming out to me on the pedestal, bangle flashing in the sun. "But other people had plans as well," I mutter.
"Why don't you tell us about that last night in the arena?" Caesar suggests smoothly. "Help us sort a few things out."
I nod slowly. Does he really want to know about that night? Maybe it's time someone really told him. "That last night…to tell you about that last night…well, first of all, you have to imagine how it felt in the arena. It was like being an insect trapped under a bowl filled with steaming air. And all around you," I can feel it creeping up over me, stifling me. "Jungle…green and alive and ticking. That giant clock ticking away your life. Every hour promising some new horror. You have to imagine that in the past two days, sixteen people have died," my voice catches, "some of them defending you. At the rate things are going, the last eight will be dead by morning. Save one. The victor. And your plan is that it won't be you." It's trying to pull me back, trying to swallow me up again.
I pause. I want my father to hear me. I want him to know I'm sorry, that I know what I've done. That I regret what I've done. We've never talked about it because he didn't want to upset me but I want him to know I tried not to give up who I am.
"Once you're in the arena," I go on, "the rest of the world becomes very distant. All the people and things you loved or cared about almost cease to exist. The pink sky and the monsters and the jungle and the tributes who want your blood become your final reality, the only one that ever mattered. As bad as it makes you feel," faces flash behind my eyes, so many faces, "you're going to have to do some killing, because in the arena, you only get one wish. And it's very costly."
"It costs your life," Caesar interposes breathlessly.
I shake my head, I can't look up. "Oh no," I say softly. "It costs a lot more than your life. To murder innocent people?" I cringe inside. I'm so sorry. I lift my eyes miserably to Caesar. "It costs everything you are," I finish hollowly.
"Everything you are," he echoes softly.
A deep, consuming sadness settles over me as I realize I have paid this price. I have paid it in full. I'm still here, but I'm no longer the same person I was. There's no telling what I'm capable of now. I stare at my hands as though I don't know them. I want everyone in Panem to hear this. To know what they are doing, and causing. They have to know. And I still have my wish.
"So you hold onto your wish," I continue, my voice wobbling. "And that night, yes, my wish was to save Katniss. But even without knowing about the rebels, it didn't feel right. Everything was too complicated. I found myself regretting I hadn't run off with her earlier in the day, as she had suggested. But there was no getting out of it at that point."
"You were too caught up in Beetee's plan to electrify the salt lake," Caesar prompts.
I shake my head, agitation bristling over my skin. "Too busy playing allies with the others," I grind out. "I should have never let them separate us!" The words are ripped from me, anguish and regret washing over me. "That's when I lost her," I admit wretchedly.
"When you stayed at the lightning tree, and she and Johanna Mason took the coil of wire down to the water," he reminds the audience.
"I didn't want to," I choke. "But I couldn't argue with Beetee without indicating we were about to break away from the alliance." The memories are too fresh, too painful. Too guilty. "When that wire was cut, everything just went insane." I see that night in flashes, colored with dread and anxiety and misery. "I can only remember bits and pieces. Trying to find her. Watching Brutus kill Chaff. Killing Brutus myself. I know she was calling my name. Then the lightning bolt hit the tree," an alarm in my head pulls me back from the empty-eyed recitation of horror. Careful. "And the force field around the arena…blew out."
"Katniss blew it out, Peeta," Caesar interjects. "You've seen the footage."
"She didn't know what she was doing," I insist emphatically. "None of us could follow Beetee's plan. You can see her trying to figure out what to do with that wire." I see her in that jungle. Taking such careful aim.
"All right, it just looks suspicious," Caesar says with a conciliatory shrug. "As if she was a part of the rebels' plan all along."
I leap toward him, towering over him in his seat. Shocking myself with my vehemence. "Really?" I demand. "And was it part of her plan for Johanna to nearly kill her? For that electric shock to paralyze her? To trigger the bombing?" I'm shouting into his face, and I can hear myself trying to smother my own doubts as well. "She didn't know, Caesar! Neither of us knew anything except that we were trying to keep each other alive!"
