The next day is our last before entering the arena. My prep team arrives early to start getting me ready for my interview with Caesar Flickerman, and they can barely keep themselves together. But it's Cinna whose demeanor takes me aback. He's so sad and serious that I barely recognize him. I know there's nothing I can say that will do any good, so I try to carry on as if everything's normal. "So," I say, "what am I wearing tonight?"
"Well, President Snow put in a dress order himself," Cinna says. "A terrible, drab, shapeless thing in all black." I can understand Snow's motive here. Cinna's designs always make me beautiful and captivating. They make me feel confident. And lately, they focus everyone's attention on my baby. Snow wants none of those things.
When Cinna doesn't continue, I look at him more closely in question. I can see the smallest hint of mischief in his eyes. "Unfortunately, the delivery is running late and the dress President Snow ordered isn't here."
I know that this is no late delivery, that Cinna has put himself in grave danger by directly defying the president. "Cinna…" I begin to say, but I trail off because that's as much of the sentence as I can safely say here.
Cinna continues as if I haven't spoken. "Luckily, I had a contingency plan," he says, unveiling a textured white dress dotted with pale blue and pink accents.
"No fire this time?" I ask, not knowing what else to say.
"Mmmm," Cinna mumbles distractedly. "Colors can be very important in the Capitol," he explains as he helps me into the dress. "White, for instance, represents purity, and innocence." For a moment I wonder how innocent I can be when I killed four people last year, but I quickly dismiss the thought; I know Cinna would never do anything to cast me in a bad light. "Soft blue and pink are associated with babies and young children; pink for little girls, blue for little boys," he continues as he makes small adjustments here and there.
When he's done, he turns me toward the mirror and I take a look at myself. The first thing I notice is that, like everything else Cinna has made for me lately, the dress enhances my belly. I no longer look five months pregnant, more like seven. I can feel the extra weight across my stomach of whatever materiel he's used to create this effect, it's much heavier than the padding from any of my other dresses. I examine myself in light of the symbolism that Cinna just explained to me, and I see exactly what he's done. The soft pink and blue accents on the dress, which I now know represent the possibilities of my unborn child, are echoed in the makeup on my face: pink on my cheeks and lips, blue around my eyes. My hair is gathered together in a braid down my back; it almost looks like something I might have done myself, except for the jeweled clips holding it in place and the pink and blue ribbons threaded through the braid and tied in bows along its length. Apart from the hair clips, my only jewelry is a simple string of pearls around my neck.
At the tribute parade I was dark and fiery and powerful. Tonight I am… pretty, more than anything. I look very pretty, and very young, and very pregnant. I am the very picture of purity and innocence. And I'm being sent to the slaughter.
"It's perfect," I tell Cinna. He just smiles at me sadly.
After he spends several moments examining me from different angles, Cinna leans forward and looks at me in the mirror. He gives me a pointed look as he tugs on the ends of the sleeves as if he were adjusting something. It's rare for Cinna to dress me in full sleeves like this. I can only remember a few Victory Tour dresses that had them, mostly in the colder districts. Never for one of these glamorous Capitol appearances. And that look suggests that this wasn't an idle fashion choice. They run down the entire length of my arms, with a flared ruffle at the wrists.
"I'm glad you included long sleeves," I say, "I've been getting chills lately. Must be the pregnancy." I then make a show of rubbing up and down my arms as if to warm them, as a cover for feeling up and down the sleeves, trying to find whatever it is that Cinna can't tell me about. I find a hard little shape on the inside of each wrist, lined up with the seam in the flare at the end.
"I thought sleeves would be a nice touch," Cinna says. "Appropriate for the mockingjay from District Twelve."
The mockingjay from District 12? He says that like it's more than just a nickname I got last year, like it's a title that could be applied to others… And suddenly my mind is racing, connecting dots I never thought to link together before. Various tidbits I've picked up from different people at different times over the last year come together to tell one story. The mockingjay was my district token last year, a golden pin that was given to me by my friend Madge Undersee. Madge told me that it previously belonged to her aunt, and I recently learned that Madge's aunt was my mother's town friend Maysilee Donner, a tribute from District Twelve in the last Quarter Quell. The owner of the mockingjay pin, representing District Twelve in the Hunger Games.
