Mockingjay Chapter 9

Mockingjay Part 1: The Ashes

Chapter 9

I stop trying to sleep after my first few attempts are interrupted by unspeakable nightmares. After that, I just lie still and do fake breathing whenever someone checks on me. In the morning, I‘m released from the hospital and instructed to take it easy. Cressida asks me to record a few lines for a new Mockingjay propo. At lunch, I keep waiting for people to bring up Peeta‘s appearance, but no one does. Someone must have seen it besides Finnick and me.

I have training, but Gale‘s scheduled to work with Beetee on weapons or something, so I get permission to take Finnick to the woods. We wander around awhile and then ditch our communicators under a bush. When we‘re a safe distance away, we sit and discuss Peeta‘s broadcast.

“I haven‘t heard one word about it. No one‘s told you anything?” Finnick says. I shake my head. He pauses before he asks, “Not even Gale?” I‘m clinging to a shred of hope that Gale honestly knows nothing about Peeta‘s message. But I have a bad feeling he does. “Maybe he‘s trying to find a time to tell you privately.”

“Maybe,” I say.

We stay silent so long that a buck wanders into range. I take it down with an arrow. Finnick hauls it back to the fence.

For dinner, there‘s minced venison in the stew. Gale walks me back to Compartment E after we eat. When I ask him what‘s been going on, again there‘s no mention of Peeta. As soon as my mother and sister are asleep, I slip the pearl from the drawer and spend a second sleepless night clutching it in my hand, replaying Peeta‘s words in my head. “Ask yourself, do you really trust the people you‘re working with? Do you really know what‘s going on? And if you don‘t… find out.” Find out. What? From who? And how can Peeta know anything except what the Capitol tells him? It‘s just a Capitol propo.

More noise. But if Plutarch thinks it‘s just the Capitol line, why didn‘t he tell me about it? Why hasn‘t anyone let me or Finnick know?

Under this debate lies the real source of my distress: Peeta. What have they done to him? And what are they doing to him right now? Clearly, Snow did not buy the story that Peeta and I knew nothing about the rebellion. And his suspicions have been reinforced, now that I have come out as the Mockingjay. Peeta can only guess about the rebel tactics or make up things to tell his torturers. Lies, once discovered, would be severely punished. How abandoned by me he must feel. In his first interview, he tried to protect me from the Capitol and rebels alike, and not only have I failed to protect him, I‘ve brought down more horrors upon him.

Come morning, I stick my forearm in the wall and stare groggily at the day‘s schedule. Immediately after breakfast, I am slated for Production. In the dining hall, as I down my hot grain and milk and mushy beets, I spot a communicuff on Gale‘s wrist. “When did you get that back, Soldier Hawthorne?” I ask.

“Yesterday. They thought if I‘m going to be in the field with you, it could be a backup system of communication,” says Gale.

No one has ever offered me a communicuff. I wonder, if I asked for one, would I get it? “Well, I guess one of us has to be accessible,” I say with an edge to my voice.

“What‘s that mean?” he says.

“Nothing. Just repeating what you said,” I tell him. “And I totally agree that the accessible one should be you. I just hope I still have access to you as well.”

Our eyes lock, and I realize how furious I am with Gale. That I don‘t believe for a second that he didn‘t see Peeta‘s propo. That I feel completely betrayed that he didn‘t tell me about it. We know each other too well for him not to read my mood and guess what has caused it.

“Katniss—” he begins. Already the admission of guilt is in his tone. I grab my tray, cross to the deposit area, and slam the dishes onto the rack. By the time I‘m in the hallway, he‘s caught up with me.

“Why didn‘t you say something?” he asks, taking my arm.

“Why didn‘t I?” I jerk my arm free. “Why didn‘t you, Gale? And I did, by the way, when I asked you last night about what had been going on!”

“I‘m sorry. All right? I didn‘t know what to do. I wanted to tell you, but everyone was afraid that seeing Peeta‘s propo would make you sick,” he says.

“They were right. It did. But not quite as sick as you lying to me for Coin.” At that moment, his communicuff starts beeping. “There she is. Better run. You have things to tell her.”

For a moment, real hurt registers on his face. Then cold anger replaces it. He turns on his heel and goes. Maybe I have been too spiteful, not given him enough time to explain. Maybe everyone is just trying to protect me by lying to me. I don‘t care. I‘m sick of people lying to me for my own good. Because really it‘s mostly for their own good. Lie to Katniss about the rebellion so she doesn‘t do anything crazy. Send her into the arena without a clue so we can fish her out. Don‘t tell her about Peeta‘s propo because it might make her sick, and it‘s hard enough to get a decent performance out of her as it is.

I do feel sick. Heartsick. And too tired for a day of production. But I‘m already at Remake, so I go in. Today, I discover, we will be returning to District 12. Cressida wants to do unscripted interviews with Gale and me throwing light on our demolished city.

“If you‘re both up for that,” says Cressida, looking closely at my face.

“Count me in,” I say. I stand, uncommunicative and stiff, a mannequin, as my prep team dresses me, does my hair, and dabs makeup on my face. Not enough to show, only enough to take the edge off the circles under my sleepless eyes.

Boggs escorts me down to the Hangar, but we don‘t talk beyond a preliminary greeting. I‘m grateful to be spared another exchange about my disobedience in 8, especially since his mask looks so
uncomfortable.

At the last moment, I remember to send a message to my mother about my leaving 13, and stress that it won‘t be dangerous. We board a hovercraft for the short ride to 12 and I‘m directed to a seat at a table where Plutarch, Gale, and Cressida are poring over a map. Plutarch‘s brimming with satisfaction as he shows me the before/after effects of the first couple of propos. The rebels, who were barely maintaining a foothold in several districts, have rallied. They have actually taken 3 and 11—the latter so crucial since it‘s Panem‘s main food supplier—and have made inroads in several other districts as well.

“Hopeful. Very hopeful indeed,” says Plutarch. “Fulvia‘s going to have the first round of We Remember spots ready tonight, so we can target the individual districts with their dead. Finnick‘s absolutely marvelous.”

“It‘s painful to watch, actually,” says Cressida. “He knew so many of them personally.”

“That‘s what makes it so effective,” says Plutarch. “Straight from the heart. You‘re all doing beautifully. Coin could not be more pleased.”

Gale didn‘t tell them, then. About my pretending not to see Peeta and my anger at their cover-up. But I guess it‘s too little, too late, because I still can‘t let it go. It doesn‘t matter. He‘s not speaking to me, either.

It‘s not until we land in the Meadow that I realize Haymitch isn‘t among our company. When I ask Plutarch about his absence, he just shakes his head and says, “He couldn‘t face it.”

“Haymitch? Not able to face something? Wanted a day off, more likely,” I say.

“I think his actual words were ’I couldn‘t face it without a bottle,‘” says Plutarch.

I roll my eyes, long out of patience with my mentor, his weakness for drink, and what he can or can‘t confront. But about five minutes after my return to 12, I‘m wishing I had a bottle myself. I thought I‘d come to terms with 12‘s demise—heard of it, seen it from the air, and wandered through its ashes. So why does everything bring on a fresh pang of grief? Was I simply too out of it before to fully register the loss of my world? Or is it the look on Gale‘s face as he takes in the destruction on foot that makes the atrocity feel brand-new?

Cressida directs the team to start with me at my old house. I ask her what she wants me to do. “Whatever you feel like,” she says. Standing back in my kitchen, I don‘t feel like doing anything. In fact, I find myself focusing up at the sky—the only roof left—because too many memories are drowning me. After a while, Cressida says, “That‘s fine, Katniss. Let‘s move on.”

Gale doesn‘t get off so easily at his old address. Cressida films him in silence for a few minutes, but just as he pulls the one remnant of his previous life from the ashes—a twisted metal poker—she starts to question him about his family, his job, life in the Seam. She makes him go back to the night of the firebombing and reenact it, starting at his house, working his way down across the Meadow and through the woods to the lake. I straggle behind the film crew and the bodyguards, feeling their presence to be a violation of my beloved woods. This is a private place, a sanctuary, already corrupted by the Capitol‘s evil. Even after we‘ve left behind the charred stumps near the fence, we‘re still tripping over decomposing bodies. Do we have to record it for everyone to see?

By the time we reach the lake, Gale seems to have lost his ability to speak. Everyone‘s dripping in sweat—especially Castor and Pollux in their insect shells—and Cressida calls for a break. I scoop up handfuls of water from the lake, wishing I could dive in and surface alone and naked and unobserved. I wander around the perimeter for a while. When I come back around to the little concrete house beside the lake, I pause in the doorway and see Gale propping the crooked poker he salvaged against the wall by the hearth. For a moment I have an image of a lone stranger, sometime far in the future, wandering lost in the wilderness and coming upon this small place of refuge, with the pile of split logs, the hearth, the poker. Wondering how it came to be. Gale turns and meets my eyes and I know he‘s thinking about our last meeting here. When we fought over whether or not to run away. If we had, would District 12 still be there? I think it would. But the Capitol would still be in control of Panem as well.

Cheese sandwiches are passed around and we eat them in the shade of the trees. I intentionally sit at the far edge of the group, next to Pollux, so I don‘t have to talk. No one‘s talking much, really. In the relative quiet, the birds take back the woods. I nudge Pollux with my elbow and point out a small black bird with a crown. It hops to a new branch, momentarily opening its wings, showing off its white patches. Pollux gestures to my pin and raises his eyebrows questioningly. I nod, confirming it‘s a mockingjay. I hold up one finger to say Wait, I‘ll show you, and whistle a birdcall. The mockingjay cocks its head and whistles the call right back at me. Then, to my surprise, Pollux whistles a few notes of his own. The bird answers him immediately. Pollux‘s face breaks into an expression of delight and he has a series of melodic exchanges with the mockingjay. My guess is it‘s the first conversation he‘s had in years. Music draws mockingjays like blossoms do bees, and in a short while he‘s got half a dozen of them perched in the branches over our heads. He taps me on the arm and uses a twig to write a word in the dirt. SING?

Usually, I‘d decline, but it‘s kind of impossible to say no to Pollux, given the circumstances. Besides, the mockingjays‘ song voices are different from their whistles, and I‘d like him to hear them. So, before I actually think about what I‘m doing, I sing Rue‘s four notes, the ones she used to signal the end of the workday in 11. The notes that ended up as the background music to her murder. The birds don‘t know that. They pick up the simple phrase and bounce it back and forth between them in sweet harmony. Just as they did in the Hunger Games before the muttations broke through the trees, chased us onto the Cornucopia, and slowly gnawed Cato to a bloody pulp—

“Want to hear them do a real song?” I burst out. Anything to stop those memories. I‘m on my feet, moving back into the trees, resting my hand on the rough trunk of a maple where the birds perch. I have not sung “The Hanging Tree” out loud for ten years, because it‘s forbidden, but I remember every word. I begin softly, sweetly, as my father did.

“Are you, are you
Coming to the tree
Where they strung up a man they say murdered three.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.”

The mockingjays begin to alter their songs as they become aware of my new offering.

“Are you, are you
Coming to the tree
Where the dead man called out for his love to flee.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.”

I have the birds‘ attention now. In one more verse, surely they will have captured the melody, as it‘s simple and repeats four times with little variation.

“Are you, are you
Coming to the tree
Where I told you to run, so we‘d both be free.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.”

A hush in the trees. Just the rustle of leaves in the breeze. But no birds, mockingjay or other. Peeta‘s right. They do fall silent when I sing. Just as they did for my father.

“Are you, are you
Coming to the tree
Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.”