"Okay, Peeta. I believe you." Caesar has his hands on my chest, his voice soothing as though talking to child having a tantrum. What is happening to me?
"Okay," I murmur faintly, running trembling hands through my hair, trying to calm my breathing. I sag into my chair, focus. Focus. Focus. Caesar is watching me warily.
"What about your mentor, Haymitch Abernathy?"
I feel my jaw tighten and my fists clench on their own. "I don't know what Haymitch knew," I answer with complete honesty.
"Could he have been part of the conspiracy?" Caesar wheedles.
"He never mentioned it," I say flatly.
"What does your heart tell you?"
"That I shouldn't have trusted him." The bitter words are out before I even think about it. "That's all," I say. I don't want to discuss this with the weasely, primped and fobbish vulture hungering for little nuggets of my misery to gnaw over, like marrow from a bone. Where is this aggression coming from? I take a deep breath, trying to concentrate. I feel like my skin is too tight, like a buzzing in the back of my brain is trying to drill right through me.
"We can stop now if you want," Caesar offers condescendingly.
I snort derisively. What more can they pry out of me? "Was there more to discuss?" I ask dryly.
"I was going to ask your thoughts on the war, but if you're too upset…"
Of course, the entire reason I agreed to this. "Oh, I'm not too upset to answer that," I reply quickly. I take a calming breath, gathering my senses, and look directly to the camera lens. "I want everyone watching – whether you're on the Capitol or the rebel side – to stop for just a moment and think about what this war could mean. For human beings. We almost went extinct fighting one another before. Now our numbers are even fewer. Our conditions more tenuous." I'm leaning forward, my eyes locked on the lens. "Is this really what we want to do? Kill ourselves off completely? In the hopes that – what? Some decent species will inherit the smoking remains of the earth?"
Caesar watches me, baffled by my intensity. "I don't really…I'm not sure I'm following…"
"We can't fight one another, Caesar. There won't be enough of us left to keep going. If everybody doesn't lay down their weapons – and I mean, as in very soon – it's all over anyway." I slump back in my chair, the hopelessness of it draining me all of a sudden. So much death, so much loss. For what?
"So…you're calling for a cease-fire?" he asks incredulously.
"Yes. I'm calling for a cease-fire." I'm done here. "Now why don't we ask the guards to take me back to my quarters so I can build another hundred card houses?"
Caesar only misses a half-beat before turning a glittering smile to the camera. "All right. I think that wraps it up. So back to our regularly scheduled programming." The green light on the lens clicks to red and I'm on my feet, ignoring Caesar's outstretched hand. Bagda is gone, but my guard is at my elbow immediately. I don't even care, I just want to be out of this place. I follow the guard back down the impossibly long hallway to my room. My head's a mess, I need to sleep more than anything, I think.
Once inside, I slump on the arm of the overstuffed sofa, focusing on the quiet and the dark. To my chagrin the screen beeps and pops to life. Do I really need to relive that now? But it isn't me or Caesar on the screen. It's Bagda, only not in the austere study. She's standing against a plain, white wall, chin trembling heartbreakingly. She is facing President Snow.
"Did you enjoy watching the interview?" he asks her in a kind, low voice.
Shaking like a jelly, she nods, eyes huge.
"Tell me, dear lady. After listening to Mr. Mellark, do you still believe Katniss Everdeen meant to destroy the arena?"
I take a step closer to the screen, apprehension bubbling up in my chest. Bagda swallows hard, licks dry lips, and her head shakes ever so slightly back and forth.
"No," I whisper, taking another step closer.
"He seems so positive," she manages. "I guess it could have been an accident."
"No!" I cry as the guard steps forward, pistol in hand. Snow turns and looks at the camera, his snakelike glare blaming me for this.
The guard lifts the muzzle to her temple and fires.
"NO!"