This chapter contains extremely graphic and disturbing content, including depictions of mass casualties, severe injuries, burning bodies, war crimes against children and civilians. This content may be deeply upsetting to some readers. Please consider this warning carefully before proceeding.
This chapter draws upon certain events depicted in Suzanne Collins's Mockingjay. However, it presents a significantly revised and expanded narrative, incorporating original plot points and character developments. The narrative prioritizes fidelity to the source novel over the film adaptation.
"Hereby it is manifest that during the time men live without a common Power to keep them all in awe, they are in that condition which is called War; and such a war as is of every man against every man."
— Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan (1651)
Panem's Capitol, December 2399
The air hung heavy with unspoken tension.
Tigris' hand, cold and firm, rested briefly on Katniss's arm; a single, sharp squeeze conveyed the unspoken message: it's time. Katniss met her gaze, a silent acknowledgment passing between them before she quickly kissed her cheek—a fleeting farewell pressed against the chill of Tigris' skin. The teal hood of her cloak enveloped her head, the soft fabric a stark contrast to the icy bite of the air that assaulted her face the moment she stepped outside. The scarf, pulled high over her mouth and nose, offered only meager protection against the onslaught of sharp, needle-like snowflakes that pricked her exposed skin.
The rising sun, a weak, watery orb struggling against the oppressive gloom, cast long, distorted shadows. Visibility was limited to the huddled masses immediately surrounding her, their forms bundled tight against the cold, a sea of muted colors in the gray light. The conditions were ideal for stealth, for concealment—a grim perfection that did little to alleviate the knot of dread tightening in her stomach. But where were Cressida and Pollux? Panic clenched around her heart.
The sounds of the refugee column—a symphony of muffled sobs, ragged gasps, and the low moans of the suffering—were a chilling counterpoint to the distant, sharp crack of gunfire. These sounds, muffled yesterday behind closed shutters, now clawed at her ears, amplified by the open expanse, a visceral reminder of the horrors she was about to face. Each labored breath, each stifled cry, was a testament to the desperation that fueled their flight, a desperate hope mirrored in her own determined steps alongside Gale.
The icy air bit at her lungs, mirroring the icy fear that gripped her. Each step was a battle against the cold, against the fear, against the unknown that lay ahead.
"Where are we going, Uncle?" a small boy's voice, thin and reedy with cold, pierced the muffled sounds of the crowd. He shivered, his breath misting in the frigid air, clinging to the man beside him who was bent nearly double under the weight of a small, heavy safe.
"To the President's mansion," the man puffed, his breath clouding before him. "They'll assign us a new place to live." The words offered little comfort, lost in the cacophony of fear and desperation.
Turning from the narrow confines of the alley, they spilled onto the main avenue, a surging river of humanity.
"Stay to the right!" a sharp voice cut through the air. Peacekeepers, their faces grim and impassive, moved through the crowd like sharks, directing the flow of human traffic with barked commands. Terror-stricken faces peered from behind the plate-glass windows of shops, already overflowing with refugees. At this rate, Tigris wouldn't just have new houseguests by lunch; she'd be hosting a full-blown occupancy. It was a grim comfort, this overwhelming tide; a testament to their timely escape.
The snow thickened, yet the light seemed to intensify, a cruel irony. Katniss spotted Cressida and Pollux about thirty yards ahead, swallowed by the moving mass. She craned her neck, searching for Peeta amidst the sea of faces, her heart quickening with each failed attempt. Instead, her eyes fell upon a small girl in a bright lemon-yellow coat, her expression a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. With a subtle nudge to Gale, Katniss slowed their pace, allowing a protective wall of bodies to form between them and the relentless flow of the crowd. The subtle maneuver, a silent promise of safety in the midst of chaos.