In the arena, Maysilee killed six tributes using poisoned darts. Does Cinna know anything about Maysilee Donner? Haymitch sure does, he was in those Games. He allied with Maysilee, she saved his life with one of those darts. Does Haymitch know of Maysilee's connection to my mockingjay pin? Have Haymitch and Cinna been conspiring together on something? The shape inside my wrist, a couple of inches long and thinner than a pencil, could easily contain something like a dart.
"I'm glad they offer some protection," I say as neutrally as I can. "From the cold."
"Only one layer of fabric," Cinna says, "But it's something."
One layer of fabric? So one dart per wrist? That matches up with what I'm feeling. The seam of the wrist flare sits just in front of the shape I've found, but Cinna is too skilled with his designs to leave a noticeable seam in the open like that. Is that bit of stitching hiding something else? Some sort of tension line, a trigger that launches the dart? If I reach back and snag the seam with my middle fingers, I could yank it with just a flick of my wrist.
I don't dare test that theory.
Why is Cinna giving me weapons for my interview? What good would assassinating Caesar Flickerman do anyone? If I was going to have a secret weapon in one of my dresses it should have been for that party at the end for the Victory Tour, I could have taken out President Snow before he knew what hit him.
For a moment I let myself be very angry at the incredible risk Haymitch and Cinna have taken, without ever asking my permission or even telling me what's happening. The life of my child, that I've dedicated my entire life to protecting ever since the reading of the card, will be snuffed out in an instant if any of the ubiquitous Peacekeepers surrounding us gets even a hint that I have a hidden weapon. I'm taking that risk, being forced to take that risk, with no idea why I have this weapon or what it's for. Obviously Cinna can't tell me anything right now, but Haymitch has been sitting on vital information at least since the Victory Tour, and either one of them could have brought me up to the roof and clued me in during the six days I've been here in the Capitol.
But even as I let my anger at them rage for the moment, I also know that my two friends are at even greater risk, if it can even be called risk anymore. By defying an order from President Snow, Cinna has likely sacrificed his life to get me into this dress. Just like Haymitch sacrificed his life by talking Peeta out of volunteering at the reaping.
Haymitch and Cinna are two of the people most responsible for me surviving the Games last year, probably more than anyone else other than Peeta and my father. And whatever conspiracy they've concocted together, they've both given up their lives for it. They've kept me ignorant and manipulated me, but they've also made me the only one of the three of us with a chance of surviving. And despite the anger and even betrayal that I feel toward them, I honestly don't believe that either of them wish me harm. So for the time being I decide to extend them this trust, to follow wherever it is they're leading me and see what happens when I get there.
It's not like I have a lot of choice at this point.
I break out into my widest smile to signal my understanding, as far as it goes. "Thank you, Cinna. It's little touches like this that always make me feel so comfortable in your designs."
Cinna smiles warmly at me. "Can I give you one piece of advice for the interview?" he asks.
"Of course," I tell him, hoping this will be a clue about the purpose of these darts. "I'm always looking for advice for how to survive these interviews!"
"Well, you really want to seem accessible to the audience," he says. "Obviously you can't directly interact with everyone watching, but Caesar is there to act in their stead."
"Caesar's already doing the interview. How can I be more accessible to him?" I ask. They don't really want me to assassinate Caesar Flickerman, do they?
"I think it would be a nice touch if, right at the end of your interview, you let Caesar feel your stomach. It'll make every audience member feel like they've personally touched your baby."
I don't like this idea at all. I may have done that for sponsors, for people who can directly contribute to my survival, but to do it for Caesar Flickerman of all people feels like taking it too far. But then I see the intense look Cinna is giving me. For whatever reason, this point is important to him. Inwardly I sigh; if I'm going to trust him, I may as well trust him, I suppose. "Okay," I tell him, "if you think it's a good idea, I'll try it. You were the only one who gave me any useful advice last year, after all."
"That's my girl!" Cinna says, the smile back on his face. "Now, one last thing before you go." He tucks his hand into his pocket, and pulls out my mockingjay pin.
With everything else I now suspect, the pin suddenly makes me very nervous. The last thing I want to do is invite further scrutiny of this dress by wearing a symbol of rebellion. "I've never worn that in an interview before."
