From the cover of the trees, I watch her sleep. My spear is at the ready, and ears are alert for any small sound. The stillness of the jungle amplifies every insect's chitter, every branch's creak. But I listen for a tell-tale footfall, a shift or breath that will give away those who hunt us. My eyes scan the treeline and I fight with all my strength to stay awake. My traitorous body cries out for sleep, for respite, but if I lose this battle for even a minute, it could spell disaster for both of us. They will never touch her. I won't allow it.

With a groan, I roll onto my back and my eyes crack open, stinging and gritty against the dull light of my lamp. "I get it already!"

I scrub my hands over my face, staring at the ceiling. The same dream, every night now. Ever since my first day of training, the exact same scene has played out every night. Nothing happens, just the heavy intensity of purpose. I'm watching over Katniss, willing to give up my own life if necessary. And I'd be grateful to do it if it meant keeping her safe.

Is it possible they're drugging me somehow? Manipulating my dreams even? I wouldn't put it past them. What else would explain this kind of consistency? It's like a tape almost. Exactly the same every night, and evoking this slavish feeling of protectiveness.

I haul myself to sitting and reach for my sketchbook, flipping through the pages and watching my drawings evolve. In the front, the sketches are rougher, like my hands had forgotten how to do this. But as the pages flip past, lines are more sure, angles more convincing. The same evolution shows in the subject matter. Drawings lose their dark, threatening quality as light begins to emerge, a smile or twinkle in an eye instead of drawn brows and pressed lips. It's like watching myself get better.

I turn to the first drawings of Katniss. Talons, flaming wings, destruction litters her wake. There aren't many images of her, but the latest has a darkling glare across the lunch table as she accuses me of taking Mags' life. All of hers portray mistrust, blame, fury. I turn to a memory of Haymitch, eyes bright and smile wide as he wins against Lef in cards. Even Haymitch would appear to have been forgiven. I try to think of a time in 13 when she's looked at me without hostility, but I can't. Granted, I did try and kill her my first night here. A tug pulls at my lips and I take a deep breath in. I need to expel whatever it is bringing on these nightly vigils.

Slowly turning the pencil against a sharpener, a new gift of trust from my guards, I concentrate on the dream image, pulling it back into my mind in all its detail. Not only the dim, heavy jungle, but the determination that drives each beat of my heart. I will keep her safe. When I can hold the feeling as though wrapped in it right now, I focus on the details of her sleeping form, and I begin to draw.

Her long legs, stretched out on top of each other. The curl of her fingers against her palm. The loose curl over her forehead. Her mouth, relaxed in sleep, loses its tight determination and droops softly. As my pencil fills in her dark lashes brushing smooth cheeks, I remember watching her sleep on the train. How it was such a relief to see her body finally relax after a nightmare, feel her pulled up tight against me, as though she couldn't get close enough. Only that security allowing her to find sleep again in the rocking darkness threatening to swallow us both.

My hand stills and I forget to breathe as I become aware of what I'm thinking. Immediately, images of her screaming and blazing across the sky crash through my skull and my hands shake as I grit my teeth against the torrent. But I force myself to hold the visions in my mind, force them into clear focus. Under this direct scrutiny, they waver, shimmering and sparkling and disintegrating at the edges.

Gasping for air, sweating and trembling, I collapse back onto the bed as Dils rushes in, concerned and anxious for me. I shudder and quake, but I shake my head, waving him off. I'm alright. He watches intently, unable to think how to help. When I can finally speak, I thank him, telling him it was just a nightmare. He moves back to his post, clearly unhappy about leaving, but I need to be alone for a moment to think.

I'm unable to bring back the clarity of the memory of the train, it's like trying to focus on something with the corner of my eye. It flits away whenever I bring it forward, replaced by a shrieking demon. Unable to recapture the memory itself, I lie back, studying my drawing of the dream, considering the feeling of connectedness it evoked. My chest aches as though around an old wound. I'm aware of a deep emptiness as I remember the feeling of being connected to her across space, even when separated by miles.

