Mockingjay Chapter 14

Mockingjay Part 2: The Assault

Chapter 14

District 2 is a large district, as one might expect, composed of a series of villages spread across the mountains. Each was originally associated with a mine or quarry, although now, many are devoted to
the housing and training of Peacekeepers. None of this would present much of a challenge, since the rebels have 13‘s airpower on their side, except for one thing: At the center of the district is a virtually
impenetrable mountain that houses the heart of the Capitol‘s military.
We‘ve nicknamed the mountain the Nut since I relayed Plutarch‘s “tough nut to crack” comment to the weary and discouraged rebel leaders here. The Nut was established directly after the Dark Days,
when the Capitol had lost 13 and was desperate for a new underground stronghold. They had some of their military resources situated on the outskirts of the Capitol itself—nuclear missiles, aircraft, troops
—but a significant chunk of their power was now under an enemy‘s control. Of course, there was no way they could hope to replicate 13, which was the work of centuries. However, in the old mines of
nearby District 2, they saw opportunity. From the air, the Nut appeared to be just another mountain with a few entrances on its faces. But inside were vast cavernous spaces where slabs of stones had
been cut, hauled to the surface, and transported down slippery narrow roads to make distant buildings. There was even a train system to facilitate transporting the miners from the Nut to the very center of
the main town in District 2. It ran right to the square that Peeta and I visited during the Victory Tour, standing on the wide marble steps of the Justice Building, trying not to look too closely at Cato‘s and
Clove‘s grieving families assembled below us.
It was not the most ideal terrain, plagued as it was by mudslides, floods, and avalanches. But the advantages outweighed the concerns. As they‘d cut deep into the mountain, the miners had left large
pillars and walls of stone to support the infrastructure. The Capitol reinforced these and set about making the mountain their new military base. Filling it with computer banks and meeting rooms, barracks
and arsenals. Widening entrances to allow the exit of hovercraft from the hangar, installing missile launchers. But on the whole, leaving the exterior of the mountain largely unchanged. A rough, rocky tangle
of trees and wildlife. A natural fortress to protect them from their enemies.
By the other districts‘ standards, the Capitol babied the inhabitants here. Just by looking at the District 2 rebels, you can tell they were decently fed and cared for in childhood. Some did end up as
quarry and mine workers. Others were educated for jobs in the Nut or funneled into the ranks of Peacekeepers. Trained young and hard for combat. The Hunger Games were an opportunity for wealth and
a kind of glory not seen elsewhere. Of course, the people of 2 swallowed the Capitol‘s propaganda more easily than the rest of us. Embraced their ways. But for all that, at the end of the day, they were still
slaves. And if that was lost on the citizens who became Peacekeepers or worked in the Nut, it was not lost on the stonecutters who formed the backbone of the resistance here.
Things stand as they did when I arrived two weeks ago. The outer villages are in rebel hands, the town divided, and the Nut is as untouchable as ever. Its few entrances heavily fortified, its heart safely
enfolded in the mountain. While every other district has now wrested control from the Capitol, 2 remains in its pocket.
Each day, I do whatever I can to help. Visit the wounded. Tape short propos with my camera crew. I‘m not allowed in actual combat, but they invite me to the meetings on the status of the war, which is
a lot more than they did in 13. It‘s much better here. Freer, no schedules on my arm, fewer demands on my time. I live aboveground in the rebel villages or surrounding caves. For safety‘s sake, I‘m
relocated often. During the day, I‘ve been given clearance to hunt as long as I take a guard along and don‘t stray too far. In the thin, cold mountain air, I feel some physical strength returning, my mind
clearing away the rest of the fogginess. But with this mental clarity comes an even sharper awareness of what has been done to Peeta.