"No, it doesn't really go with formal dresses," Cinna says. "But we wouldn't want you to lose track of it between now and tomorrow." He tucks it just inside the neckline of the dress and pins it to the innermost layer of fabric there. Once he straightens the dress out again, the pin is barely noticeable, only a slight bulge that mostly disappears into the hollow of my collarbone.
"Keep it safe," he entreats me.
I can only assume that he expects his punishment for giving me this dress to come so swiftly that he won't be able to pass me the pin tomorrow. Tears threaten to prick my eyes at the thought. "I will," I promise. Before I can overthink it, I step forward and pull him into a hug. "Thank you."
"Remember, girl on fire, I'm still betting on you." He kisses my forehead and steps back.
And then it's time to go.
The other tributes have already gathered offstage by the time Haymitch and I arrive. Haymitch is wearing a charcoal suit. It's a very nice looking suit, and the charcoal color represents our district, but it seems designed primarily to not call attention to itself. To not distract from me. It must work, because as soon as we arrive all of the other tributes stop talking and stare at me.
"Back to the little-girl dresses, are we?" Finnick asks.
I just shrug at him, but I don't have a chance to respond further before Johanna chimes in. "I take back everything I said about Cinna the other night. I can't believe he put you in that thing," she says.
"I think it's beautiful," I say, somewhat defensively. I won't let anyone criticize Cinna. Not when he could be dead by morning. Plus they don't know about what I'm sure is the real purpose of this dress, the little bonus hidden in the sleeves. Johanna just rolls her eyes at me and turns away to walk up on stage.
Once we're all in place and the interviews begin, I can tell that the other tributes have planned something. I can see the trend of the interviews, and I try to see how I can contribute. Not all of the other Victors seem to be in on the scheme, but enough are.
Cashmere talks about how much the people in the Capitol must be suffering, knowing that they'll lose their precious Victors. Gloss recalls the kindness shown to both he and his sister by the people of the Capitol. Beetee, nervous and twitchy, goes so far as to question if the Quarter Quell rules are even legal. Finnick recites a poem he wrote to his one true love in the Capitol, full of sorrow and regret that he must part from them to return to the arena. I'm not sure there's a single person in the audience who isn't convinced that they are the true love he's referring to. Between them, they have the audience in tears about the tragedy about to unfold.
Johanna is the first to suggest action, asking why something can't be done about this horrible circumstance. Surely when the Quarter Quell rules were written all those years ago, the creators could never have anticipated such love forming between the Victors and the people. No one could be so cruel as to sever such a deep bond, could they?
Seeder is the first to mention President Snow directly, musing about how back in District 11 everyone assumes that the president is all-powerful. So if he's all-powerful, why can't he change the Quell?
Directly after her is Chaff, who comes right out and says that the president could indeed change the Quell if he wanted to, but he must not think it matters much to anyone.
And directly after Chaff is me.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Caesar introduces me, "from District Twelve, the girl who was on fire! Katniss Everdeen!" I silently thank Caesar for billing me as the Girl on Fire tonight. After that introduction, the audience completely loses it when I come out in my white-and-pastel maternity gown. I can hear weeping and sobbing from my seat on stage. Finally the crowd quiets enough for Caesar to ask me, "Katniss, so lovely to see you again."
"It's always lovely to see you, Caesar," I say, "though I have to say I'm disappointed that you're still not using my correct name."
"Ah, yes, I'm sorry," Caesar says, but he moves on quickly rather than correct himself. Since that's really not the fight I want to pick right now, I let him. "We never got to talk about your wedding the last time you were here, why don't you tell us about it? I'm sure I'm not the only one who was surprised to hear about that. We were expecting a big Capitol celebration for the co-Victors."
"Well, we really didn't want to wait long enough for all of that to happen." The audience likes that, it's a nice lovestrucky sentiment. "And after all the hoopla with the victory celebrations, we kind of felt like doing something a little more private. We have a tradition we use back in Twelve…" I briefly describe the toasting for Caeser and the audience. And to really sell it to these people, I add, "You know, with Peeta being a baker and me being the Girl on Fire, a toasting seemed appropriate."
"Very true, very true!" Caesar beams. "Was it a nice ceremony?"
