Y'all can probably tell just by my author's notes I need a few deep breaths rn and also to win the lottery. Life has been weird lately. I'm moving in a few weeks! It's really exciting but also majorly stressful…guess how well I handle stress…

Disclaimer: I really didn't WANT Katniss to end up disliking Haymitch, but I just couldn't make her forgive him for letting Prim end up in the Capitol.

Katniss

Nolan invites me to join him and Turquoise in Command. It seems like a weird way to spend time with your friends, but I guess this is life from now on. It also promises to be a distraction from my current state of affairs, which is needed now more than ever. If I could avoid thinking about my own life, entirely, forever, I'm certain I'd be happier because of it.

We meet by the first door to Command- I might be allowed there, but I still do not have my own keycard. I guess that's another thing District Thirteen reserves for legal adults, which is the dumbest thing I've heard of. However, as much as it annoys me, it still is nothing compared to how much it annoys Storm, who has become only marginally more tolerable since we found a few things we agree on.

I notice, not with any real joy, that she has not been invited to this little venture into Command. I guess neither has H, Peeta, or Thunder. It seems strange that they would ask just me, but I'm sure there's a reason. When Turquoise is involved, there's always a reason- I just might not find out about it for several months to a year.

I'm impressed by the constant flood of information in Command. There are screens on almost every inch of the wall, some showing different channels of Capitol news, some with security footage from District Thirteen, and some that show places I don't recognize at all. There are scanners that would display enemy hovercrafts incoming- fortunately, none are after us right now- and lots of people scurrying around. I don't recognize many of them, but I spot Plutarch Heavensbee in a corner, poring over one of the screens that shows the Games. I guess you can take the Gamemaker out of the Games, but you can't take the Games out of the Gamemaker.

Turquoise seems to have a spot picked out for us already, something off the beaten path. Part of me wants to be up-close-and-personal with the action, but I understand why it's better to stay out of the way, too. It has not escaped my notice that everything I get involved with seems to involve disaster as well. At this point, it's kind of my thing.

Nolan turns our screen on and starts pushing buttons, changing the picture. He seems shockingly comfortable with all of this- I guess he's made Command and all its buttons his second home. Turquoise is much the same, fussing with the dials and complaining when Nolan does something she doesn't like. She's very critical, actually, but in an amusing way that nobody really seems to mind.

They hone in on one of the Capitol newsfeeds, which seems to center around hats. How the Capitol citizens love their hats. I'm disappointed at first, but Turquoise assures me it's worth watching. "You'd be surprised by what you can learn from a hat show," she promises. "They don't let much slip on the proper news station. They don't want anyone to know what's really going on. But here…they don't watch their words as carefully."

Well, maybe that's true, but I doubt anything relevant will come up in conversation on the hat show. It's much more likely that "not watching their words" will result in claiming floral patterns are in this season, not spilling secrets about the rebels or the Capitol's battle plan. I watch and listen anyway. You won't catch me saying this out loud, but the truth is, Turquoise is rarely wrong. Neither is Nolan. Once upon a time, I thought of Turquoise as a raving lunatic, but there's always been something about Nolan that compelled me to trust him.

I hope I still can.

Despite Turquoise's unfailing optimism, hats quickly grow boring. I drum my fingers on the desk a couple times before I'm bored enough to chit-chat. I turn to Turq first. "How long have you been working with the rebels?"

"My whole life, basically," she replies without looking away from the screen. "My parents were rebels; they got me into it. That's how they ended up dead."

She speaks of it so frankly. My father died half a decade ago and I can't mention it without choking up.

"I'm the new kid compared to you," Nolan comments. He twitches a little as he says it. "Last year. After my brother…died."

He means, after his brother killed himself. On live TV. After severe abuse of prescription drugs. I would wince too.

"I'd been right with him until then," Nolan continues, sounding far away even though he's still right next to me. "But seeing that…that's what made me change my mind. Made me think, I didn't want to volunteer when it came my turn."

I can see that version of him so clearly, like it's real. The Nolan who spent years training in a Career Academy, who wanted the glory of the Games and winning. The thought comes to me unbidden; that's the version of him that loved Storm too.