The birds are waiting for me to continue. But that‘s it. Last verse. In the stillness I remember the scene. I was home from a day in the woods with my father. Sitting on the floor with Prim, who was just a toddler, singing “The Hanging Tree.” Making us necklaces out of scraps of old rope like it said in the song, not knowing the real meaning of the words. The tune was simple and easy to harmonize to, though, and back then I could memorize almost anything set to music after a round or two. Suddenly, my mother snatched the rope necklaces away and was yelling at my father. I started to cry because my mother never yelled, and then Prim was wailing and I ran outside to hide. As I had exactly one hiding spot—in the Meadow under a honeysuckle bush—my father found me immediately. He calmed me down and told me everything was fine, only we‘d better not sing that song anymore. My mother just wanted me to forget it. So, of course, every word was immediately, irrevocably branded into my brain.

We didn‘t sing it anymore, my father and I, or even speak of it. After he died, it used to come back to me a lot. Being older, I began to understand the lyrics. At the beginning, it sounds like a guy is trying to get his girlfriend to secretly meet up with him at midnight. But it‘s an odd place for a tryst, a hanging tree, where a man was hung for murder. The murderer‘s lover must have had something to do with the killing, or maybe they were just going to punish her anyway, because his corpse called out for her to flee. That‘s weird obviously, the talking-corpse bit, but it‘s not until the third verse that “The Hanging Tree” begins to get unnerving. You realize the singer of the song is the dead murderer. He‘s still in the hanging tree. And even though he told his lover to flee, he keeps asking if she‘s coming to meet him. The phrase Where I told you to run, so we‘d both be free is the most troubling because at first you think he‘s talking about when he told her to flee, presumably to safety. But then you wonder if he meant for her to run to him. To death. In the final stanza, it‘s clear that that‘s what he‘s waiting for. His lover, with her rope necklace, hanging dead next to him in the tree.

I used to think the murderer was the creepiest guy imaginable. Now, with a couple of trips to the Hunger Games under my belt, I decide not to judge him without knowing more details. Maybe his lover was already sentenced to death and he was trying to make it easier. To let her know he‘d be waiting. Or maybe he thought the place he was leaving her was really worse than death. Didn‘t I want to kill Peeta with that syringe to save him from the Capitol? Was that really my only option? Probably not, but I couldn‘t think of another at the time.

I guess my mother thought the whole thing was too twisted for a seven-year-old, though. Especially one who made her own rope necklaces. It wasn‘t like hanging was something that only happened in a story. Plenty of people were executed that way in 12. You can bet she didn‘t want me singing it in front of my music class. She probably wouldn‘t like me doing it here for Pollux even, but at least I‘m not—wait, no, I‘m wrong. As I glance sideways, I see Castor has been taping me. Everyone is watching me intently. And Pollux has tears running down his cheeks because no doubt my freaky song has dredged up some terrible incident in his life. Great. I sigh and lean back against the trunk. That‘s when the mockingjays begin their rendition of “The Hanging Tree.” In their mouths, it‘s quite beautiful.

Conscious of being filmed, I stand quietly until I hear Cressida call, “Cut!”

Plutarch crosses to me, laughing. “Where do you come up with this stuff? No one would believe it if we made it up!” He throws an arm around me and kisses me on the top of my head with a loud smack. “You‘re golden!”

“I wasn‘t doing it for the cameras,” I say.

“Lucky they were on, then,” he says. “Come on, everybody, back to town!”

As we trudge back through the woods, we reach a boulder, and both Gale and I turn our heads in the same direction, like a pair of dogs catching a scent on the wind. Cressida notices and asks what lies that way. We admit, without acknowledging each other, it‘s our old hunting rendezvous place. She wants to see it, even after we tell her it‘s nothing really. Nothing but a place where I was happy, I think.

Our rock ledge overlooking the valley. Perhaps a little less green than usual, but the blackberry bushes hang heavy with fruit. Here began countless days of hunting and snaring, fishing and gathering, roaming together through the woods, unloading our thoughts while we filled our game bags. This was the doorway to both sustenance and sanity. And we were each other‘s key.

There‘s no District 12 to escape from now, no Peacekeepers to trick, no hungry mouths to feed. The Capitol took away all of that, and I‘m on the verge of losing Gale as well. The glue of mutual need that bonded us so tightly together for all those years is melting away. Dark patches, not light, show in the spaces between us. How can it be that today, in the face of 12‘s horrible demise, we are too angry to even speak to each other?

Gale as good as lied to me. That was unacceptable, even if he was concerned about my well-being. His apology seemed genuine, though. And I threw it back in his face with an insult to make sure it stung. What is happening to us? Why are we always at odds now? It‘s all a muddle, but I somehow feel that if I went back to the root of our troubles, my actions would be at the heart of it. Do I really want to
drive him away?

My fingers encircle a blackberry and pluck it from its stem. I roll it gently between my thumb and forefinger. Suddenly, I turn to him and toss it in his direction. “And may the odds—” I say. I throw it high
so he has plenty of time to decide whether to knock it aside or accept it.

Gale‘s eyes train on me, not the berry, but at the last moment, he opens his mouth and catches it. He chews, swallows, and there‘s a long pause before he says “—be ever in your favor.” But he does
say it.

Cressida has us sit in the nook in the rocks, where it‘s impossible not to be touching, and coaxes us into talking about hunting. What drove us out into the woods, how we met, favorite moments. We
thaw, begin to laugh a little, as we relate mishaps with bees and wild dogs and skunks. When the conversation turns to how it felt to translate our skill with weapons to the bombing in 8, I stop talking. Gale
just says, “Long overdue.”

By the time we reach the town square, afternoon‘s sinking into evening. I take Cressida to the rubble of the bakery and ask her to film something. The only emotion I can muster is exhaustion. “Peeta, this is your home. None of your family has been heard of since the bombing. Twelve is gone. And you‘re calling for a cease-fire?” I look across the emptiness. “There‘s no one left to hear you.”

As we stand before the lump of metal that was the gallows, Cressida asks if either of us has ever been tortured. In answer, Gale pulls off his shirt and turns his back to the camera. I stare at the lash marks, and again hear the whistling of the whip, see his bloody figure hanging unconscious by his wrists.

“I‘m done,” I announce. “I‘ll meet you at the Victor‘s Village. Something for… my mother.”

I guess I walked here, but the next thing I‘m conscious of is sitting on the floor in front of the kitchen cabinets of our house in the Victor‘s Village. Meticulously lining ceramic jars and glass bottles into a box. Placing clean cotton bandages between them to prevent breaking. Wrapping bunches of dried flowers.

Suddenly, I remember the rose on my dresser. Was it real? If so, is it still up there? I have to resist the temptation to check. If it‘s there, it will only frighten me all over again. I hurry with my packing. When the cabinets are empty, I rise to find that Gale has materialized in my kitchen. It‘s disturbing how soundlessly he can appear. He‘s leaning on the table, his fingers spread wide against the wood grain. I set the box between us. “Remember?” he asks. “This is where you kissed me.”

So the heavy dose of morphling administered after the whipping wasn‘t enough to erase that from his consciousness. “I didn‘t think you‘d remember that,” I say.

“Have to be dead to forget. Maybe even not then,” he tells me. “Maybe I‘ll be like that man in ’The Hanging Tree.‘ Still waiting for an answer.” Gale, who I have never seen cry, has tears in his eyes. To keep them from spilling over, I reach forward and press my lips against his. We taste of heat, ashes, and misery. It‘s a surprising flavor for such a gentle kiss. He pulls away first and gives me a wry smile. “I knew you‘d kiss me.”

“How?” I say. Because I didn‘t know myself.

“Because I‘m in pain,” he says. “That‘s the only way I get your attention.” He picks up the box. “Don‘t worry, Katniss. It‘ll pass.” He leaves before I can answer.

I‘m too weary to work through his latest charge. I spend the short ride back to 13 curled up in a seat, trying to ignore Plutarch going on about one of his favorite subjects—weapons mankind no longer has at its disposal. High-flying planes, military satellites, cell disintegrators, drones, biological weapons with expiration dates. Brought down by the destruction of the atmosphere or lack of resources or moral squeamishness. You can hear the regret of a Head Gamemaker who can only dream of such toys, who must make do with hovercraft and land-to-land missiles and plain old guns.

After dropping off my Mockingjay suit, I go straight to bed without eating. Even so, Prim has to shake me to get me up in the morning. After breakfast, I ignore my schedule and take a nap in the supply closet. When I come to, crawling out from between the boxes of chalk and pencils, it‘s dinnertime again. I get an extra-large portion of pea soup and am headed back to Compartment E when Boggs intercepts me.

“There‘s a meeting in Command. Disregard your current schedule,” he says.

“Done,” I say.

“Did you follow it at all today?” he asks in exasperation.

“Who knows? I‘m mentally disoriented.” I hold up my wrist to show my medical bracelet and realize it‘s gone. “See? I can‘t even remember they took my bracelet. Why do they want me in Command? Did I miss something?”

“I think Cressida wanted to show you the Twelve propos. But I guess you‘ll see them when they air,” he says.

“That‘s what I need a schedule of. When the propos air,” I say. He shoots me a look but doesn‘t comment further.

People have crowded into Command, but they‘ve saved me a seat between Finnick and Plutarch. The screens are already up on the table, showing the regular Capitol feed.

“What‘s going on? Aren‘t we seeing the Twelve propos?” I ask.

“Oh, no,” says Plutarch. “I mean, possibly. I don‘t know exactly what footage Beetee plans to use.”

“Beetee thinks he‘s found a way to break into the feed nationwide,” says Finnick. “So that our propos will air in the Capitol, too. He‘s down working on it in Special Defense now. There‘s live programming tonight. Snow‘s making an appearance or something. I think it‘s starting.”

The Capitol seal appears, underscored by the anthem. Then I‘m staring directly into President Snow‘s snake eyes as he greets the nation. He seems barricaded behind his podium, but the white rose in his lapel is in full view. The camera pulls back to include Peeta, off to one side in front of a projected map of Panem. He‘s sitting in an elevated chair, his shoes supported by a metal rung. The foot of his prosthetic leg taps out a strange irregular beat. Beads of sweat have broken through the layer of powder on his upper lip and forehead. But it‘s the look in his eyes—angry yet unfocused—that frightens me the most.

“He‘s worse,” I whisper. Finnick grasps my hand, to give me an anchor, and I try to hang on.

Peeta begins to speak in a frustrated tone about the need for the cease-fire. He highlights the damage done to key infrastructure in various districts, and as he speaks, parts of the map light up, showing images of the destruction. A broken dam in 7. A derailed train with a pool of toxic waste spilling from the tank cars. A granary collapsing after a fire. All of these he attributes to rebel action.

Bam! Without warning, I‘m suddenly on television, standing in the rubble of the bakery.

Plutarch jumps to his feet. “He did it! Beetee broke in!”

The room‘s buzzing with reaction when Peeta‘s back, distracted. He has seen me on the monitor. He tries to pick up his speech by moving on to the bombing of a water purification plant, when a clip of Finnick talking about Rue replaces him. And then the whole thing breaks down into a broadcast battle, as the Capitol tech masters try to fend off Beetee‘s attack. But they are unprepared, and Beetee, apparently anticipating he would not hold on to control, has an arsenal of five- to ten-second clips to work with. We watch the official presentation deteriorate as it‘s peppered with choice shots from the propos.

Plutarch‘s in spasms of delight and most everybody is cheering Beetee on, but Finnick remains still and speechless beside me. I meet Haymitch‘s eyes from across the room and see my own dread mirrored back. The recognition that with every cheer, Peeta slips even farther from our grasp.

The Capitol seal‘s back up, accompanied by a flat audio tone. This lasts about twenty seconds before Snow and Peeta return. The set is in turmoil. We‘re hearing frantic exchanges from their booth.

Snow plows forward, saying that clearly the rebels are now attempting to disrupt the dissemination of information they find incriminating, but both truth and justice will reign. The full broadcast will resume when security has been reinstated. He asks Peeta if, given tonight‘s demonstration, he has any parting thoughts for Katniss Everdeen.

At the mention of my name, Peeta‘s face contorts in effort. “Katniss… how do you think this will end? What will be left? No one is safe. Not in the Capitol. Not in the districts. And you… in Thirteen…”

He inhales sharply, as if fighting for air; his eyes look insane. “Dead by morning!”