"It was beautiful," I say, tears starting to prick the corners of my eyes. "We had our families and our closest friends there, everyone who's the most important to us. We sat by the fire and expressed our love for one another. It was one of the happiest memories I've had in my life."
"That does sound absolutely beautiful," Caesar says, blinking away tears in his exaggerated way. The audience is very quiet, and many of them can be seen wiping their eyes as well. "Now, Katniss, obviously this is a very emotional night for everyone. What are you thinking about tonight?"
"Well Caesar," I say carefully, my brow pinched in thought, "I was just remembering my first Games last year, and I think Chaff must be right."
"How so?" asks Caesar.
I try very hard to act as if I'm innocently reciting facts. "Well, last year they just kept changing the rules right and left, didn't they? First there had to be one winner, then they changed it to two winners, then they changed it back to only one winner, and then they finally changed it back to two again. So, clearly someone has the authority to change the rules of the Games, right? And if that's the case, who else would have that power if not President Snow?"
This sets the crowd off again. These people really like their Victors, enough that they don't want to watch them slaughter each other. It makes my stomach turn that they give more consideration to a psychopath like Enobaria than they ever did to sweet little Rue, but I follow my old mentor's advice. Try not to let the audience see how openly you despise them.
"Well," Caesar continues once the crowd settles again, "at least Peeta isn't in the Games this year. If you win, the two of you can go home together!"
"That's my fondest hope," I say with genuine emotion, because it truly is. I hesitate for just a moment before asking, "Caesar, we're friends, right?"
"I would love to be your friend!" he exclaims.
"And friends are honest with each other, right?" I ask.
"I pride myself on my honesty," he says solemnly.
"Well then, Caesar, tell me honestly. How well do you really expect me to deal with the Games in my condition? Starvation? Dehydration? Miles of hiking? Trying to out-run mutts? Grappling with someone like Brutus or Johanna? Does that sound like a healthy place for a pregnant girl?"
The crowd is in tears again. "Why do you say that?" Caesar asks. "That seems like an awfully defeatist attitude for the Girl on Fire."
"I'm not saying I'm not going to try," I tell him. "Who knows, maybe this year's arena will be the ideal environment for a pregnant girl. An entire arena filled with big, soft couches, and the Cornucopia stuffed with nothing but cheese buns."
This gets a big laugh from Caesar, and a much more nervous and subdued laugh from the audience. I know my time must be almost up, so I speak up before Caesar is done laughing "Caesar, since we're friends now, and since this may be the last time I ever see you, would you like to feel the baby? You know, before Enobaria gnaws my stomach open?"
The crowd is completely conflicted now. The joke about Enobaria gets some nervous laughter, and sickeningly enough, a few genuine belly laughs. Most seem touched by my gesture to Caesar, I can see some already wiping tears from their faces. Caesar himself dutifully ignores the tragedy of the situation. He reaches one hand out partway to me before dramatically pausing and asking, "May I?" I nod at him with one of my best fake smiles, and he places one palm right on the center of my belly. He has just enough time to say, "Little guy's getting big!" before flames and smoke erupt from the front of my dress, right under his hand. Caesar jerks his hand back as the audience gasps. After a couple of seconds the flames clear, and framed by wisps of smoke, there's now a black and white bird covering the front of my dress, complete with little feathers inlayed into the design.
Cinna has turned my baby into a mockingjay. A thing the Capitol never intended to exist, despite their hand in creating it. A new life that survives and thrives despite the Capitol's best efforts to exterminate it. A symbol that gives people hope that the Capitol can be resisted, and potentially overcome.
It's quite a large burden to place on an unborn baby, especially without his mother's knowledge or permission. Once again Cinna and whoever he's conspiring with have left me in the dark with no choice but to follow their lead.
And to think, I was nervous about wearing the pin.
"What a lovely bird," Caesar says neutrally.
"It's a mockingjay, I think," I say. "It's the bird on the pin that I wear as a token."