"Of course, I ended up in there anyway," he muses, coming back to earth. "But by a different kind of choice. And I made it out. Cato didn't make it out."

It's not grief so much as a determined fascination. I hope someday I'll be able to look at my wounds that way.

"I'm sorry about your brother," I say eventually. It's what feels right. "And your parents," I add, nodding to Turquoise. She nods back to me, although she doesn't look very appreciative. Maybe she doesn't want to talk about it? No matter how well I know Turquoise, I don't think I'll ever understand her. Knowing there's method alongside the madness does not make it any easier.

"Are we just listening condolences now?" Haymitch asks from behind me, with exactly as much good taste as usual. "If that's the case, I think I've got you lot beat. I've seen a lot more years and a lot more graves. Anything good on?"

My lip curls. There was a time I looked up to Haymitch, trusted him, even liked him. That time is over. He's failed me and he's changed. Worse, he is pulling up a chair and sitting next to me.

"What are you doing here?" I can't help but ask. I imagine it's not for the hats.

"I was invited, just like you were," Haymitch replies, matching my snippy tone perfectly.

Invited? I glare accusingly between my two friends. It's Nolan who waves the white flag. "Yes, I invited him; fuckin' sue me. I thought it'd be good to have more experienced eyes on this."

I roll my eyes. Of course the foul-mouthed Career and the alcoholic Victor would get along like a house afire. "On what? The hats?"

"No, not the hats," Haymitch huffs. I'm pleased to note that I've annoyed him. "Change, the channel, Turquoise."

"No, I want this one," she insists serenely. A glimpse of her old self that had almost driven me mad. "I want to see it as the Capitol sees it."

"See what?" I demand. I hate the feeling that she (or anyone, really) knows something I don't. It's gotten better, but it never seems to actually go away.

Turquoise doesn't answer me. She doesn't have to. The screen in front of us crackles and goes gray with static, just for a moment until the picture comes back. Except it's not a hat show anymore. It's Gale.

I gasp and lean forward, my nose just inches from the screen. It makes my eyes hurt, but I need to be sure that it's real. It looks real. He looks exactly like the Gale I said goodbye to, just a little grimier and more battle-worn. Also, this Gale is wearing makeup. Just a little, for the cameras, but I can tell.

A cheer goes up around the room. I look back at the room full of people for just a moment before turning back to the only one who really matters. Gale.

He's in full black armor, the kind that's more for flash than actual defense. And I realize the muddy smear across his cheekbone is too perfect to be natural. He's carrying a bow- black, like his armor- and that looks truly functional to me, but I can't shake the feeling that everything about him is for show.

"I knew they'd do it!" Turquoise exclaims. Her grin is practically taking up her whole face. "Nice job, Beetee!"

I don't know who or where Beetee is, but he acknowledges her praise from across the room. Lots of other people are congratulating him too, so I assume he's the one behind our hijacking of Capitol television.

"So everyone in the Capitol is seeing this?" I ask, as Gale raises his fist in what I assume is a defiant gesture.

Nolan gives a wicked grin. "Yes. And the districts, too. We've interrupted everything from the weather to coverage of the Games."

The Games. My sister. I force myself not to worry about that right now. "And this has been in the works for a while? Why don't any of you tell me things?"

"I like the face you make when you're surprised," says Turquoise. Well, at least she's being honest. "And we weren't one-hundred-percent sure it would work. Didn't want to get your hopes up."

She's right about that too. I don't need anything else to disappoint me- I have Haymitch for that.

"The fight in District Seven is finished!" Gale declares, raising his fist again. I wonder if someone is telling him to do that or if he's freewheeling. "District Thirteen and the rebels have won. It wasn't hard. It's only a matter of time before the rest of the Capitol's resistance falls to us as well!"

I cringe at how stiff and formal he sounds. There's no fire in his voice; he might as well be discussing his dental records. It doesn't make any sense. There's nothing Gale is more heated about than the downfall of the Capitol- I've heard him cuss and complain about it a million times!