Sitting up suddenly, I glare accusingly at the mirror. Where is this melancholy coming from? I'm more certain than ever that they have found a way to slip something into my food, or my water. How else to explain this relapse back to the soppy puppy who followed her around, eagerly lapping up any crumbs of attention she carelessly dropped for me? I intentionally think of the cave in the first arena and the image of her screaming with bloodlust as she sets the forest on fire around me, trapped in the dark rock as it becomes an oven to consume my burning flesh.

Something pulls at my attention but I can't put my finger on it as I determinedly grip the edges of the bed, forcing myself to watch her burn herself free of her wedding dress at the interview and emerge as a glowing, flaming-winged harpy screaming triumphantly. I know the images are false, but if Coin or Aurelius or even Haymitch are trying to manipulate how I feel about her, I will use any tools I have to counter it. I will not be used again.

I have it. The visions have an odd sparkle, they shine and shimmer weirdly. The thought pulls me from my focused concentration and I sit back, panting and sweaty. The whisper rages against the hope budding in my chest, blooming in a warm glow fizzing in my blood. Is it true? Are the images planted by the Capitol identifiable? All my visions of Katniss as a demon share the same twinkly edges and flares, but other images I can't make sense of don't have it.

Katniss asking me to stay with her in her room in the Victor's Village as she drifted into a drugged sleep. Why would she want me with her when we were home, away from cameras forcing her to pretend to care for me?

Spending our last day before the second Games on the roof of the Training Center. Her head in my lap as I make intricate knots from her curls. She wouldn't have wanted to spend a whole day together, not when we weren't being observed. Yet the image is clear of the glittering quality.

Shaking my head, I push away the confusion. At least some false memories can be identified. And that's better than it was. I reach for my prosthetic and my fingers move automatically to tighten straps and fasten buckles.

Lef and Cilla appear, ready to escort me to the restroom and then the dining hall for breakfast. I'm able to move around without shackles now, but I'm glad for their company as well as their protection against my hurting anyone. Only a handful of citizens are comfortable talking to me, encouraged, I think, by workers from the kitchen who were, I'm almost certain, threatened by Greasy Sae to make me feel welcome. Delly tried to sit with me once, but I don't want her ostracized too, so I asked her not to. My lips quirk as I remember how she dug her heels in until Lef convinced her she would set me off if she kept arguing. Handy, being nuts.

A bowl of hot grain and glass of water is breakfast today and I finish quickly, eager to get outside. My body is growing stronger every day and I was even able to run the entire five miles yesterday. My fingers are quick and deft, I can assemble and disassemble a weapon quickly enough to make Soldier Deen raise her eyebrows. I've switched sizes in jumpsuits, my clothes no longer hang in baggy wrinkles. I'm far from the top-condition I was in before the Games, but I'm no longer the wasted shell retrieved from the Capitol either.

When we push through the door into the bright morning sunshine, I pull a deep lungful of the sweet, clean air. The yard seems quieter than normal, and I look around curiously. There are noticeably fewer training groups settling in for the daily workouts.

Cilla sees my questioning look and offers, "Several groups left for the front lines. It will be a day or two before new squads are formed."

I'm unable to stop myself from scanning the yard for Katniss. I don't see her anywhere. Gale and Finnick are missing too, as well as Johanna. A pang in my belly that I'm unable to identify. Of course I'm worried for their safety, as I am for all the soldiers who've left, but there's something more. Is it because I feel left behind? They've all gone off together again, and I'm here under guard. Maybe, but I turn quickly to my work, defiantly ignoring the niggling voice that insists it's something else.

A few days later, Soldier Deen pulls me aside after training. "President Coin has asked me to evaluate your progress, Soldier Mellark."

Suspicion buzzes over my scalp, but I respond calmly. "What did you tell her?"

"The truth. You have made remarkable progress, but are nowhere near combat ready. You are strong and capable, but I have grave concerns about your mental readiness."

I grin. "That's fair. Thanks for letting me know." I turn to go, but she takes my elbow, drawing me to a stop.

Her eyes are somber and the warning in them catches me off guard. "You misunderstand, Soldier," she says slowly. "I advised you were not ready for combat, but she disagrees. She wants you ready to report in the morning. You'll be joining squad 451 under Commander Boggs."