Off camera, Snow orders, “End it!” Beetee throws the whole thing into chaos by flashing a still shot of me standing in front of the hospital at three-second intervals. But between the images, we are privy to the real-life action being played out on the set. Peeta‘s attempt to continue speaking. The camera knocked down to record the white tiled floor. The scuffle of boots. The impact of the blow that‘s inseparable from Peeta‘s cry of pain.

And his blood as it splatters the tiles.

Categories: Mockingjay

Mockingjay Chapter 8

Mockingjay Part 1: The Ashes

Chapter 8

Boggs appears and gets a firm lock on my arm, but I‘m not planning on running now. I look over at the hospital—just in time to see the rest of the structure give way—and the fight goes out of me. All those people, the hundreds of wounded, the relatives, the medics from 13, are no more. I turn back to Boggs, see the swelling on his face left by Gale‘s boot. I‘m no expert, but I‘m pretty sure his nose is broken.

His voice is more resigned than angry, though. “Back to the landing strip.” I obediently take a step forward and wince as I become aware of the pain behind my right knee. The adrenaline rush that overrode the sensation has passed and my body parts join in a chorus of complaints. I‘m banged up and bloody and someone seems to be hammering on my left temple from inside my skull. Boggs quickly examines my face, then scoops me up and jogs for the runway. Halfway there, I puke on his bulletproof vest. It‘s hard to tell because he‘s short of breath, but I think he sighs.

A small hovercraft, different from the one that transported us here, waits on the runway. The second my team‘s on board, we take off. No comfy seats and windows this time. We seem to be in some sort of cargo craft. Boggs does emergency first aid on people to hold them until we get back to 13. I want to take off my vest, since I got a fair amount of vomit on it as well, but it‘s too cold to think about it. I lie on the floor with my head in Gale‘s lap. The last thing I remember is Boggs spreading a couple of burlap sacks over me.

When I wake up, I‘m warm and patched up in my old bed in the hospital. My mother‘s there, checking my vital signs. “How do you feel?”

“A little beat-up, but all right,” I say.

“No one even told us you were going until you were gone,” she says.

I feel a pang of guilt. When your family‘s had to send you off twice to the Hunger Games, this isn‘t the kind of detail you should overlook. “I‘m sorry. They weren‘t expecting the attack. I was just supposed to be visiting the patients,” I explain. “Next time, I‘ll have them clear it with you.”

“Katniss, no one clears anything with me,” she says.

It‘s true. Even I don‘t. Not since my father died. Why pretend? “Well, I‘ll have them… notify you anyway.”
On the bedside table is a piece of shrapnel they removed from my leg. The doctors are more concerned with the damage my brain might have suffered from the explosions, since my concussion hadn‘t fully healed to begin with. But I don‘t have double vision or anything and I can think clearly enough. I‘ve slept right through the late afternoon and night, and I‘m starving. My breakfast is disappointingly small. Just a few cubes of bread soaking in warm milk. I‘ve been called down to an early morning meeting at Command. I start to get up and then realize they plan to roll my hospital bed directly there. I want to walk, but that‘s out, so I negotiate my way into a wheelchair. I feel fine, really. Except for my head, and my leg, and the soreness from the bruises, and the nausea that hit a couple minutes after I ate.

Maybe the wheelchair‘s a good idea.

As they wheel me down, I begin to get uneasy about what I will face. Gale and I directly disobeyed orders yesterday, and Boggs has the injury to prove it. Surely, there will be repercussions, but will they go so far as Coin annulling our agreement for the victors‘ immunity? Have I stripped Peeta of what little protection I could give him?

When I get to Command, the only ones who‘ve arrived are Cressida, Messalla, and the insects. Messalla beams and says, “There‘s our little star!” and the others are smiling so genuinely that I can‘t help but smile in return. They impressed me in 8, following me onto the roof during the bombing, making Plutarch back off so they could get the footage they wanted. They more than do their work, they take pride in it. Like Cinna.

I have a strange thought that if we were in the arena together, I would pick them as allies. Cressida, Messalla, and—and—“I have to stop calling you ’the insects,‘” I blurt out to the cameramen. I explain how I didn‘t know their names, but their suits suggested the shelled creatures. The comparison doesn‘t seem to bother them. Even without the camera shells, they strongly resemble each other. Same sandy hair, red beards, and blue eyes. The one with close-bitten nails introduces himself as Castor and the other, who‘s his brother, as Pollux. I wait for Pollux to say hello, but he just nods. At first I think he‘s shy or a man of few words. But something tugs on me—the position of his lips, the extra effort he takes to swallow—and I know before Castor tells me. Pollux is an Avox. They have cut out his tongue and he will never speak again. And I no longer have to wonder what made him risk everything to help bring down the Capitol.

As the room fills, I brace myself for a less congenial reception. But the only people who register any kind of negativity are Haymitch, who‘s always out of sorts, and a sour-faced Fulvia Cardew. Boggs wears a flesh-colored plastic mask from his upper lip to his brow—I was right about the broken nose—so his expression‘s hard to read. Coin and Gale are in the midst of some exchange that seems positively chummy.
When Gale slides into the seat next to my wheelchair, I say, “Making new friends?”

His eyes flicker to the president and back. “Well, one of us has to be accessible.” He touches my temple gently. “How do you feel?”

They must have served stewed garlic and squash for the breakfast vegetable. The more people who gather, the stronger the fumes are. My stomach turns and the lights suddenly seem too bright.

“Kind of rocky,” I say. “How are you?”

“Fine. They dug out a couple of pieces of shrapnel. No big deal,” he says.

Coin calls the meeting to order. “Our Airtime Assault has officially launched. For any of you who missed yesterday‘s twenty-hundred broadcast of our first propo—or the seventeen reruns Beetee has managed to air since—we will begin by replaying it.” Replaying it? So they not only got usable footage, they‘ve already slapped together a propo and aired it repeatedly. My palms grow moist in anticipation of seeing myself on television. What if I‘m still awful? What if I‘m as stiff and pointless as I was in the studio and they‘ve just given up on getting anything better? Individual screens slide up from the table, the lights dim slightly, and a hush falls over the room.

At first, my screen is black. Then a tiny spark flickers in the center. It blossoms, spreads, silently eating up the blackness until the entire frame is ablaze with a fire so real and intense, I imagine I feel the heat emanating from it. The image of my mockingjay pin emerges, glowing red-gold. The deep, resonant voice that haunts my dreams begins to speak. Claudius Templesmith, the official announcer of the Hunger Games, says, “Katniss Everdeen, the girl who was on fire, burns on.”

Suddenly, there I am, replacing the mockingjay, standing before the real flames and smoke of District 8. “I want to tell the rebels that I am alive. That I‘m right here in District Eight, where the Capitol has just bombed a hospital full of unarmed men, women, and children. There will be no survivors.” Cut to the hospital collapsing in on itself, the desperation of the onlookers as I continue in voice-over. “I want to tell people that if you think for one second the Capitol will treat us fairly if there‘s a cease-fire, you‘re deluding yourself. Because you know who they are and what they do.” Back to me now, my hands lifting up to indicate the outrage around me. “This is what they do! And we must fight back!” Now comes a truly fantastic montage of the battle. The initial bombs falling, us running, being blown to the ground—a close-up of my wound, which looks good and bloody—scaling the roof, diving into the nests, and then some amazing shots of the rebels, Gale, and mostly me, me, me knocking those planes out of the sky. Smash-cut back to me moving in on the camera. “President Snow says he‘s sending us a message? Well, I have one for him. You can torture us and bomb us and burn our districts to the ground, but do you see that?” We‘re with the camera, tracking to the planes burning on the roof of the warehouse. Tight on the Capitol seal on a wing, which melts back into the image of my face, shouting at the president. “Fire is catching! And if we burn, you burn with us!” Flames engulf the screen again. Superimposed on them in black, solid letters are the words:

IF WE BURN YOU
BURN WITH US

The words catch fire and the whole screen burns to blackness.

There‘s a moment of silent relish, then applause followed by demands to see it again. Coin indulgently hits the replay button, and this time, since I know what will happen, I try to pretend that I‘m watching this on my television at home in the Seam. An anti-Capitol statement. There‘s never been anything like it on television. Not in my lifetime, anyway.

By the time the screen burns to black a second time, I need to know more. “Did it play all over Panem? Did they see it in the Capitol?”

“Not in the Capitol,” says Plutarch. “We couldn‘t override their system, although Beetee‘s working on it. But in all the districts. We even got it on in Two, which may be more valuable than the Capitol at this point in the game.”

“Is Claudius Templesmith with us?” I ask.

This gives Plutarch a good laugh. “Only his voice. But that‘s ours for the taking. We didn‘t even have to do any special editing. He said that actual line in your first Games.” He slaps his hand on the table. “What say we give another round of applause to Cressida, her amazing team, and, of course, our on-camera talent!”

I clap, too, until I realize I‘m the on-camera talent and maybe it‘s obnoxious that I‘m applauding for myself, but no one‘s paying attention. I can‘t help noticing the strain on Fulvia‘s face, though. I think how hard this must be for her, watching Haymitch‘s idea succeed under Cressida‘s direction, when Fulvia‘s studio approach was such a flop.

Coin seems to have reached the end of her tolerance for self-congratulation. “Yes, well deserved. The result is more than we had hoped for. But I do have to question the wide margin of risk that you were willing to operate within. I know the raid was unforeseen. However, given the circumstances, I think we should discuss the decision to send Katniss into actual combat.”

The decision? To send me into combat? Then she doesn‘t know that I flagrantly disregarded orders, ripped out my earpiece, and gave my bodyguards the slip? What else have they kept from her?

“It was a tough call,” says Plutarch, furrowing his brow. “But the general consensus was that we weren‘t going to get anything worth using if we locked her in a bunker somewhere every time a gun went off.”

“And you‘re all right with that?” asks the president.

Gale has to kick me under the table before I realize that she‘s talking to me. “Oh! Yeah, I‘m completely all right with that. It felt good. Doing something for a change.”

“Well, let‘s be just a little more judicious with her exposure. Especially now that the Capitol knows what she can do,” says Coin. There‘s a rumble of assent from around the table.

No one has ratted out Gale and me. Not Plutarch, whose authority we ignored. Not Boggs with his broken nose. Not the insects we led into fire. Not Haymitch—no, wait a minute. Haymitch is giving me a deadly smile and saying sweetly, “Yeah, we wouldn‘t want to lose our little Mockingjay when she‘s finally begun to sing.” I make a note to myself not to end up alone in a room with him, because he‘s clearly having vengeful thoughts over that stupid earpiece.

“So, what else do you have planned?” asks the president.

Plutarch nods to Cressida, who consults a clipboard. “We have some terrific footage of Katniss at the hospital in Eight. There should be another propo in that with the theme ’Because you know who they are and what they do.‘ We‘ll focus on Katniss interacting with the patients, particularly the children, the bombing of the hospital, and the wreckage. Messalla‘s cutting that together. We‘re also thinking about a Mockingjay piece. Highlight some of Katniss‘s best moments intercut with scenes of rebel uprisings and war footage. We call that one ’Fire is catching.‘ And then Fulvia came up with a really brilliant idea.”

Fulvia‘s mouthful-of-sour-grapes expression is startled right off her face, but she recovers. “Well, I don‘t know how brilliant it is, but I was thinking we could do a series of propos called We Remember.

In each one, we would feature one of the dead tributes. Little Rue from Eleven or old Mags from Four. The idea being that we could target each district with a very personal piece.”

“A tribute to your tributes, as it were,” says Plutarch.

“That is brilliant, Fulvia,” I say sincerely. “It‘s the perfect way to remind people why they‘re fighting.”

“I think it could work,” she says. “I thought we might use Finnick to intro and narrate the spots. If there was interest in them.”