Snow has stolen him from me, twisted him beyond recognition, and made me a present of him. Boggs, who came to 2 when I did, told me that even with all the plotting, it was a little too easy to rescue
Peeta. He believes if 13 hadn‘t made the effort, Peeta would‘ve been delivered to me anyway. Dropped off in an actively warring district or perhaps 13 itself. Tied up with ribbons and tagged with my
name. Programmed to murder me.
It‘s only now that he‘s been corrupted that I can fully appreciate the real Peeta. Even more than I would‘ve if he‘d died. The kindness, the steadiness, the warmth that had an unexpected heat behind it.
Outside of Prim, my mother, and Gale, how many people in the world love me unconditionally? I think in my case, the answer may now be none. Sometimes when I‘m alone, I take the pearl from where it
lives in my pocket and try to remember the boy with the bread, the strong arms that warded off nightmares on the train, the kisses in the arena. To make myself put a name to the thing I‘ve lost. But what‘s
the use? It‘s gone. He‘s gone. Whatever existed between us is gone. All that‘s left is my promise to kill Snow. I tell myself this ten times a day.
Back in 13, Peeta‘s rehabilitation continues. Even though I don‘t ask, Plutarch gives me cheerful updates on the phone like “Good news, Katniss! I think we‘ve almost got him convinced you‘re not a
mutt!” Or “Today he was allowed to feed himself pudding!”
When Haymitch gets on after, he admits Peeta‘s no better. The only dubious ray of hope has come from my sister. “Prim came up with the idea of trying to hijack him back,” Haymitch tells me. “Bring
up the distorted memories of you and then give him a big dose of a calming drug, like morphling. We‘ve only tried it on one memory. The tape of the two of you in the cave, when you told him that story
about getting Prim the goat.”
“Any improvement?” I ask.
“Well, if extreme confusion is an improvement over extreme terror, then yes,” says Haymitch. “But I‘m not sure it is. He lost the ability to speak for several hours. Went into some sort of stupor. When he
came out, the only thing he asked about was the goat.”
“Right,” I say.
“How‘s it out there?” he asks.
“No forward motion,” I tell him.
“We‘re sending out a team to help with the mountain. Beetee and some of the others,” he says. “You know, the brains.”
When the brains are selected, I‘m not surprised to see Gale‘s name on the list. I thought Beetee would bring him, not for his technological expertise, but in the hopes that he could somehow think of a
way to ensnare a mountain. Originally, Gale offered to come with me to 2, but I could see I was tearing him away from his work with Beetee. I told him to sit tight and stay where he was most needed. I
didn‘t tell him his presence would make it even more difficult for me to mourn Peeta.
Gale finds me when they arrive late one afternoon. I‘m sitting on a log at the edge of my current village, plucking a goose. A dozen or so of the birds are piled at my feet. Great flocks of them have been
migrating through here since I‘ve arrived, and the pickings are easy. Without a word, Gale settles beside me and begins to relieve a bird of its feathers. We‘re through about half when he says, “Any
chance we‘ll get to eat these?”
“Yeah. Most go to the camp kitchen, but they expect me to give a couple to whoever I‘m staying with tonight,” I say. “For keeping me.”
“Isn‘t the honor of the thing enough?” he says.
“You‘d think,” I reply. “But word‘s gotten out that mockingjays are hazardous to your health.”
We pluck in silence for a while longer. Then he says, “I saw Peeta yesterday. Through the glass.”
“What‘d you think?” I ask.
“Something selfish,” says Gale.
“That you don‘t have to be jealous of him anymore?” My fingers give a yank, and a cloud of feathers floats down around us.
“No. Just the opposite.” Gale pulls a feather out of my hair. “I thought… I‘ll never compete with that. No matter how much pain I‘m in.” He spins the feather between his thumb and forefinger. “I don‘t
stand a chance if he doesn‘t get better. You‘ll never be able to let him go. You‘ll always feel wrong about being with me.”
“The way I always felt wrong kissing him because of you,” I say.
Gale holds my gaze. “If I thought that was true, I could almost live with the rest of it.”