"We might need to split up," Katniss murmured, her voice barely audible above the rising din. "There's a girl—"
The sentence was cut short by a deafening roar. Gunfire ripped through the crowd, a brutal, indiscriminate wave that sent people sprawling. Screams, sharp and piercing, tore through the air as a second volley mowed down another group behind them. Instinct took over. Gale and Katniss dropped to the street, scrambling the ten yards to the relative safety of the shops, diving behind a chaotic display of spike-heeled boots outside a shoe seller's.
A row of feathery footwear blocked Gale's view, a bizarre, incongruous barrier against the horror unfolding before them. "Who is it? Can you see?" he asked, his voice tight with urgency.
Through the gaps between alternating pairs of lavender and mint green leather boots, Katniss saw a street transformed into a macabre tableau. Bodies lay scattered, a grim harvest of the recent gunfire. The little girl in the lemon-yellow coat knelt beside a motionless woman, her small frame wracked with sobs as she frantically tried to rouse the unconscious figure. Then, another wave of bullets sliced across the girl's chest, staining the bright yellow fabric crimson. The impact sent the child tumbling onto her back, her small form crumpling like a discarded doll.
For a moment, the sight of the child's tiny, crumpled form stole Katniss's breath, choked her ability to speak, to even think. The world narrowed to the image of that fallen figure. Gale's elbow nudged her sharply, his touch jarring her back to the brutal reality of their situation. "Katniss?" His voice was a lifeline, pulling her back from the abyss of despair.
"They're shooting from the roof above us," Katniss said, her voice low and strained. She watched as more rounds tore through the air, the white uniforms of the Peacekeepers dropping into the snowy streets like felled soldiers. "Trying to take out the Peacekeepers, but they're not exactly crack shots. It must be the rebels." The revelation brought no surge of triumphant joy, no exhilarating rush of relief. Instead, she remained transfixed by the small, crumpled form in the lemon-yellow coat, the vibrant color now starkly contrasted by the spreading stain of blood.
"If we start shooting, that's it," Gale said, his voice grim. "The whole world will know it's us."
He was right. Their only weapons were their custom bows, silent and deadly, but also easily traceable. To release an arrow would be to announce their presence to both sides of the conflict, a reckless gamble they couldn't afford.
"No," Katniss said forcefully, her gaze fixed on the distant President's mansion. "We've got to get to Snow."
"Then we better start moving before the whole block goes up," Gale said, his tone urgent. Hugging the walls of the buildings, they continued along the street, the walls offering little more than the illusion of protection. The shop windows, a continuous line of sweaty palms and wide, terrified eyes pressed against the glass, offered a chilling panorama of fear. Katniss yanked her scarf higher, shielding her face as they darted between outdoor displays, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid smell of gunpowder.
Behind a rack of framed photographs of President Snow, they encountered a wounded Peacekeeper, propped against a brick wall, his hand outstretched in a desperate plea for help. Before Katniss could react, Gale's knee connected with the side of the Peacekeeper's head, a swift, brutal blow that silenced his cries. Gale snatched the fallen Peacekeeper's gun. At the intersection, another Peacekeeper fell to Gale's shot. Suddenly, they were both armed, the weight of the firearms a heavy but necessary addition to their burden.
"So who are we supposed to be now?" Katniss asked, her voice tight with the urgency of their situation.
"Desperate citizens of the Capitol," Gale replied, his eyes scanning the chaotic scene around them. "The Peacekeepers will think we're on their side, and hopefully the rebels have more interesting targets."
Katniss mulled over the wisdom of this latest deception as they sprinted across the intersection. By the time they reached the next block, however, the question of identity became irrelevant. No one was looking at faces anymore. The rebels were here, a tide of defiance pouring onto the avenue, taking cover in doorways and behind vehicles, their guns blazing, hoarse commands echoing above the din of battle as they prepared to meet the advancing army of Peacekeepers. Caught in the brutal crossfire were the refugees—unarmed, disoriented, many wounded, and far too many already dead.