“Frankly, I don‘t see how we could have too many We Remember propos,” says Coin. “Can you start producing them today?”

“Of course,” says Fulvia, obviously mollified by the response to her idea.

Cressida has smoothed everything over in the creative department with her gesture. Praised Fulvia for what is, in fact, a really good idea, and cleared the way to continue her own on-air depiction of the Mockingjay. What‘s interesting is that Plutarch seems to have no need to share in the credit. All he wants is for the Airtime Assault to work. I remember that Plutarch is a Head Gamemaker, not a member of the crew. Not a piece in the Games. Therefore, his worth is not defined by a single element, but by the overall success of the production. If we win the war, that‘s when Plutarch will take his bow.

And expect his reward.

The president sends everyone off to get to work, so Gale wheels me back to the hospital. We laugh a little about the cover-up. Gale says no one wanted to look bad by admitting they couldn‘t control us. I‘m kinder, saying they probably didn‘t want to jeopardize the chance of taking us out again now that they‘ve gotten some decent footage. Both things are probably true. Gale has to go meet Beetee down in Special Weaponry, so I doze off.

It seems like I‘ve only shut my eyes for a few minutes, but when I open them, I flinch at the sight of Haymitch sitting a couple of feet from my bed. Waiting. Possibly for several hours if the clock is right. I think about hollering for a witness, but I‘m going to have to face him sooner or later.

Haymitch leans forward and dangles something on a thin white wire in front of my nose. It‘s hard to focus on, but I‘m pretty sure what it is. He drops it to the sheets. “That is your earpiece. I will give you exactly one more chance to wear it. If you remove it from your ear again, I‘ll have you fitted with this.” He holds up some sort of metal headgear that I instantly name the head shackle. “It‘s an alternative audio unit that locks around your skull and under your chin until it‘s opened with a key. And I‘ll have the only key. If for some reason you‘re clever enough to disable it”—Haymitch dumps the head shackle on the bed and whips out a tiny silver chip—“I‘ll authorize them to surgically implant this transmitter into your ear so that I may speak to you twenty-four hours a day.”

Haymitch in my head full-time. Horrifying. “I‘ll keep the earpiece in,” I mutter.

“Excuse me?” he says.

“I‘ll keep the earpiece in!” I say, loud enough to wake up half the hospital.

“You sure? Because I‘m equally happy with any of the three options,” he tells me.

“I‘m sure,” I say. I scrunch up the earpiece wire protectively in my fist and fling the head shackle back in his face with my free hand, but he catches it easily. Probably was expecting me to throw it. “Anything else?”

Haymitch rises to go. “While I was waiting… I ate your lunch.”

My eyes take in the empty stew bowl and tray on my bed table. “I‘m going to report you,” I mumble into my pillow.

“You do that, sweetheart.” He goes out, safe in the knowledge that I‘m not the reporting kind.

I want to go back to sleep, but I‘m restless. Images from yesterday begin to flood into the present. The bombing, the fiery plane crashes, the faces of the wounded who no longer exist. I imagine death from all sides. The last moment before seeing a shell hit the ground, feeling the wing blown from my plane and the dizzying nosedive into oblivion, the warehouse roof falling down at me while I‘m pinned helplessly to my cot. Things I saw, in person or on the tape. Things I caused with a pull of my bowstring. Things I will never be able to erase from my memory.

At dinner, Finnick brings his tray to my bed so we can watch the newest propo together on television. He was assigned quarters on my old floor, but he has so many mental relapses, he still basically lives in the hospital. The rebels air the “Because you know who they are and what they do” propo that Messalla edited. The footage is intercut with short studio clips of Gale, Boggs, and Cressida describing the incident. It‘s hard to watch my reception in the hospital in 8 since I know what‘s coming. When the bombs rain down on the roof, I bury my face in my pillow, looking up again at a brief clip of me at the end, after all the victims are dead.

At least Finnick doesn‘t applaud or act all happy when it‘s done. He just says, “People should know that happened. And now they do.”

“Let‘s turn it off, Finnick, before they run it again,” I urge him. But as Finnick‘s hand moves toward the remote control, I cry, “Wait!” The Capitol is introducing a special segment and something about it looks familiar. Yes, it‘s Caesar Flickerman. And I can guess who his guest will be.

Peeta‘s physical transformation shocks me. The healthy, clear-eyed boy I saw a few days ago has lost at least fifteen pounds and developed a nervous tremor in his hands. They‘ve still got him groomed. But underneath the paint that cannot cover the bags under his eyes, and the fine clothes that cannot conceal the pain he feels when he moves, is a person badly damaged.

My mind reels, trying to make sense of it. I just saw him! Four—no, five—I think it was five days ago. How has he deteriorated so rapidly? What could they possibly have done to him in such a short time? Then it hits me. I replay in my mind as much as I can of his first interview with Caesar, searching for anything that would place it in time. There is nothing. They could have taped that interview a day or two after I blew up the arena, then done whatever they wanted to do to him ever since. “Oh, Peeta…” I whisper.

Caesar and Peeta have a few empty exchanges before Caesar asks him about rumors that I‘m taping propos for the districts. “They‘re using her, obviously,” says Peeta. “To whip up the rebels. I doubt she even really knows what‘s going on in the war. What‘s at stake.”

“Is there anything you‘d like to tell her?” asks Caesar.

“There is,” says Peeta. He looks directly into the camera, right into my eyes. “Don‘t be a fool, Katniss. Think for yourself. They‘ve turned you into a weapon that could be instrumental in the destruction of humanity. If you‘ve got any real influence, use it to put the brakes on this thing. Use it to stop the war before it‘s too late. Ask yourself, do you really trust the people you‘re working with? Do you really know what‘s going on? And if you don‘t… find out.”

Black screen. Seal of Panem. Show over.

Finnick presses the button on the remote that kills the power. In a minute, people will be here to do damage control on Peeta‘s condition and the words that came out of his mouth. I will need to repudiate them. But the truth is, I don‘t trust the rebels or Plutarch or Coin. I‘m not confident that they tell me the truth. I won‘t be able to conceal this. Footsteps are approaching.

Finnick grips me hard by the arms. “We didn‘t see it.”

“What?” I ask.

“We didn‘t see Peeta. Only the propo on Eight. Then we turned the set off because the images upset you. Got it?” he asks. I nod. “Finish your dinner.” I pull myself together enough so that when Plutarch and Fulvia enter, I have a mouthful of bread and cabbage. Finnick is talking about how well Gale came across on camera. We congratulate them on the propo. Make it clear it was so powerful, we tuned out right afterward. They look relieved. They believe us.

No one mentions Peeta.

Categories: Mockingjay

Mockingjay Chapter 7

Mockingjay Part 1: The Ashes

Chapter 7

The hovercraft makes a quick, spiral descent onto a wide road on the outskirts of 8. Almost immediately, the door opens, the stairs slide into place, and we‘re spit out onto the asphalt. The moment the last person disembarks, the equipment retracts. Then the craft lifts off and vanishes. I‘m left with a bodyguard made up of Gale, Boggs, and two other soldiers. The TV crew consists of a pair of burly Capitol cameramen with heavy mobile cameras encasing their bodies like insect shells, a woman director named Cressida who has a shaved head tattooed with green vines, and her assistant, Messalla, a slim young man with several sets of earrings. On careful observation, I see his tongue has been pierced, too, and he wears a stud with a silver ball the size of a marble.

Boggs hustles us off the road toward a row of warehouses as a second hovercraft comes in for a landing. This one brings crates of medical supplies and a crew of six medics—I can tell by their distinctive white outfits. We all follow Boggs down an alley that runs between two dull gray warehouses. Only the occasional access ladder to the roof interrupts the scarred metal walls. When we emerge onto the street, it‘s like we‘ve entered another world.

The wounded from this morning‘s bombing are being brought in. On homemade stretchers, in wheelbarrows, on carts, slung across shoulders, and clenched tight in arms. Bleeding, limbless, unconscious. Propelled by desperate people to a warehouse with a sloppily painted H above the doorway. It‘s a scene from my old kitchen, where my mother treated the dying, multiplied by ten, by fifty, by a hundred. I had expected bombed-out buildings and instead find myself confronted with broken human bodies.

This is where they plan on filming me? I turn to Boggs. “This won‘t work,” I say. “I won‘t be good here.”

He must see the panic in my eyes, because he stops a moment and places his hands on my shoulders. “You will. Just let them see you. That will do more for them than any doctor in the world could.”

A woman directing the incoming patients catches sight of us, does a sort of double take, and then strides over. Her dark brown eyes are puffy with fatigue and she smells of metal and sweat. A bandage around her throat needed changing about three days ago. The strap of the automatic weapon slung across her back digs into her neck and she shifts her shoulder to reposition it. With a jerk of her thumb, she orders the medics into the warehouse. They comply without question.

“This is Commander Paylor of Eight,” says Boggs. “Commander, Soldier Katniss Everdeen.”

She looks young to be a commander. Early thirties. But there‘s an authoritative tone to her voice that makes you feel her appointment wasn‘t arbitrary. Beside her, in my spanking-new outfit, scrubbed and shiny, I feel like a recently hatched chick, untested and only just learning how to navigate the world.

“Yeah, I know who she is,” says Paylor. “You‘re alive, then. We weren‘t sure.” Am I wrong or is there a note of accusation in her voice?

“I‘m still not sure myself,” I answer.

“Been in recovery.” Boggs taps his head. “Bad concussion.” He lowers his voice a moment. “Miscarriage. But she insisted on coming by to see your wounded.”

“Well, we‘ve got plenty of those,” says Paylor.

“You think this is a good idea?” says Gale, frowning at the hospital. “Assembling your wounded like this?”
I don‘t. Any sort of contagious disease would spread through this place like wildfire.

“I think it‘s slightly better than leaving them to die,” says Paylor.

“That‘s not what I meant,” Gale tells her.

“Well, currently that‘s my other option. But if you come up with a third and get Coin to back it, I‘m all ears.” Paylor waves me toward the door. “Come on in, Mockingjay. And by all means, bring your friends.”

I glance back at the freak show that is my crew, steel myself, and follow her into the hospital. Some sort of heavy, industrial curtain hangs the length of the building, forming a sizable corridor. Corpses lie side by side, curtain brushing their heads, white cloths concealing their faces. “We‘ve got a mass grave started a few blocks west of here, but I can‘t spare the manpower to move them yet,” says Paylor. She finds a slit in the curtain and opens it wide.

My fingers wrap around Gale‘s wrist. “Do not leave my side,” I say under my breath.

“I‘m right here,” he answers quietly.

I step through the curtain and my senses are assaulted. My first impulse is to cover my nose to block out the stench of soiled linen, putrefying flesh, and vomit, all ripening in the heat of the warehouse. They‘ve propped open skylights that crisscross the high metal roof, but any air that‘s managing to get in can‘t make a dent in the fog below. The thin shafts of sunlight provide the only illumination, and as my eyes adjust, I can make out row upon row of wounded, in cots, on pallets, on the floor because there are so many to claim the space. The drone of black flies, the moaning of people in pain, and the sobs of their attending loved ones have combined into a wrenching chorus.

We have no real hospitals in the districts. We die at home, which at the moment seems a far desirable alternative to what lies in front of me. Then I remember that many of these people probably losttheir homes in the bombings.

Sweat begins to run down my back, fill my palms. I breathe through my mouth in an attempt to diminish the smell. Black spots swim across my field of vision, and I think there‘s a really good chance I could faint. But then I catch sight of Paylor, who‘s watching me so closely, waiting to see what I am made of, and if any of them have been right to think they can count on me. So I let go of Gale and force myself to move deeper into the warehouse, to walk into the narrow strip between two rows of beds.

“Katniss?” a voice croaks out from my left, breaking apart from the general din. “Katniss?” A hand reaches for me out of the haze. I cling to it for support. Attached to the hand is a young woman with an
injured leg. Blood has seeped through the heavy bandages, which are crawling with flies. Her face reflects her pain, but something else, too, something that seems completely incongruous with her
situation. “Is it really you?”