I can tell by the look on his face that Caesar knows exactly what the mockingjay has come to mean in the districts. He must have been briefed on topics to avoid at all costs. But he's the consummate showman, trying to make the best of the situation. "Well, now I know how you felt in the parade last year! I about thought I'd lost my hand!" The crowd is barely reacting to Caesar at all. Nervous chatter has mostly replaced the weeping and wailing of earlier; even the Capitol audience can tell that this is more than just a spectacular fashion stunt. They're still staring at the mockingjay on my dress when my buzzer goes off. "Well, that's our time!" Caesar says, and I can hear the relief in his voice. "Katniss Mellark, District Twelve!" I almost want to comment that he finally got my name right, but compared to everything else going on in these interviews it couldn't possibly matter less. So instead I make my way back to my seat and Haymitch is introduced.
I'm sure he's doing his best to promote me and my child and my family, but I can't focus on Haymitch's interview right now. All I can think of is Cinna. No matter how conflicted I am about how he's blindsided me tonight, he's still my friend. Someone who has only ever done right by me before today. I see him out in the audience, and he gives me an encouraging smile. I thought he was a mad genius after he set me on fire last year, and he's shown it again tonight. He managed to put a symbol of rebellion front and center on Capitol television during a mandatory viewing. His life was most likely already forfeit simply for disobeying President Snow's order for my dress, but even if he could manufacture a plausible excuse for that, there is nothing that could ever excuse what he dressed me in instead. No wonder he said his goodbye to me before the interview.
I hope the audience thinks I'm crying about my baby, or about some emotional story Haymitch is telling, but right now my tears are for Cinna, who I am almost certain I will never see alive again.
When I manage to clear my head enough to listen to Haymitch, he's talking about Peeta and me, of course. "Well, we have a special kind of relationship. Victors always have a special bond, and victors from the same district especially. But those two, they're my first tributes I ever helped win. In 24 years, they're my first. And of course they're so lovey-dovey with each other it's almost sickening." The crowd laughs heartily at this, having apparently recovered from the emotional turmoil of my interview. They're eating up Haymitch's grumpy-old-man act. "I mean, she looks like she's about to pop and they only met a year ago!" he says. "And the things I've seen walking into their house, I swear it's taken years off my life."
After a year of knowing him, snarking at Haymitch comes as naturally as breathing. Before I can stop myself, I yell from my seat at the back of the stage, "Wouldn't be a problem if you learned to knock, Haymitch!"
Though I get a good laugh from the audience, I'm a bit shocked that I've spoken up like that. The one rule of these interviews is that you speak during your three minutes with Caesar, not before or after. They didn't even bend that rule to get my reaction to Peeta's love confession last year. But I'm too emotionally wrung-out to police myself right now. It also feels, like so many things this week, that these rules are far more easily enforced against frightened children than against veterans of the arena.
My shock is shared by most of the people around me. Caesar looks completely dumbfounded; I'd bet this is the first time a tribute has spoken out of turn in the entire time he's been hosting these interviews. The other Victors are looking at me with various shocked expressions on their faces. That's definitely not a friendly look I'm getting from the Peacekeeper who just appeared off stage, either.
The only person who takes this in stride without missing a beat is Haymitch, who responds so smoothly you could think this was a preplanned bit we had worked out. "Wouldn't have to worry about knocking if you kids could at least keep things confined to the bedroom!" he says, getting another big laugh.
By now Caesar has recovered enough to try to retake control of the proceedings. "Ahem, er, please remember, you've had your three minutes, Miss Everdeen."
"It's Mellark!" I call out, risking one small last bit of defiance of the rules and getting another good audience laugh for my trouble. A second Peacekeeper appears off stage to glare at me, but they make no move yet.
"Yes, Mrs. Mellark, your three minutes are up." I can see that I'm still the focus of the projection screens, but not wanting to risk the wrath of those Peacekeepers I merely smile sweetly into the camera.
"So, Haymitch," Caesar says, again trying to wrench the interview back on track, "you and Miss Ever- er, rather, Mrs. Mellark, seem to get along quite well. Are the three of you close at home, you and the Mellarks?"
Caesar must really be rattled, because that question is just a rehash of what Haymitch was already saying. Haymitch, of course, seizes the opportunity to promote Peeta and me some more. "I never had a family of my own, after my Games," he says, turning serious. "But those two kids, I think of almost as my children. I trained them up, coached them, watched them do the impossible last year. Then once we were all home, I got to watch them start their new lives together. Watched them move in together, got to go to their wedding, got to watch them start a family. Sometimes a little too literally." The audience is misty-eyed at his sentiment, but he still gets a laugh. "I was so happy for them, that they could live that kind of happy life together. They're great kids, they deserve all the best. Watching them get together and build their life after the Games, that was really one of the most uplifting things I've seen in my life. And I hate that this year I'm going to have to watch it torn apart."