Ahead, a pod activated with a hiss, releasing a scalding jet of steam that parboiled anyone in its path, leaving behind victims rendered intestine-pink and lifeless. Whatever fragile sense of order had remained shattered completely. As the remaining wisps of steam mingled with the falling snow, visibility shrank to the end of Katniss's rifle barrel. Peacekeeper, rebel, citizen—who could tell? Every moving thing was a target. People fired reflexively, and Katniss was no exception.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, adrenaline surging through her veins. Everyone was an enemy, except Gale. Her hunting partner, the one person she could trust to have her back. There was nothing to do but move forward, engaging whoever crossed their path. Screaming people, bleeding people, dead people—everywhere. As they reached the next corner, the entire block ahead erupted in a rich, malevolent purple glow. They backpedaled instinctively, hunkering down in a stairwell, squinting into the blinding light. Something was happening to those caught within its radius.
Then it hit them—a wave, a pulse, a searing laser? Weapons clattered to the ground as fingers flew to faces, blood erupting from every visible orifice—eyes, noses, mouths, ears. The horrifying spectacle left them momentarily speechless.
The afterglow of the explosion winked out, leaving only the dead. A wave of nausea hit Katniss; the coppery tang of blood was thick, cloying. Each leap over a body sent a jolt through her; the ground was slick, yielding under her boots. The wind howled, a blizzard of snow blurring her vision, yet the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of approaching boots was deafeningly clear.
"Down!" she breathed, the word a ragged whisper against the gale.
They collapsed into the snow-dusted carnage, her cheek pressing into something sickeningly warm—viscous and wet. The reek of blood filled her nostrils; the metallic tang burned. She lay still, a grotesque tableau of death surrounding her, as heavy boots crunched over them. A sharp jab in her back, a sickening crunch beneath her head. The pressure eased. She risked a glance at Gale; a silent nod passed between them.
The next block offered a fleeting reprieve—a sea of terrified faces, but few soldiers. Then, a sound. Not an explosion, but something far more insidious: a low, guttural crack, like an eggshell shattering, amplified a thousandfold. The ground trembled beneath them. A subtle shift in the angle of the street. The tiles, once solid beneath their feet, now tilted precariously.
"Run!" she screamed, the word torn from her lungs by the rising terror. There was no time for explanations. A fissure snaked down the center of the street; the ground split, the tiled sides of the street folding inward like monstrous jaws. People were tumbling into the chasm, their screams cut short by a horrifying chorus of cracking bones and stifled cries. The air filled with the stench of burning flesh, a sickening sweetness that mingled with the coppery tang of blood.
A desperate choice: the intersection or the buildings. She chose a diagonal, a frantic scramble for purchase on the treacherous tiles. It was like running up a wall of ice, each step more precarious than the last. She saw a woman, her face contorted in silent scream, her arm twisted at an unnatural angle, disappear into the darkness. The intersection, the buildings—mere feet away—as the ground lurched again.
A final, desperate lunge. Her fingers scrabbled for purchase as the street collapsed, a sickening rip of concrete and tile. She dangled, her feet kicking uselessly in the air. Fifty feet below, a stench rose to meet her—the acrid, suffocating smell of burning flesh, punctuated by the sharp tang of singed hair and the sickeningly sweet odor of melting fat. The crackling of flames, the screams—now a cacophony of agony—the sizzling of flesh, pierced the wind before she saw it: a gaping maw of fire, a furnace yawning open beneath the fallen street, filled with the writhing, burning forms of the fallen.
A choked sob tore from her throat. No one was coming. Her grip on the icy ledge was failing; the drop to the furnace below felt impossibly far, yet she saw—with a grim certainty—that the corner of the pod was only six feet away. Inch by agonizing inch, her fingers scraped along the frozen edge, the screams from below a horrifying counterpoint to the pounding of her own heart. Her hands finally straddled the corner. With a desperate heave, she swung her right boot over the side, the heel catching on a jagged piece of metal. Slowly, painfully, she hauled herself upward, muscles screaming in protest.