“Yeah, it‘s me,” I get out.

Joy. That‘s the expression on her face. At the sound of my voice, it brightens, erases the suffering momentarily.

“You‘re alive! We didn‘t know. People said you were, but we didn‘t know!” she says excitedly.

“I got pretty banged up. But I got better,” I say. “Just like you will.”

“I‘ve got to tell my brother!” The woman struggles to sit up and calls to someone a few beds down. “Eddy! Eddy! She‘s here! It‘s Katniss Everdeen!”

A boy, probably about twelve years old, turns to us. Bandages obscure half of his face. The side of his mouth I can see opens as if to utter an exclamation. I go to him, push his damp brown curls back from his forehead. Murmur a greeting. He can‘t speak, but his one good eye fixes on me with such intensity, as if he‘s trying to memorize every detail of my face.

I hear my name rippling through the hot air, spreading out into the hospital. “Katniss! Katniss Everdeen!” The sounds of pain and grief begin to recede, to be replaced by words of anticipation. From all sides, voices beckon me. I begin to move, clasping the hands extended to me, touching the sound parts of those unable to move their limbs, saying hello, how are you, good to meet you. Nothing of importance, no amazing words of inspiration. But it doesn‘t matter. Boggs is right. It‘s the sight of me, alive, that is the inspiration.

Hungry fingers devour me, wanting to feel my flesh. As a stricken man clutches my face between his hands, I send a silent thank-you to Dalton for suggesting I wash off the makeup. How ridiculous, how perverse I would feel presenting that painted Capitol mask to these people. The damage, the fatigue, the imperfections. That‘s how they recognize me, why I belong to them.

Despite his controversial interview with Caesar, many ask about Peeta, assure me that they know he was speaking under duress. I do my best to sound positive about our future, but people are truly devastated when they learn I‘ve lost the baby. I want to come clean and tell one weeping woman that it was all a hoax, a move in the game, but to present Peeta as a liar now would not help his image. Or mine. Or the cause.

I begin to fully understand the lengths to which people have gone to protect me. What I mean to the rebels. My ongoing struggle against the Capitol, which has so often felt like a solitary journey, has not been undertaken alone. I have had thousands upon thousands of people from the districts at my side. I was their Mockingjay long before I accepted the role.

A new sensation begins to germinate inside me. But it takes until I am standing on a table, waving my final goodbyes to the hoarse chanting of my name, to define it. Power. I have a kind of power I never knew I possessed. Snow knew it, as soon as I held out those berries. Plutarch knew when he rescued me from the arena. And Coin knows now. So much so that she must publicly remind her people that I am not in control.

When we‘re outside again, I lean against the warehouse, catching my breath, accepting the canteen of water from Boggs. “You did great,” he says.

Well, I didn‘t faint or throw up or run out screaming. Mostly, I just rode the wave of emotion rolling through the place.

“We got some nice stuff in there,” says Cressida. I look at the insect cameramen, perspiration pouring from under their equipment. Messalla scribbling notes. I had forgotten they were even filming me.

“I didn‘t do much, really,” I say.

“You have to give yourself some credit for what you‘ve done in the past,” says Boggs.

What I‘ve done in the past? I think of the trail of destruction in my wake—my knees weaken and I slide down to a sitting position. “That‘s a mixed bag.”

“Well, you‘re not perfect by a long shot. But times being what they are, you‘ll have to do,” says Boggs. Gale squats down beside me, shaking his head. “I can‘t believe you let all those people touch you. I kept expecting you to make a break for the door.”

“Shut up,” I say with a laugh.

“Your mother‘s going to be very proud when she sees the footage,” he says.

“My mother won‘t even notice me. She‘ll be too appalled by the conditions in there.” I turn to Boggs and ask, “Is it like this in every district?”

“Yes. Most are under attack. We‘re trying to get in aid wherever we can, but it‘s not enough.” He stops a minute, distracted by something in his earpiece. I realize I haven‘t heard Haymitch‘s voice once, and fiddle with mine, wondering if it‘s broken. “We‘re to get to the airstrip. Immediately,” Boggs says, lifting me to my feet with one hand. “There‘s a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” asks Gale.

“Incoming bombers,” says Boggs. He reaches behind my neck and yanks Cinna‘s helmet up onto my head. “Let‘s move!”

Unsure of what‘s going on, I take off running along the front of the warehouse, heading for the alley that leads to the airstrip. But I don‘t sense any immediate threat. The sky‘s an empty, cloudless blue. The street‘s clear except for the people hauling the wounded to the hospital. There‘s no enemy, no alarm. Then the sirens begin to wail. Within seconds, a low-flying V-shaped formation of Capitol hoverplanes appears above us, and the bombs begin to fall. I‘m blown off my feet, into the front wall of the warehouse. There‘s a searing pain just above the back of my right knee. Something has struck my back as well, but doesn‘t seem to have penetrated my vest. I try to get up, but Boggs pushes me back down, shielding my body with his own. The ground ripples under me as bomb after bomb drops from the planes and detonates. It‘s a horrifying sensation being pinned against the wall as the bombs rain down. What was that expression my father used for easy kills? Like shooting fish in a barrel. We are the fish, the street the
barrel.

“Katniss!” I‘m startled by Haymitch‘s voice in my ear.

“What? Yes, what? I‘m here!” I answer.

“Listen to me. We can‘t land during the bombing, but it‘s imperative you‘re not spotted,” he says.

“So they don‘t know I‘m here?” I assumed, as usual, it was my presence that brought on punishment.

“Intelligence thinks no. That this raid was already scheduled,” says Haymitch.

Now Plutarch‘s voice comes up, calm but forceful. The voice of a Head Gamemaker used to calling the shots under pressure. “There‘s a light blue warehouse three down from you. It has a bunker in the far north corner. Can you get there?”

“We‘ll do our best,” says Boggs. Plutarch must be in everyone‘s ear, because my bodyguards and crew are getting up. My eye instinctively searches for Gale and sees he‘s on his feet, apparently unharmed.

“You‘ve got maybe forty-five seconds to the next wave,” says Plutarch.

I give a grunt of pain as my right leg takes the weight of my body, but I keep moving. No time to examine the injury. Better not to look now, anyway. Fortunately, I have on shoes that Cinna designed. They grip the asphalt on contact and spring free of it on release. I‘d be hopeless in that ill-fitting pair that 13 assigned to me. Boggs has the lead, but no one else passes me. Instead they match my pace, protecting my sides, my back. I force myself into a sprint as the seconds tick away. We pass the second gray warehouse and run along a dirt brown building. Up ahead, I see a faded blue facade. Home of the bunker. We have just reached another alley, need only to cross it to arrive at the door, when the next wave of bombs begins. I instinctively dive into the alley and roll toward the blue wall. This time it‘s Gale who throws himself over me to provide one more layer of protection from the bombing. It seems to go on longer this time, but we are farther away.

I shift onto my side and find myself looking directly into Gale‘s eyes. For an instant the world recedes and there is just his flushed face, his pulse visible at his temple, his lips slightly parted as he tries to catch his breath.

“You all right?” he asks, his words nearly drowned out by an explosion.

“Yeah. I don‘t think they‘ve seen me,” I answer. “I mean, they‘re not following us.”

“No, they‘ve targeted something else,” says Gale.

“I know, but there‘s nothing back there but—” The realization hits us at the same time.

“The hospital.” Instantly, Gale‘s up and shouting to the others. “They‘re targeting the hospital!”

“Not your problem,” says Plutarch firmly. “Get to the bunker.”

“But there‘s nothing there but the wounded!” I say.

“Katniss.” I hear the warning note in Haymitch‘s voice and know what‘s coming. “Don‘t you even think about—!” I yank the earpiece free and let it hang from its wire. With that distraction gone, I hear another sound. Machine gun fire coming from the roof of the dirt brown warehouse across the alley. Someone is returning fire. Before anyone can stop me, I make a dash for an access ladder and begin to scale it. Climbing. One of the things I do best.

“Don‘t stop!” I hear Gale say behind me. Then there‘s the sound of his boot on someone‘s face. If it belongs to Boggs, Gale‘s going to pay for it dearly later on. I make the roof and drag myself onto the tar. I stop long enough to pull Gale up beside me, and then we take off for the row of machine gun nests on the street side of the warehouse. Each looks to be manned by a few rebels. We skid into a nest with a pair of soldiers, hunching down behind the barrier.

“Boggs know you‘re up here?” To my left I see Paylor behind one of the guns, looking at us quizzically. I try to be evasive without flat-out lying. “He knows where we are, all right.”

Paylor laughs. “I bet he does. You been trained in these?” She slaps the stock of her gun.

“I have. In Thirteen,” says Gale. “But I‘d rather use my own weapons.”

“Yes, we‘ve got our bows.” I hold mine up, then realize how decorative it must seem. “It‘s more deadly than it looks.”

“It would have to be,” says Paylor. “All right. We expect at least three more waves. They have to drop their sight shields before they release the bombs. That‘s our chance. Stay low!” I position myself to shoot from one knee.

“Better start with fire,” says Gale.

I nod and pull an arrow from my right sheath. If we miss our targets, these arrows will land somewhere—probably the warehouses across the street. A fire can be put out, but the damage an explosive can do may be irreparable.

Suddenly, they appear in the sky, two blocks down, maybe a hundred yards above us. Seven small bombers in a V formation. “Geese!” I yell at Gale. He‘ll know exactly what I mean. During migration season, when we hunt fowl, we‘ve developed a system of dividing the birds so we don‘t both target the same ones. I get the far side of the V, Gale takes the near, and we alternate shots at the front bird.

There‘s no time for further discussion. I estimate the lead time on the hoverplanes and let my arrow fly. I catch the inside wing of one, causing it to burst into flames. Gale just misses the point plane. A fire blooms on an empty warehouse roof across from us. He swears under his breath.

The hoverplane I hit swerves out of formation, but still releases its bombs. It doesn‘t disappear, though. Neither does one other I assume was hit by gunfire. The damage must prevent the sight shield from reactivating.

“Good shot,” says Gale.

“I wasn‘t even aiming for that one,” I mutter. I‘d set my sights on the plane in front of it. “They‘re faster than we think.”

“Positions!” Paylor shouts. The next wave of hoverplanes is appearing already. “Fire‘s no good,” Gale says. I nod and we both load explosive-tipped arrows. Those warehouses across the way look deserted anyway.

As the planes sweep silently in, I make another decision. “I‘m standing!” I shout to Gale, and rise to my feet. This is the position I get the best accuracy from. I lead earlier and score a direct hit on the point plane, blasting a hole in its belly. Gale blows the tail off a second. It flips and crashes into the street, setting off a series of explosions as its cargo goes off.

Without warning, a third V formation unveils. This time, Gale squarely hits the point plane. I take the wing off the second bomber, causing it to spin into the one behind it. Together they collide into the roof of the warehouse across from the hospital. A fourth goes down from gunfire.

“All right, that‘s it,” Paylor says.

Flames and heavy black smoke from the wreckage obscure our view. “Did they hit the hospital?”

“Must have,” she says grimly.

As I hurry toward the ladders at the far end of the warehouse, the sight of Messalla and one of the insects emerging from behind an air duct surprises me. I thought they‘d still be hunkered down in the alley.

“They‘re growing on me,” says Gale.

I scramble down a ladder. When my feet hit the ground, I find a bodyguard, Cressida, and the other insect waiting. I expect resistance, but Cressida just waves me toward the hospital. She‘s yelling, “I don‘t care, Plutarch! Just give me five more minutes!” Not one to question a free pass, I take off into the street.

“Oh, no,” I whisper as I catch sight of the hospital. What used to be the hospital. I move past the wounded, past the burning plane wrecks, fixated on the disaster ahead of me. People screaming, running about frantically, but unable to help. The bombs have collapsed the hospital roof and set the building on fire, effectively trapping the patients within. A group of rescuers has assembled, trying to clear a path to the inside. But I already know what they will find. If the crushing debris and the flames didn‘t get them, the smoke did.