I'm not the only one who thinks something's wrong. Turquoise purses her lips. "He's not very inspiring, is he?"

The words turn to ash in my stomach. To be honest, I don't recognize myself at all in my reply. "I guess he left his acting talent in the arena."

Haymitch lets out a bark of laughter. I take this as a sign I have reached my lowest point in life. "That's rich coming from you, sweetheart. Your performance left me wanting to beat you with a stick."

I bristle but don't dare retaliate. If there's a chance Nolan and Turquoise haven't picked up what he's talking about- and I really hope they haven't- I'm not going to be the one to mess it up. Besides, it's not much of an insult. As far as I can tell, Haymitch wants to beat me with a stick twenty-four-seven, whether I am doing a good job of putting on a show or not.

I tell him as much, but he doesn't laugh this time. He's watching Gale with deadly focus, a disappointed look in his eye like he's just been told this venue doesn't serve alcohol. He seems to forget he was in the middle of criticizing me- something of a relief, even though I don't value Haymitch's opinion- and jabs a finger at the screen. "Look at that. Would you fight for that?"

I answer honestly. "No."

Nothing about Gale's scripted words or stiff gestures make me want to risk my life for any cause. I'm a little biased- maybe I'm too tangled up in everything to make a fair decision- but I doubt he's inspiring anyone else more than the little he's inspired me.

"Fuckin' hopeless," Haymitch mutters, even as the rest of the room stays full of optimistic chatter. "I need a drink."

Nolan nods in agreement. Turquoise is just sitting there with her lips pursed.

Eventually, the footage from District Seven cuts out- Gale ends with a cry of "FOR MADGE!"- and we're back to watching Hat Fashion Week. I wonder if we've missed anything important- I doubt it. Haymitch pushes his chair back and leaves, presumably to assert himself among the other rebel leaders. As dumb as I think that is, I'm glad to see him go. You won't catch me denying that, not now, not ever.

Turquoise fiddles with the controls until our screen shows a security feed somewhere in Thirteen. "Maybe we'll see somebody fall down the stairs," she reasons, sitting back in her chair. Not to imply that's a normal thing to say. I know it isn't.

I feel her before I see her. The shadow of the President behind my chair. I tense up without meaning to, but Nolan and Turquoise still seem perfectly at ease. Second home, once again. "Madame President," says Turquoise, spinning her chair and crossing her legs. "What can we do for you?"

Coin does not seem at all amused or charmed. I don't even know if she's capable of such things. "I wanted to check in on our shining star. And her friends."

If Nolan is an afterthought, I'm sure I'm something much below that. There's no doubt Coin sees me as the rest of the leaders do- something that ought to quietly stay out of the way, be seen and not heard.

Despite that, she's addressing all of us when she speaks again. "The Mockingjay is doing great work in District Seven- but we need to keep spirits up in my home district, as well. I have a favor to ask of all of you."

Oh, great. A favor. I know better than to defy the President, though, so I nod along with Turquoise and Nolan.

If Coin is pleased, she doesn't show it. Does she show anything? "I would like to personally request that all of you- every tribute we pulled out of the Quarter Quell- make a speech in the auditorium. We'd give you time to prepare, of course. Perhaps the day after our forces return from District Seven."

Bile rises in my throat. I'm not one for public speaking. Public speaking requires being likable, and I am not likable. I barely scrambled through my interview back in the Capitol without offending anyone, and I had a kind host guiding me through that. A speech? On my own? I'd be better off flinging myself off the top-floor podium.

For the first time, I see a half-smile cross Coin's face as she turns to me, specifically. "Smile" might not be the right word for it. It's malicious, almost. A baring of teeth. "Miss Everdeen, I expect you and Mr. Mellark would prefer to combine your speeches, given the status of your relationship. I want you to know, that is perfectly alright with me."

She knows. I have no proof, nothing beyond the hair standing up on my arms, but suddenly I know that she knows. There's a lump in my throat, but it allows me to nod and produce a few words. "We appreciate that, Madame President."

(Thank god for Turquoise; otherwise I would've had no idea what to call her.)