Gasping for breath, trembling like a leaf, Katniss collapsed onto the street, the flat ground offering no comfort. She wrapped her arm around a lamppost, needing the anchor even though the ground was solid beneath her.
"Gale?" she whispered into the abyss, the question swallowed by the wind, heedless of the risk of being discovered. "Gale?"
"Over here!"
Katniss glanced to her left, bewilderment warring with a surge of desperate hope. The collapsing street had left a precarious ledge, clinging to the base of the buildings. A dozen or so figures dangled precariously, their hands gripping whatever offered purchase—doorknobs, rusty knockers, even mail slots. Three doors down, Gale clung to the decorative ironwork surrounding an apartment door, his face pale, his body taut. He could easily pull himself inside if the door were open, but despite his frantic kicks, the door remained stubbornly shut; no one answered his desperate pleas.
"Cover yourself!" she yelled, lifting her rifle. He turned away, giving her a clear shot. She drilled the lock with precise shots until the door splintered inward. Gale tumbled through the opening, landing in a heap on the floor. For a heart-stopping moment, relief flooded her—the elation of rescue. Then, white-gloved hands clamped down on him, pulling him back.
Their eyes met across the short distance. His lips moved, forming words she couldn't decipher. A wave of helplessness washed over her. She couldn't leave him, but she was too far to reach him. His lips moved again, pleading, perhaps. She shook her head, confusion and despair etched on her face. At any moment, the Peacekeepers would realize the significance of their capture. Already, they were hauling him inside.
"Go! Run!" His voice was a ragged whisper, barely audible above the screams and the groaning of the collapsing street. Even as he urged her to flee, Katniss saw it—a flash of white-gloved brutality as a Peacekeeper's fist slammed into Gale's gut. The impact sent Gale reeling, his body crumpling under the blow.
She turned and ran, the image of Gale's pain seared into her memory. Alone. Gale, a prisoner, his body already bearing the marks of the Capitol's cruelty. Cressida and Pollux—likely dead. And Peeta? A ghost in her memory, unseen since Tigris's. A desperate hope flickered—perhaps he'd sensed the attack, retreated to the cellar before the final wave of the Capitol's onslaught. A diversion was unnecessary; the Capitol had provided more than enough. No need for bait, no need for the nightlock—the nightlock! Gale wouldn't have any. And the detonating arrows? A cruel, impossible dream now. The Peacekeepers would disarm him first, leaving him defenseless.
She stumbled into a doorway, the rough stone a cold comfort against her trembling body. Tears stung her eyes, blurring the already chaotic scene. Shoot me. His lips had formed the words, a silent plea, even as he was being beaten. Her job. Their unspoken pact, a promise whispered between friends facing death. And she hadn't done it. The Capitol would kill him, torture him, break him—the cracks in her composure widened, threatening to shatter her. One hope remained: the Capitol's fall, its surrender, the release of its prisoners before they could inflict further harm on Gale.
But as long as Snow breathed, that hope felt fragile, almost nonexistent.
A pair of Peacekeepers jogged past, barely registering the whimpering Capitol girl huddled in a doorway. Katniss choked back a sob, furiously wiping away tears before they froze on her cheeks. She forced herself to compose herself. To remind herself of her role in the invasion: an anonymous refugee. But had the Peacekeepers who seized Gale caught a glimpse of her as she fled?
With practiced efficiency, she removed her cloak, turning it inside out to reveal the black lining instead of the teal exterior. The hood was adjusted to conceal her face, casting her features into shadow. Gripping her rifle close to her chest, she surveyed the block. Only a handful of dazed stragglers remained. She fell in behind a pair of elderly men, their slow pace providing cover. No one would suspect her of being with them. As they reached the end of the next intersection, they paused, and she almost collided with them.
The City Circle. Across the wide expanse, ringed by imposing government buildings, sat the President's mansion—a stark, imposing symbol of the power she was fighting against.