Gale‘s at my shoulder. The fact that he does nothing only confirms my suspicions. Miners don‘t abandon an accident until it‘s hopeless.

“Come on, Katniss. Haymitch says they can get a hovercraft in for us now,” he tells me. But I can‘t seem to move.

“Why would they do that? Why would they target people who were already dying?” I ask him.

“Scare others off. Prevent the wounded from seeking help,” says Gale. “Those people you met, they were expendable. To Snow, anyway. If the Capitol wins, what will it do with a bunch of damaged slaves?”

I remember all those years in the woods, listening to Gale rant against the Capitol. Me, not paying close attention. Wondering why he even bothered to dissect its motives. Why thinking like our enemy would ever matter. Clearly, it could have mattered today. When Gale questioned the existence of the hospital, he was not thinking of disease, but this. Because he never underestimates the cruelty of those we face.

I slowly turn my back to the hospital and find Cressida, flanked by the insects, standing a couple of yards in front of me. Her manner‘s unrattled. Cool even. “Katniss,” she says, “President Snow just had them air the bombing live. Then he made an appearance to say that this was his way of sending a message to the rebels. What about you? Would you like to tell the rebels anything?”

“Yes,” I whisper. The red blinking light on one of the cameras catches my eye. I know I‘m being recorded.

“Yes,” I say more forcefully. Everyone is drawing away from me—Gale, Cressida, the insects —giving me the stage. But I stay focused on the red light. “I want to tell the rebels that I am alive. That I‘m right here in District Eight, where the Capitol has just bombed a hospital full of unarmed men, women, and children. There will be no survivors.” The shock I‘ve been feeling begins to give way to fury. “I want to tell people that if you think for one second the Capitol will treat us fairly if there‘s a ceasefire, you‘re deluding yourself. Because you know who they are and what they do.” My hands go out automatically, as if to indicate the whole horror around me. “This is what they do! And we must fight back!”

I‘m moving in toward the camera now, carried forward by my rage. “President Snow says he‘s sending us a message? Well, I have one for him. You can torture us and bomb us and burn our districts to the ground, but do you see that?” One of the cameras follows as I point to the planes burning on the roof of the warehouse across from us. The Capitol seal on a wing glows clearly through the flames. “Fire is catching!” I am shouting now, determined that he will not miss a word. “And if we burn, you burn with us!” My last words hang in the air. I feel suspended in time. Held aloft in a cloud of heat that generates not from my surroundings, but from my own being.

“Cut!” Cressida‘s voice snaps me back to reality, extinguishes me. She gives me a nod of approval. “That‘s a wrap.”

Categories: Mockingjay

Mockingjay Chapter 6

Mockingjay Part 1: The Ashes

Chapter 6

The shock of hearing Haymitch‘s voice yesterday, of learning that he was not only functional but had some measure of control over my life again, enraged me. I left the studio directly and refused to acknowledge his comments from the booth today. Even so, I knew immediately he was right about my performance.

It took the whole of this morning for him to convince the others of my limitations. That I can‘t pull it off. I can‘t stand in a television studio wearing a costume and makeup in a cloud of fake smoke and rally the districts to victory. It‘s amazing, really, how long I have survived the cameras. The credit for that, of course, goes to Peeta. Alone, I can‘t be the Mockingjay.

We gather around the huge table in Command. Coin and her people. Plutarch, Fulvia, and my prep team. A group from 12 that includes Haymitch and Gale, but also a few others I can‘t explain, like Leevy and Greasy Sae. At the last minute, Finnick wheels Beetee in, accompanied by Dalton, the cattle expert from 10. I suppose that Coin has assembled this strange assortment of people as witnesses to my failure.

However, it‘s Haymitch who welcomes everyone, and by his words I understand that they have come at his personal invitation. This is the first time we‘ve been in a room together since I clawed him. I avoid looking at him directly, but I catch a glimpse of his reflection in one of the shiny control consoles along the wall. He looks slightly yellow and has lost a lot of weight, giving him a shrunken appearance.

For a second, I‘m afraid he‘s dying. I have to remind myself that I don‘t care. The first thing Haymitch does is to show the footage we‘ve just shot. I seem to have reached some new low under Plutarch and Fulvia‘s guidance. Both my voice and body have a jerky, disjointed quality, like a puppet being manipulated by unseen forces.

“All right,” Haymitch says when it‘s over. “Would anyone like to argue that this is of use to us in winning the war?” No one does. “That saves time. So, let‘s all be quiet for a minute. I want everyone to think of one incident where Katniss Everdeen genuinely moved you. Not where you were jealous of her hairstyle, or her dress went up in flames or she made a halfway decent shot with an arrow. Not where Peeta was making you like her. I want to hear one moment where she made you feel something real.”

Quiet stretches out and I‘m beginning to think it will never end, when Leevy speaks up. “When she volunteered to take Prim‘s place at the reaping. Because I‘m sure she thought she was going to die.”

“Good. Excellent example,” says Haymitch. He takes a purple marker and writes on a notepad.

“Volunteered for sister at reaping.” Haymitch looks around the table. “Somebody else.”

I‘m surprised that the next speaker is Boggs, who I think of as a muscular robot that does Coin‘s bidding. 
“When she sang the song. While the little girl died.” Somewhere in my head an image surfaces of Boggs with a young boy perched up on his hip. In the dining hall, I think. Maybe he‘s not a robot after all.

“Who didn‘t get choked up at that, right?” says Haymitch, writing it down.

“I cried when she drugged Peeta so she could go get him medicine and when she kissed him good-bye!” blurts out Octavia. Then she covers her mouth, like she‘s sure this was a bad mistake.

But Haymitch only nods. “Oh, yeah. Drugs Peeta to save his life. Very nice.”

The moments begin to come thick and fast and in no particular order. When I took Rue on as an ally. Extended my hand to Chaff on interview night. Tried to carry Mags. And again and again when I held out those berries that meant different things to different people. Love for Peeta. Refusal to give in under impossible odds. Defiance of the Capitol‘s inhumanity.


Haymitch holds up the notepad. “So, the question is, what do all of these have in common?”

“They were Katniss‘s,” says Gale quietly. “No one told her what to do or say.”

“Unscripted, yes!” says Beetee. He reaches over and pats my hand. “So we should just leave you alone, right?”
People laugh. I even smile a little.

“Well, that‘s all very nice but not very helpful,” says Fulvia peevishly. “Unfortunately, her opportunities for being wonderful are rather limited here in Thirteen. So unless you‘re suggesting we toss her into the middle of combat—”

“That‘s exactly what I‘m suggesting,” says Haymitch. “Put her out in the field and just keep the cameras rolling.”

“But people think she‘s pregnant,” Gale points out.

“We‘ll spread the word that she lost the baby from the electrical shock in the arena,” Plutarch replies. “Very sad. Very unfortunate.”

The idea of sending me into combat is controversial. But Haymitch has a pretty tight case. If I perform well only in real-life circumstances, then into them I should go. “Every time we coach her or give
her lines, the best we can hope for is okay. It has to come from her. That‘s what people are responding to.”

“Even if we‘re careful, we can‘t guarantee her safety,” says Boggs. “She‘ll be a target for every—”

“I want to go,” I break in. “I‘m no help to the rebels here.”

“And if you‘re killed?” asks Coin.

“Make sure you get some footage. You can use that, anyway,” I answer.

“Fine,” says Coin. “But let‘s take it one step at a time. Find the least dangerous situation that can evoke some spontaneity in you.” She walks around Command, studying the illuminated district maps that show the ongoing troop positions in the war. “Take her into Eight this afternoon. There was heavy bombing this morning, but the raid seems to have run its course. I want her armed with a squad of bodyguards. Camera crew on the ground. Haymitch, you‘ll be airborne and in contact with her. Let‘s see what happens there. Does anyone have any other comments?”

“Wash her face,” says Dalton. Everyone turns to him. “She‘s still a girl and you made her look thirty-five. Feels wrong. Like something the Capitol would do.”

As Coin adjourns the meeting, Haymitch asks her if he can speak to me privately. The others leave except for Gale, who lingers uncertainly by my side. “What are you worried about?” Haymitch asks him. “I‘m the one who needs the bodyguard.”

“It‘s okay,” I tell Gale, and he goes. Then there‘s just the hum of the instruments, the purr of the ventilation system.

Haymitch takes the seat across from me. “We‘re going to have to work together again. So, go ahead. Just say it.”

I think of the snarling, cruel exchange back on the hovercraft. The bitterness that followed. But all I say is “I can‘t believe you didn‘t rescue Peeta.”

“I know,” he replies.

There‘s a sense of incompleteness. And not because he hasn‘t apologized. But because we were a team. We had a deal to keep Peeta safe. A drunken, unrealistic deal made in the dark of night, but
a deal just the same. And in my heart of hearts, I know we both failed.

“Now you say it,” I tell him.

“I can‘t believe you let him out of your sight that night,” says Haymitch.

I nod. That‘s it. “I play it over and over in my head. What I could have done to keep him by my side without breaking the alliance. But nothing comes to me.”

“You didn‘t have a choice. And even if I could‘ve made Plutarch stay and rescue him that night, the whole hovercraft would‘ve gone down. We barely got out as it was.” I finally meet Haymitch‘s eyes.

Seam eyes. Gray and deep and ringed with the circles of sleepless nights. “He‘s not dead yet, Katniss.”

“We‘re still in the game.” I try to say this with optimism, but my voice cracks.

“Still in. And I‘m still your mentor.” Haymitch points his marker at me. “When you‘re on the ground, remember I‘m airborne. I‘ll have the better view, so do what I tell you.”

“We‘ll see,” I answer.

I return to the Remake Room and watch the streaks of makeup disappear down the drain as I scrub my face clean. The person in the mirror looks ragged, with her uneven skin and tired eyes, but she looks like me. I rip the armband off, revealing the ugly scar from the tracker. There. That looks like me, too.

Since I‘ll be in a combat zone, Beetee helps me with armor Cinna designed. A helmet of some interwoven metal that fits close to my head. The material‘s supple, like fabric, and can be drawn back like a hood in case I don‘t want it up full-time. A vest to reinforce the protection over my vital organs. A small white earpiece that attaches to my collar by a wire. Beetee secures a mask to my belt that I don‘t have to wear unless there‘s a gas attack. “If you see anyone dropping for reasons you can‘t explain, put it on immediately,” he says. Finally, he straps a sheath divided into three cylinders of arrows to my back. “Just remember: Right side, fire. Left side, explosive. Center, regular. You shouldn‘t need them, but better safe than sorry.”

Boggs shows up to escort me down to the Airborne Division. Just as the elevator arrives, Finnick appears in a state of agitation. “Katniss, they won‘t let me go! I told them I‘m fine, but they won‘t even let me ride in the hovercraft!”

I take in Finnick—his bare legs showing between his hospital gown and slippers, his tangle of hair, the half-knotted rope twisted around his fingers, the wild look in his eyes—and know any plea on my part will be useless. Even I don‘t think it‘s a good idea to bring him. So I smack my hand on my forehead and say, “Oh, I forgot. It‘s this stupid concussion. I was supposed to tell you to report to Beetee in Special Weaponry. He‘s designed a new trident for you.”

At the word trident, it‘s as if the old Finnick surfaces. “Really? What‘s it do?”

“I don‘t know. But if it‘s anything like my bow and arrows, you‘re going to love it,” I say. “You‘ll need to train with it, though.”

“Right. Of course. I guess I better get down there,” he says.

“Finnick?” I say. “Maybe some pants?”

He looks down at his legs as if noticing his outfit for the first time. Then he whips off his hospital gown, leaving him in just his underwear. “Why? Do you find this”—he strikes a ridiculously provocative pose—“distracting?”