My heart drops and I hear Cilla gasp behind me. Woodenly, I nod my understanding and turn blindly to make my way back to the stairs. The whisper is screaming elatedly, anticipating the destruction and chaos. And the chance to kill Katniss.

In my room, I stare blankly at the mirror. Coin doesn't do anything without a reason. She started training me under the false pretense of showing the nation I was recovering, but her purpose the entire time had been this. Coin wants Katniss dead.

I swore I would not let anyone use me again. Staring at myself in the mirror, I see yet another stranger looking back at me. This one is recovering. Muscles are harder and eyes are clearer. Scars are more faded and the back is straighter. This one, if given the chance, could hurt someone.

Sickened, I turn away. She sculpted me into exactly what she needed. And now, she is ready to unleash me to do her bidding. The whisper buzzes in eagerness, giddy with joy at the chance to destroy Katniss, tearing and clawing and choking.

It makes sense. Having been molded into a hero for the nation, Katniss now wields a power she probably doesn't even know she possesses. Whatever Coin has planned, it doesn't involve sharing power. Her kind never do. So anyone else with any must be eliminated. I choke back the bile rising in my throat. She is no different from Snow.

Whatever she thinks is going to happen after the war is settled, win or lose, Coin will be no better than Snow, I'm sure of it. She may look different, but her hunger shines the same way from her pale ice eyes and everyone here has swallowed her savior act whole heartedly. There's no one left to stop her.

Pacing in my room, I grip my hands in my hair, fighting away the screeching bloodlust of the whisper's ecstatic anticipation. I can't trust my own thoughts. I could be crazy, none of this may be real. I can't talk to my guards, besides being observed the whole time, they've swallowed the Coin propaganda themselves. I don't trust Haymitch or Aurelius. Finnick is gone –

I jerk my head up. Aurelius told me Johanna was back in the hospital. She cracked under some kind of combat test, flashing back to the Capitol. If anyone sees the situation clearly, it's Johanna. Unless she's back on morphling. I catch sight of myself in the mirror again. My eyes are wild and my shoulders hunched against the whisper, my hands plucking at my clothes. I look insane.

I push quickly out the door, catching Cilla off-guard as I brush past.

"Peeta! Where are you going?" she hurries after me.

"I need to see Johanna. Right now." I rush down the hallway to the forbidden third wing, Cilla jogging along behind, cajoling and demanding I come back. As I pass a partly open door, I see her. She's curled on a bed, one hand covering her head, one clutching something to her face.

I skid to a stop so abruptly that Cilla bumps into me. "Peeta, I don't know if you're supposed to be here. Just let me clear it, please."

"Go ahead. Why wouldn't I be allowed to see her? I'm leaving in the morning. I just want to say good-bye, ok?" My flushed cheeks and urgent manner deny the normal seeming request, but Cilla, searching my face, finally nods and steps back.

I knock softly and Johanna looks up, empty eyes sunken in her pale face. She nods slightly and I let myself in, pulling the door closed behind me. Johanna shifts and sits up in bed, but keeps a tight grip on the small bundle clutched in her fist. It smells faintly of pine.

"Hey," I offer lamely, sitting on the edge of her bed. "What's that?"

She shrugs and holds it out for me to see. "Katniss made it for me. It smells like home."

I nod my understanding while she stares at me with haunted eyes. "Katniss still has the pearl you gave her," she says in a low voice. "She keeps it with her. She doesn't think I see her, but she sleeps with it sometimes. She keeps it with her."

I don't know what to do with this. "I do. I need you." The image of her eyes is burned into my mind, but I don't know how to deal with it, so I stay quiet.

"I couldn't do it," she says finally, her voice a broken whisper. "I remembered being in the Capitol, and I just – I don't know… I just lost it." I take her hand, a clenched fist, and feel it trembling. She looks up at me, her dark eyes shining with tears in the low light. "Katniss promised she'd kill him."

I watch her steadily. "Katniss won't get anywhere near him," I tell her quietly. "Coin is sending me to join them in the morning."

Her eyes widen and I know I guessed correctly. Johanna has the exact same reaction I had. "You can't go, Peeta," she says, her voice straining with the urgency of her fear.

I shrug. "I have to go," I say resignedly. "I have to protect Katniss."