Haymitch really is a master at this stuff. The crowd is hanging on his every word. They are despondent for our lost chance for happiness. Some are even wailing against the injustice of sending me back into the Games.
Caesar tries his best to put a positive spin on things. "Even if the worst happens, aren't you glad they had at least this past year of happiness together? Surely even a brief time is better than no time?"
"Maybe I would think that," Haymitch says sadly, "if it weren't for the baby."
The crowd is gone. Weeping for my baby and for my lost future with Peeta. Pleading that something be done. Haymitch's buzzer sounds, and I can barely hear Caesar dismissing him as he walks back over to sit beside me. When we rise for the anthem, I reach out and take Haymitch's hand, because I want him to know that regardless of the reservations I have about all the secrets he's been keeping, I think of him as family too.
Then, for reasons I can't quite articulate, I turn to my other side and look at Chaff. Chaff, Haymitch's best friend among the Victors. Chaff, who mentored Thresh and Rue. Chaff, who must have been involved with sending me Rue's bread after she died. Chaff, going into the arena with one hand. Chaff, who will have to die if my baby and I are going to survive.
In a lot of ways, all of us Victors are a family. And a lot of us are going to die tomorrow. So I let myself get caught up in the emotion of the moment. I reach my other hand out to Chaff, closing my fingers around the stump of his arm. He looks up at me, surprised, but when he sees my other hand locked with Haymitch's he gets it. He turns and extends his good hand to Seeder, extending our little chain to four.
And as I look down the row of tributes, the row of Victors, I can see the same thing happening up and down the line. They've seen my gesture to Chaff, and are emulating it. Finnick, Mags, Beetee, and Wiress are already linked in another chain of four. The morphlings, always friendly, are hand in hand and eagerly reaching towards their neighbors. Others, like Brutus and Enobaria, seem more reluctant. Johanna Mason seems annoyed but resigned to the whole thing as she joins hands with Blight and the male morphling. But eventually everyone gives in to the moment, and by the time the anthem plays its final strains, all twenty-four of us stand in one unbroken line. Together.
It may be the first public show of unity among the districts since the Dark Days, and it came from Snow's short-sighted decision to reap the Victors. All twenty-four of us have visited every district in Panem. Other than me, the other twenty-three have all known each other for years. Many of them are friendly with one another. Since the Games don't really end when you leave the arena, you could say that many of this year's tributes have already been allies in the games even before they were reaped into the Quell.
And now we all stand, united. Even if only for a night, even if only for a moment, Panem stands as one. We are proof that it's possible.
You can see the Capitol slowly realize what's happening. One by one the large display screens around the square begin to pop into blackness. I'm sure screens in the districts are doing the same. But it's too late. They didn't cut us off in time. Everyone has already seen.
Peeta is up on stage with me almost before the program ends. Haymitch wants to stay behind to check out the aftermath, so we head back up to our floor without him. It seems deserted. There are usually so many stylists and attendants and Effie, but now we seem to be all alone. We just sit on a couch and wait for Haymitch. We don't talk, but Peeta helps me as I take the opportunity to remove all the clips and ribbons from my hair. My thoughts are consumed by what just happened, and what's about to happen. Tomorrow we may face a terrible punishment in the arena, but what happened tonight can't be undone. We victors staged our own little uprising, on live television. Hopefully it made a difference, because it may be one of the last things I ever do.
…..
Kind of an awkward place to end it, but I wrote like 10,000 words without a natural break so I had to split it somewhere. A lot of things are happening right now, a lot of shoes waiting to drop. A lot of these storylines will come to their conclusion next chapter, though a full explanation may wait for a chapter or two after that.
A lot of this chapter is material I first wrote back in 2012 when I was first plotting out this story. Of course it's been fleshed out and heavily edited in the years since, but still, kind of surreal to finally see it published.
Next chapter: The team says their final goodbyes before the arena, and then we get our first look at where they're going.
Preview quote from Chapter 26:
"Every system has its weak points."