"I'm sure I can come up with something," Nolan muses. Unlike me, he has a real stage presence that has served him well a number of times. "I'll make sure H knows."

"I can tell Thunder," Turquoise offers.

"And I'll tell Storm," I add. "And Peeta, of course."

I still get a dubious look for listing Storm first. I want to scream, it's because I'm rooming with her! I see her way too frequently, so it makes sense! I'm not forgetting my fake boyfriend, it's just-

I cut myself off. I wonder why I came up here in the first place.

Coin leaves, fortunately. I follow soon after. Nolan and Turquoise are deep in conversation, and I suddenly feel out of place. I guess I should have expected: all good things must come to an end.

It's a lot easier to get out of Command than it is to get in. I flit down the hallways like a ghost- it is ridiculous how many stairs this place has- but I find I don't quite want to go back to my room. I'm sure Storm is waiting for me there. The Games are waiting for me too.

Part of me longs to see Prim's face. Part of me is terrified of what else I might see, and in some ways, it seems that as long as I'm not watching, she'll continue to be fine. I can only hope she'll be fine.

No, I just can't do it. I turn on my heel, away from my room, and leave.

I don't realize where I'm going until I get there. Peeta's room. The one he has all to himself, lucky bastard. He told me where it was, but never actually invited me over. Well. I guess I'm here now.

Not knowing what else to do, I knock.

The metal door slides open a moment later. I think Peeta is surprised to see me- it's getting late, after all. He's got wet hair, fresh from the shower. If I peek past him, I see textbooks open on his desk. The world is ending, and Peeta Mellark is studying. The man has a will of iron.

"Hi, Katniss," he says eventually. Hesitantly.

"Hi," I say back. Then, realizing the ball is in my court, I add, "Can I come in?"

"Of course." He steps back and gestures grandly, as if he's welcoming me into a royal palace and not a bland dorm room, but he still looks tense. Can't blame him for that- tension is rolling off me in waves, the way it always does when I'm wandering around the district late at night. Happens more often than you think.

There's no point in beating around the bush. "Coin wants all of us to make speeches, when Gale gets back," I blurt out. "You and I have to give one together."

Peeta winces, just as I had when I first got the news. See, he's smart. He knows I'm not a good ally for this. The Hunger Games? Maybe. A public display that requires elegant use of words? Absolutely not.

Still, he doesn't argue with me, doesn't complain. He just asks me, "What are we supposed to be making a speech about?"

I shrug, a little uncomfortably. "It's pretty vague. Something to keep the district's spirits up."

He chuckles a little- I'm glad he can see humor in it, because I sure don't. "Is that even possible? Do their spirits go up?"

I shrug helplessly. "Not that I've seen. But I guess we have to try."

"Then that's what we'll do," he says. "Try."

I sit down on the bed. Peeta's bed has this kind of off-limits feeling to it, but he's taken the single desk chair and my legs are threatening to give out under me. I'm not sure what it is- am I ever?

"I was in Command just now," I tell him. I'm not sure why; it just feels like he needs to know. "That's where I saw Coin. And the rest of them."

As usual, Peeta is not surprised by things that would definitely surprise me. He runs one hand through his hair, spiking it up more than it already is. "What were you doing in Command?"

I tell him. About Gale. About Turquoise and Nolan, not wanting to get my hopes up. Currently my hopes are not up or down, but somewhere in the middle. Somewhere confused. I even tell him about Haymitch, how much I wanted to punch him in the face and how un-sorry he seemed to be.

"I don't know if he even knows he's done something wrong," Peeta says thoughtfully. "I'm sure he wishes Prim and Rye and them were safe. But I'm also sure he's thinking of the greater good."

I hate "the greater good". As someone who's only ever known an incredibly small part of the picture, it's clearly unfair. Sacrifices must be made, sure. But shouldn't it be from the people who have a choice? Not Prim, not kids who were dragged into this completely against their knowledge?

I force my eyes shut. Honestly, if it was me, it'd be one thing. But it's Prim. When it comes to my sister, I don't care about the rebellion or The Greater Good at all. There's only her.