I can‘t help laughing because it‘s funny, and it‘s extra funny because it makes Boggs look so uncomfortable, and I‘m happy because Finnick actually sounds like the guy I met at the Quarter Quell.

“I‘m only human, Odair.” I get in before the elevator doors close. “Sorry,” I say to Boggs.

“Don‘t be. I thought you… handled that well,” he says. “Better than my having to arrest him, anyway.”

“Yeah,” I say. I sneak a sidelong glance at him. He‘s probably in his mid-forties, with close-cropped gray hair and blue eyes. Incredible posture. He‘s spoken out twice today in ways that make me think he would rather be friends than enemies. Maybe I should give him a chance. But he just seems so in step with Coin…

There‘s a series of loud clicks. The elevator comes to a slight pause and then begins to move laterally to the left. “It goes sideways?” I ask.

“Yes. There‘s a whole network of elevator paths under Thirteen,” he answers. “This one lies just above the transport spoke to the fifth airlift platform. It‘s taking us to the Hangar.”

The Hangar. The dungeons. Special Defense. Somewhere food is grown. Power generated. Air and water purified. “Thirteen is even larger than I thought.”

“Can‘t take credit for much of it,” says Boggs. “We basically inherited the place. It‘s been all we can do to keep it running.”

The clicks resume. We drop down again briefly—just a couple of levels—and the doors open on the Hangar.

“Oh,” I let out involuntarily at the sight of the fleet. Row after row of different kinds of hovercraft. “Did you inherit these, too?”

“Some we manufactured. Some were part of the Capitol‘s air force. They‘ve been updated, of course,” says Boggs.

I feel that twinge of hatred against 13 again. “So, you had all this, and you left the rest of the districts defenseless against the Capitol.”

“It‘s not that simple,” he shoots back. “We were in no position to launch a counterattack until recently. We could barely stay alive. After we‘d overthrown and executed the Capitol‘s people, only a handful of us even knew how to pilot. We could‘ve nuked them with missiles, yes. But there‘s always the larger question: If we engage in that type of war with the Capitol, would there be any human life left?”

“That sounds like what Peeta said. And you all called him a traitor,” I counter.

“Because he called for a cease-fire,” says Boggs. “You‘ll notice neither side has launched nuclear weapons. We‘re working it out the old-fashioned way. Over here, Soldier Everdeen.” He indicates one of the smaller hovercraft.

I mount the stairs and find it packed with the television crew and equipment. Everyone else is dressed in 13‘s dark gray military jumpsuits, even Haymitch, although he seems unhappy about the snugness of his collar.

Fulvia Cardew hustles over and makes a sound of frustration when she sees my clean face. “All that work, down the drain. I‘m not blaming you, Katniss. It‘s just that very few people are born with camera-ready faces. Like him.” She snags Gale, who‘s in a conversation with Plutarch, and spins him toward us. “Isn‘t he handsome?”

Gale does look striking in the uniform, I guess. But the question just embarrasses us both, given our history. I‘m trying to think of a witty comeback, when Boggs says brusquely, “Well, don‘t expect us to be too impressed. We just saw Finnick Odair in his underwear.” I decide to go ahead and like Boggs.

There‘s a warning of the upcoming takeoff and I strap myself into a seat next to Gale, facing off with Haymitch and Plutarch. We glide through a maze of tunnels that opens out onto a platform. Some sort of elevator device lifts the craft slowly up through the levels. All at once we‘re outside in a large field surrounded by woods, then we rise off the platform and become wrapped in clouds.

Now that the flurry of activity leading up to this mission is over, I realize I have no idea what I‘m facing on this trip to District 8. In fact, I know very little about the actual state of the war. Or what it would take to win it. Or what would happen if we did.

Plutarch tries to lay it out in simple terms for me. First of all, every district is currently at war with the Capitol except 2, which has always had a favored relationship with our enemies despite its participation in the Hunger Games. They get more food and better living conditions. After the Dark Days and the supposed destruction of 13, District 2 became the Capitol‘s new center of defense, although it‘s publicly presented as the home of the nation‘s stone quarries, in the same way that 13 was known for graphite mining. District 2 not only manufactures weaponry, it trains and even supplies
Peacekeepers.

“You mean… some of the Peacekeepers are born in Two?” I ask. “I thought they all came from the Capitol.”

Plutarch nods. “That‘s what you‘re supposed to think. And some do come from the Capitol. But its population could never sustain a force that size. Then there‘s the problem of recruiting Capitol-raised citizens for a dull life of deprivation in the districts. A twenty-year commitment to the Peacekeepers, no marriage, no children allowed. Some buy into it for the honor of the thing, others take it on as an alternative to punishment. For instance, join the Peacekeepers and your debts are forgiven. Many people are swamped in debt in the Capitol, but not all of them are fit for military duty. So District Two is where we turn for additional troops. It‘s a way for their people to escape poverty and a life in the quarries. They‘re raised with a warrior mind-set. You‘ve seen how eager their children are to volunteer to be tributes.”

Cato and Clove. Brutus and Enobaria. I‘ve seen their eagerness and their bloodlust, too. “But all the other districts are on our side?” I ask.

“Yes. Our goal is to take over the districts one by one, ending with District Two, thus cutting off the Capitol‘s supply chain. Then, once it‘s weakened, we invade the Capitol itself,” says Plutarch. “That will be a whole other type of challenge. But we‘ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“If we win, who would be in charge of the government?” Gale asks.

“Everyone,” Plutarch tells him. “We‘re going to form a republic where the people of each district and the Capitol can elect their own representatives to be their voice in a centralized government. Don‘t look so suspicious; it‘s worked before.”

“In books,” Haymitch mutters.

“In history books,” says Plutarch. “And if our ancestors could do it, then we can, too.”

Frankly, our ancestors don‘t seem much to brag about. I mean, look at the state they left us in, with the wars and the broken planet. Clearly, they didn‘t care about what would happen to the people who came after them. But this republic idea sounds like an improvement over our current government.

“And if we lose?” I ask.

“If we lose?” Plutarch looks out at the clouds, and an ironic smile twists his lips. “Then I would expect next year‘s Hunger Games to be quite unforgettable. That reminds me.” He takes a vial from his vest, shakes a few deep violet pills into his hand, and holds them out to us. “We named them nightlock in your honor, Katniss. The rebels can‘t afford for any of us to be captured now. But I promise, it will be completely painless.”

I take hold of a capsule, unsure of where to put it. Plutarch taps a spot on my shoulder at the front of my left sleeve. I examine it and find a tiny pocket that both secures and conceals the pill. Even if my
hands were tied, I could lean my head forward and bite it free. Cinna, it seems, has thought of everything.

Categories: Mockingjay

Mockingjay Chapter 5

Mockingjay Part 1: The Ashes

Chapter 5


Another force to contend with. Another power player who has decided to use me as a piece in her games, although things never seem to go according to plan. First there were the Gamemakers, making me their star and then scrambling to recover from that handful of poisonous berries. Then President Snow, trying to use me to put out the flames of rebellion, only to have my every move become inflammatory. Next, the rebels ensnaring me in the metal claw that lifted me from the arena, designating me to be their Mockingjay, and then having to recover from the shock that I might not want the wings.

And now Coin, with her fistful of precious nukes and her well-oiled machine of a district, finding it‘s even harder to groom a Mockingjay than to catch one. But she has been the quickest to determine that I have an agenda of my own and am therefore not to be trusted. She has been the first to publicly brand me as a threat.

I run my fingers through the thick layer of bubbles in my tub. Cleaning me up is just a preliminary step to determining my new look. With my acid-damaged hair, sunburned skin, and ugly scars, the prep
team has to make me pretty and then damage, burn, and scar me in a more attractive way.

“Remake her to Beauty Base Zero,” Fulvia ordered first thing this morning. “We‘ll work from there.” Beauty Base Zero turns out to be what a person would look like if they stepped out of bed looking flawless but natural. It means my nails are perfectly shaped but not polished. My hair soft and shiny but not styled. My skin smooth and clear but not painted. Wax the body hair and erase the dark circles, but don‘t make any noticeable enhancements. I suppose Cinna gave the same instructions the first day I arrived as a tribute in the Capitol. Only that was different, since I was a contestant. As a rebel, I thought I‘d get to look more like myself. But it seems a televised rebel has her own standards to live up to.

After I rinse the lather from my body, I turn to find Octavia waiting with a towel. She is so altered from the woman I knew in the Capitol, stripped of the gaudy clothing, the heavy makeup, the dyes and jewelry and knickknacks she adorned her hair with. I remember how one day she showed up with bright pink tresses studded with blinking colored lights shaped like mice. She told me she had several mice at home as pets. The thought repulsed me at the time, since we consider mice vermin, unless cooked. But perhaps Octavia liked them because they were small, soft, and squeaky. Like her. As she pats me dry, I try to become acquainted with the District 13 Octavia. Her real hair turns out to be a nice auburn. Her face is ordinary but has an undeniable sweetness. She‘s younger than I thought. Maybe early twenties. Devoid of the three-inch decorative nails, her fingers appear almost stubby, and they can‘t stop trembling. I want to tell her it‘s okay, that I‘ll see that Coin never hurts her again. But the multicolored bruises flowering under her green skin only remind me how impotent I am.

Flavius, too, appears washed out without his purple lipstick and bright clothes. He‘s managed to get his orange ringlets back in some sort of order, though. It‘s Venia who‘s the least changed. Her aqua hair lies flat instead of in spikes and you can see the roots growing in gray. However, the tattoos were always her most striking characteristic, and they‘re as golden and shocking as ever. She comes and takes the towel from Octavia‘s hands.

“Katniss is not going to hurt us,” she says quietly but firmly to Octavia. “Katniss did not even know we were here. Things will be better now.” Octavia gives a slight nod but doesn‘t dare look me in the eye.

It‘s no simple job getting me back to Beauty Base Zero, even with the elaborate arsenal of products, tools, and gadgets Plutarch had the foresight to bring from the Capitol. My preps do pretty well until they try to address the spot on my arm where Johanna dug out the tracker. None of the medical team was focusing on looks when they patched up the gaping hole. Now I have a lumpy, jagged scar that ripples out over a space the size of an apple. Usually, my sleeve covers it, but the way Cinna‘s Mockingjay costume is designed, the sleeves stop just above the elbow. It‘s such a concern that Fulvia and Plutarch are called in to discuss it. I swear, the sight of it triggers Fulvia‘s gag reflex. For someone who works with a Gamemaker, she‘s awfully sensitive. But I guess she‘s used to seeing unpleasant things only on a screen.

“Everyone knows I have a scar here,” I say sullenly.

“Knowing it and seeing it are two different things,” says Fulvia. “It‘s positively repulsive. Plutarch and I will think of something during lunch.”

“It‘ll be fine,” says Plutarch with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Maybe an armband or something.”

Disgusted, I get dressed so I can head to the dining hall. My prep team huddles in a little group by the door. “Are they bringing your food here?” I ask.

“No,” says Venia. “We‘re supposed to go to a dining hall.”

I sigh inwardly as I imagine walking into the dining hall, trailed by these three. But people always stare at me anyway. This will be more of the same. “I‘ll show you where it is,” I say. “Come on.”

The covert glances and quiet murmurs I usually evoke are nothing compared to the reaction brought on by the sight of my bizarre-looking prep team. The gaping mouths, the finger pointing, the exclamations. “Just ignore them,” I tell my prep team. Eyes downcast, with mechanical movements, they follow me through the line, accepting bowls of grayish fish and okra stew and cups of water.

We take seats at my table, beside a group from the Seam. They show a little more restraint than the people from 13 do, although it may just be from embarrassment. Leevy, who was my neighbor back in 12, gives a cautious hello to the preps, and Gale‘s mother, Hazelle, who must know about their imprisonment, holds up a spoonful of the stew. “Don‘t worry,” she says. “Tastes better than it looks.”