The Circle was a chaotic swirl of humanity—people milling about, wailing, or simply collapsing into the accumulating snow. Katniss blended seamlessly into the scene, her own despair mirroring the collective grief. She began her cautious approach toward the mansion, navigating a treacherous path strewn with discarded belongings and frostbitten limbs. Halfway there, the concrete barricade loomed—a four-foot-high rectangle enclosing the mansion's front. She expected emptiness, but instead found it teeming with refugees. A designated shelter? But as she drew closer, a horrifying truth revealed itself: every person within the barricade was a child. Toddlers to teenagers, their faces etched with fear and frostbite, huddled together or rocking numbly on the ground. Among them, nestled amongst the older children, were infants, their tiny faces pale and vulnerable.
A bloodcurdling wail sliced through the air, shattering the numbness. Katniss saw a young mother, her face contorted with terror, as a Peacekeeper brutally tore her infant from her arms. The child's thin, reedy cry was quickly cut short by the harsh sound of a muffled thud. The mother's husband, his face a mask of rage, lunged forward, only to be met with the brutal efficiency of a Peacekeeper's stun gun. He crumpled to the ground, his body convulsing, leaving the screaming mother alone, her eyes wide with a mixture of grief and despair.
They weren't being ushered into warmth and safety. They were penned in, encircled by a ring of impassive Peacekeepers. The purpose was chillingly clear: this wasn't protection; it was a human shield for Snow, a grotesque display of power that extended to the most innocent and vulnerable.
A sudden commotion erupted, the crowd surging to the left. Katniss was caught in the human tide, swept sideways, her progress thwarted. Shouts of "The rebels! The rebels!" pierced the air, signaling a breakthrough. The relentless pressure of the moving mass slammed her against a flagpole; she clung to it desperately. Using the rope hanging from the top, she hauled herself upward, escaping the crushing weight of the panicked crowd. From her vantage point, she saw the rebel army pouring into the Circle, driving the refugees back onto the avenues.
Her eyes scanned the area, searching for the telltale signs of the pods detonation. But the expected explosions never came.
A Capitol hovercraft, its seal stark against the sky, materialized directly above the barricaded children. Scores of silver parachutes blossomed, raining down on the terrified youngsters. Even amidst the chaos, the children understood the silver parachutes' contents: food, medicine, gifts. Tiny frozen fingers fumbled with the strings, their faces alight with a desperate hope. The hovercraft vanished. Five seconds of agonizing silence. Then, a horrifying detonation. Twenty parachutes exploded simultaneously.
A collective wail rose from the crowd, a sound that tore through Katniss's soul. The pristine white snow was instantly stained crimson, littered with grotesquely undersized body parts. Many children died instantly, their small bodies flung across the snow. Others writhed in agony, their cries swallowed by the collective horror. Some, in a chilling tableau, stared mutely at the remaining silver parachutes clutched in their frozen hands, as if still clinging to the illusion of precious contents. The Peacekeepers' reactions betrayed their ignorance of the impending massacre; they frantically tore down the barricades, creating a path to the carnage. Another wave of white uniforms surged into the opening, but these weren't Peacekeepers. They were medics—rebel medics—their uniforms instantly recognizable. They swarmed the children, their medical kits a beacon of desperate aid in the crimson snow.
A flash of long blond hair caught Katniss's eye. She saw Prim, amidst the chaos, frantically stripping off her coat to shield a wailing child, the familiar ducktail of her untucked shirt a stark contrast to the crimson snow. The same paralyzing shock she'd felt the day Effie Trinket called her name at the reaping washed over her. She must have collapsed; the next few seconds were a blank. Then, propelled by an instinct older than the Games, she pushed through the crowd, a desperate echo of that day three years ago when she'd tried to reach Primrose amidst the roaring chaos. She was almost there, almost to the barricade, when she saw Prim again—her eyes wide with terror and recognition, her lips parting to call out Katniss's name.
And that's when the rest of the parachutes go off.