Peeta squeezes my hand. It's a small room; we're always in each other's reach. "Hey. Don't lose heart now. If we can just end the war…"

That's the same thing Turquoise said. It's a little better coming from Peeta's mouth, but not much.

"There's hope now," he insists. Peeta has always been hope for me. I guess maybe I can believe it. "District Seven is free. The rest'll follow; you'll see."

I wish I could share his optimism. I just crack a smile. "Well…maybe. But Gale doesn't seem like a very inspiring leader, so far. I don't know if anyone will be rallying behind him."

"You know we will," says Peeta. It surprises me a little; he's never liked Gale. "That's probably not enough, I guess, but it's something. If Madge was still here…"

I flinch a little at the mention of Madge. Talk about people you've never liked…Madge is Gale's ex-girlfriend. "Ex" only because she's dead. She killed herself in the Games, so he could live, turning her into a martyr and rebel icon. I know I can never live up to her. The urge to try has subsided, but the instinct to compare myself to her is always there.

Peeta is right, though. Madge was a natural leader- she was the mayor's daughter, giving her one of the highest statuses in District Twelve. The way people have flocked to her in death is astounding. If she was still alive, still making a case for herself…

Madge never meant to be a rebel- I'm certain of that- but she would have been a fantastic one.

"But she's not," I say, like I can just dismiss the thoughts that trouble me. I can't. I know I can't. "It's up to us, and us alone."

"Not alone," Peeta promises me. He hasn't let go of my hand yet. "Never alone."

I'm not sure if he means the whole of District Thirteen or our fellow refugees or that as long as we have each other, we are never truly alone. None of that is enough, either. None of us have the power to end this war in minutes, as I'm determined it should be done, as opposed to weeks, months, years.

Another squeeze of my hand. The smallest gesture, but oddly reassuring. His hands are so soft- nothing like my callused fingers, worn from years of tugging on bowstrings.

After a moment of hesitation, he takes a seat next to me on the bed. The springs creak in protest; these beds aren't made for two. I wonder- completely off-topic- if even married couples share beds in District Thirteen. Everyone here seems so cold, and obviously the beds are tiny. Are there special suites for married couples? If not, how do they…?

I guess, now that I think about it, I've hardly seen any children here.

I forget all that the instant Peeta's shoulder brushes mine. His heat is instantly noticeable, and much more effective than the thin blankets they supply us with. I think everyone in District Thirteen is used to the cold dampness of living underground, but I am not. I think I'd take the winter wonderland of an arena over the chill of perpetually spelunking.

"I just…" Even eloquent, excellent Peeta seems to have a hard time coming up with the words for right now. I know I'm all out. "I just really hope they'll be okay."

That's it, then. Nothing to reassure me, no promise that it's going to be okay. It's not that I wanted him to lie to me, exactly. It's that if Peeta said it, magically, it would be true.

I struggle to hold myself together. Maybe I should have gone straight back to my room- Storm would never tolerate this much self-pity from anyone besides herself. She would have pulled me together- or destroyed me, but it kind of feels like that's what's happening right now. At least, something close to that.

I find myself leaning on Peeta, like he is all that holds me to this world. He doesn't complain. I wonder, distantly, if he needs me as much as I need him. It seems entirely possible. No matter who we came here with, whoever we might have met, the truth is we only really have each other. Out of the arena, but allies all the same.

I know "allies" isn't the correct word for it. We were friends once. What are we now? The truth is, I'm not sure.

A mess, I think. We are a mess.

Every thought I've had about "life from now on" can be summed up into that. It makes me laugh, almost. For sure, it makes me feel better, at least a little bit. Finally, I have reached the fabled sixth stage of grief: humor at my own expense.

"We have to believe they'll be okay," I say. It comes out quiet, not quite a whisper. "If we give up…there's nothing left. We have to believe in them."

"For what it's worth, I think they have a chance," Peeta tells me. He still doesn't sound terribly confident, but it's a start. "Not many of the others still have a district pair. That's an advantage."

"The healer and the wrestling champ," I muse. "It could happen."

And I hope, more than I've ever hoped for anything, that it does.

Thanks for reading. Liz.