But it‘s Posy, Gale‘s five-year-old sister, who helps the most. She scoots along the bench to Octavia and touches her skin with a tentative finger. “You‘re green. Are you sick?”

“It‘s a fashion thing, Posy. Like wearing lipstick,” I say.

“It‘s meant to be pretty,” whispers Octavia, and I can see the tears threatening to spill over her lashes.
Posy considers this and says matter-of-factly, “I think you‘d be pretty in any color.”

The tiniest of smiles forms on Octavia‘s lips. “Thank you.”

“If you really want to impress Posy, you‘ll have to dye yourself bright pink,” says Gale, thumping his tray down beside me. “That‘s her favorite color.” Posy giggles and slides back down to her mother.

Gale nods at Flavius‘s bowl. “I wouldn‘t let that get cold. It doesn‘t improve the consistency.”

Everyone gets down to eating. The stew doesn‘t taste bad, but there‘s a certain sliminess that‘s hard to get around. Like you have to swallow every bite three times before it really goes down.

Gale, who‘s not usually much of a talker during meals, makes an effort to keep the conversation going, asking about the makeover. I know it‘s his attempt at smoothing things over. We argued last night after he suggested I‘d left Coin no choice but to counter my demand for the victors‘ safety with one of her own.

“Katniss, she‘s running this district. She can‘t do it if it seems like she‘s caving in to your will.”
“You mean she can‘t stand any dissent, even if it‘s fair,” I‘d countered.

“I mean you put her in a bad position. Making her give Peeta and the others immunity when we don‘t even know what sort of damage they might cause,” Gale had said.

“So I should‘ve just gone with the program and let the other tributes take their chances? Not that it matters, because that‘s what we‘re all doing anyway!” That was when I‘d slammed the door in his face. I hadn‘t sat with him at breakfast, and when Plutarch had sent him down to training this morning, I‘d let him go without a word. I know he only spoke out of concern for me, but I really need him to be on
my side, not Coin‘s. How can he not know that?

After lunch, Gale and I are scheduled to go down to Special Defense to meet Beetee. As we ride the elevator, Gale finally says, “You‘re still angry.”

“And you‘re still not sorry,” I reply.

“I still stand by what I said. Do you want me to lie about it?” he asks.

“No, I want you to rethink it and come up with the right opinion,” I tell him. But this just makes him laugh. I have to let it go. There‘s no point in trying to dictate what Gale thinks. Which, if I‘m honest, is one reason I trust him.

The Special Defense level is situated almost as far down as the dungeons where we found the prep team. It‘s a beehive of rooms full of computers, labs, research equipment, and testing ranges. When we ask for Beetee, we‘re directed through the maze until we reach an enormous plate-glass window. Inside is the first beautiful thing I‘ve seen in the District 13 compound: a replication of a meadow, filled with real trees and flowering plants, and alive with hummingbirds. Beetee sits motionless in a wheelchair at the center of the meadow, watching a spring-green bird hover in midair as it sips nectar from a large orange blossom. His eyes follow the bird as it darts away, and he catches sight of us. He gives a friendly wave for us to join him inside.

The air‘s cool and breathable, not humid and muggy as I‘d expected. From all sides comes the whir of tiny wings, which I used to confuse with the sound of insects in our woods at home. I have to wonder what sort of fluke allowed such a pleasing place to be built here.

Beetee still has the pallor of someone in convalescence, but behind those ill-fitting glasses, his eyes are alight with excitement. “Aren‘t they magnificent? Thirteen has been studying their aerodynamics here for years. Forward and backward flight, and speeds up to sixty miles per hour. If only I could build you wings like these, Katniss!”

“Doubt I could manage them, Beetee,” I laugh.

“Here one second, gone the next. Can you bring a hummingbird down with an arrow?” he asks.

“I‘ve never tried. Not much meat on them,” I answer.

“No. And you‘re not one to kill for sport,” he says. “I bet they‘d be hard to shoot, though.”

“You could snare them maybe,” Gale says. His face takes on that distant look it wears when he‘s working something out. “Take a net with a very fine mesh. Enclose an area and leave a mouth of a couple square feet. Bait the inside with nectar flowers. While they‘re feeding, snap the mouth shut. They‘d fly away from the noise but only encounter the far side of the net.”

“Would that work?” asks Beetee.

“I don‘t know. Just an idea,” says Gale. “They might outsmart it.”

“They might. But you‘re playing on their natural instincts to flee danger. Thinking like your prey… that‘s where you find their vulnerabilities,” says Beetee.

I remember something I don‘t like to think about. In preparation for the Quell, I saw a tape where Beetee, who was still a boy, connected two wires that electrocuted a pack of kids who were hunting him. The convulsing bodies, the grotesque expressions. Beetee, in the moments that led up to his victory in those long-ago Hunger Games, watched the others die. Not his fault. Only self-defense. We were all acting only in self-defense…

Suddenly, I want to leave the hummingbird room before somebody starts setting up a snare. “Beetee, Plutarch said you had something for me.”

“Right. I do. Your new bow.” He presses a hand control on the arm of the chair and wheels out of the room. As we follow him through the twists and turns of Special Defense, he explains about the chair. “I can walk a little now. It‘s just that I tire so quickly. It‘s easier for me to get around this way. How‘s Finnick doing?”

“He‘s… he‘s having concentration problems,” I answer. I don‘t want to say he had a complete mental meltdown.

“Concentration problems, eh?” Beetee smiles grimly. “If you knew what Finnick‘s been through the last few years, you‘d know how remarkable it is he‘s still with us at all. Tell him I‘ve been working on a new trident for him, though, will you? Something to distract him a little.” Distraction seems to be the last thing Finnick needs, but I promise to pass on the message.

Four soldiers guard the entrance to the hall marked Special Weaponry. Checking the schedules printed on our forearms is just a preliminary step. We also have fingerprint, retinal, and DNA scans, and have to step through special metal detectors. Beetee has to leave his wheelchair outside, although they provide him with another once we‘re through security. I find the whole thing bizarre because I can‘t imagine anyone raised in District 13 being a threat the government would have to guard against. Have these precautions been put in place because of the recent influx of immigrants?

At the door of the armory, we encounter a second round of identification checks—as if my DNA might have changed in the time it took to walk twenty yards down the hallway—and are finally allowed to enter the weapons collection. I have to admit the arsenal takes my breath away. Row upon row of firearms, launchers, explosives, armored vehicles. “Of course, the Airborne Division is housed separately,” Beetee tells us.

“Of course,” I say, as if this would be self-evident. I don‘t know where a simple bow and arrow could possibly find a place in all this high-tech equipment, but then we come upon a wall of deadly archery weapons. I‘ve played with a lot of the Capitol‘s weapons in training, but none designed for military combat. I focus my attention on a lethal-looking bow so loaded down with scopes and gadgetry, I‘m certain I can‘t even lift it, let alone shoot it.

“Gale, maybe you‘d like to try out a few of these,” says Beetee.

“Seriously?” Gale asks.

“You‘ll be issued a gun eventually for battle, of course. But if you appear as part of Katniss‘s team in the propos, one of these would look a little showier. I thought you might like to find one that suits you,” says Beetee.

“Yeah, I would.” Gale‘s hands close around the very bow that caught my attention a moment ago, and he hefts it onto his shoulder. He points it around the room, peering through the scope.

“That doesn‘t seem very fair to the deer,” I say.

“Wouldn‘t be using it on deer, would I?” he answers.

“I‘ll be right back,” says Beetee. He presses a code into a panel, and a small doorway opens. I watch until he‘s disappeared and the door‘s shut.

“So, it‘d be easy for you? Using that on people?” I ask.

“I didn‘t say that.” Gale drops the bow to his side. “But if I‘d had a weapon that could‘ve stopped what I saw happen in Twelve… if I‘d had a weapon that could have kept you out of the arena… I‘d have used it.”

“Me, too,” I admit. But I don‘t know what to tell him about the aftermath of killing a person. About how they never leave you.

Beetee wheels back in with a tall, black rectangular case awkwardly positioned between his footrest and his shoulder. He comes to a halt and tilts it toward me. “For you.”

I set the case flat on the floor and undo the latches along one side. The top opens on silent hinges. Inside the case, on a bed of crushed maroon velvet, lies a stunning black bow. “Oh,” I whisper in admiration. I lift it carefully into the air to admire the exquisite balance, the elegant design, and the curve of the limbs that somehow suggests the wings of a bird extended in flight. There‘s something else. I have to hold very still to make sure I‘m not imagining it. No, the bow is alive in my hands. I press it against my cheek and feel the slight hum travel through the bones of my face. “What‘s it doing?” I ask.

“Saying hello,” explains Beetee with a grin. “It heard your voice.”

“It recognizes my voice?” I ask.

“Only your voice,” he tells me. “You see, they wanted me to design a bow based purely on looks. As part of your costume, you know? But I kept thinking, What a waste. I mean, what if you do need it sometime? As more than a fashion accessory? So I left the outside simple, and left the inside to my imagination. Best explained in practice, though. Want to try those out?”

We do. A target range has already been prepared for us. The arrows that Beetee designed are no less remarkable than the bow. Between the two, I can shoot with accuracy over one hundred yards. The variety of arrows—razor sharp, incendiary, explosive—turn the bow into a multipurpose weapon. Each one is recognizable by a distinctive colored shaft. I have the option of voice override at any time, but have no idea why I would use it. To deactivate the bow‘s special properties, I need only tell it “Good night.” Then it goes to sleep until the sound of my voice wakes it again.

I‘m in good spirits by the time I get back to the prep team, leaving Beetee and Gale behind. I sit patiently through the rest of the paint job and don my costume, which now includes a bloody bandage over the scar on my arm to indicate I‘ve been in recent combat. Venia affixes my mockingjay pin over my heart. I take up my bow and the sheath of normal arrows that Beetee made, knowing they would never let me walk around with the loaded ones. Then we‘re out on the soundstage, where I seem to stand for hours while they adjust makeup and lighting and smoke levels. Eventually, the commands coming via intercom from the invisible people in the mysterious glassed-in booth become fewer and fewer.

Fulvia and Plutarch spend more time studying and less time adjusting me. Finally, there‘s quiet on the set. For a full five minutes I am simply considered. Then Plutarch says, “I think that does it.”

I‘m beckoned over to a monitor. They play back the last few minutes of taping and I watch the woman on the screen. Her body seems larger in stature, more imposing than mine. Her face smudged but sexy. Her brows black and drawn in an angle of defiance. Wisps of smoke—suggesting she has either just been extinguished or is about to burst into flames—rise from her clothes. I do not know who this person is.

Finnick, who‘s been wandering around the set for a few hours, comes up behind me and says with a hint of his old humor, “They‘ll either want to kill you, kiss you, or be you.”

Everyone‘s so excited, so pleased with their work. It‘s nearly time to break for dinner, but they insist we continue. Tomorrow we‘ll focus on speeches and interviews and have me pretend to be in rebel battles. Today they want just one slogan, just one line that they can work into a short propo to show to Coin.

“People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice!” That‘s the line. I can tell by the way they present it that they‘ve spent months, maybe years, working it out and are really proud of it. It seems like a mouthful to me, though. And stiff. I can‘t imagine actually saying it in real life—unless I was using a Capitol accent and making fun of it. Like when Gale and I used to imitate Effie Trinket‘s “May the odds be ever in your favor!” But Fulvia‘s right in my face, describing a battle I‘ve just been in, and how my comrades-in-arms are all lying dead around me, and how, to rally the living, I must turn to the camera and shout out the line!

I‘m hustled back to my place, and the smoke machine kicks in. Someone calls for quiet, the cameras start rolling, and I hear “Action!” So I hold my bow over my head and yell with all the anger I can muster, “People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice!” There‘s dead silence on the set. It goes on. And on.

Finally, the intercom crackles and Haymitch‘s acerbic laugh fills the studio. He contains himself just long enough to say, “And that, my friends, is how a revolution dies.”

Categories: Mockingjay