“It is true,” I admit. “But so is what you said about Peeta.”
Gale makes a sound of exasperation. Nonetheless, after we‘ve dropped off the birds and volunteered to go back to the woods to gather kindling for the evening fire, I find myself wrapped in his arms.
His lips brushing the faded bruises on my neck, working their way to my mouth. Despite what I feel for Peeta, this is when I accept deep down that he‘ll never come back to me. Or I‘ll never go back to him.
I‘ll stay in 2 until it falls, go to the Capitol and kill Snow, and then die for my trouble. And he‘ll die insane and hating me. So in the fading light I shut my eyes and kiss Gale to make up for all the kisses I‘ve
withheld, and because it doesn‘t matter anymore, and because I‘m so desperately lonely I can‘t stand it.
Gale‘s touch and taste and heat remind me that at least my body‘s still alive, and for the moment it‘s a welcome feeling. I empty my mind and let the sensations run through my flesh, happy to lose
myself. When Gale pulls away slightly, I move forward to close the gap, but I feel his hand under my chin. “Katniss,” he says. The instant I open my eyes, the world seems disjointed. This is not our woods or
our mountains or our way. My hand automatically goes to the scar on my left temple, which I associate with confusion. “Now kiss me.” Bewildered, unblinking, I stand there while he leans in and presses his
lips to mine briefly. He examines my face closely. “What‘s going on in your head?”
“I don‘t know,” I whisper back.
“Then it‘s like kissing someone who‘s drunk. It doesn‘t count,” he says with a weak attempt at a laugh. He scoops up a pile of kindling and drops it in my empty arms, returning me to myself.
“How do you know?” I say, mostly to cover my embarrassment. “Have you kissed someone who‘s drunk?” I guess Gale could‘ve been kissing girls right and left back in 12. He certainly had enough
takers. I never thought about it much before.
He just shakes his head. “No. But it‘s not hard to imagine.”
“So, you never kissed any other girls?” I ask.
“I didn‘t say that. You know, you were only twelve when we met. And a real pain besides. I did have a life outside of hunting with you,” he says, loading up with firewood.
Suddenly, I‘m genuinely curious. “Who did you kiss? And where?”
“Too many to remember. Behind the school, on the slag heap, you name it,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “So when did I become so special? When they carted me off to the Capitol?”
“No. About six months before that. Right after New Year‘s. We were in the Hob, eating some slop of Greasy Sae‘s. And Darius was teasing you about trading a rabbit for one of his kisses. And I
realized… I minded,” he tells me.
I remember that day. Bitter cold and dark by four in the afternoon. We‘d been hunting, but a heavy snow had driven us back into town. The Hob was crowded with people looking for refuge from the
weather. Greasy Sae‘s soup, made with stock from the bones of a wild dog we‘d shot a week earlier, was below her usual standards. Still, it was hot, and I was starving as I scooped it up, sitting crosslegged
on her counter. Darius was leaning on the post of the stall, tickling my cheek with the end of my braid, while I smacked his hand away. He was explaining why one of his kisses merited a rabbit, or possibly two, since everyone knows redheaded men are the most virile. And Greasy Sae and I were laughing because he was so ridiculous and persistent and kept pointing out women around the Hob
who he said had paid far more than a rabbit to enjoy his lips. “See? The one in the green muffler? Go ahead and ask her. If you need a reference.”
A million miles from here, a billion days ago, this happened. “Darius was just joking around,” I say.
“Probably. Although you‘d be the last to figure out if he wasn‘t,” Gale tells me. “Take Peeta. Take me. Or even Finnick. I was starting to worry he had his eye on you, but he seems back on track now.”
“You don‘t know Finnick if you think he‘d love me,” I say.
Gale shrugs. “I know he was desperate. That makes people do all kinds of crazy things.”
I can‘t help thinking that‘s directed at me.
Bright and early the next morning, the brains assemble to take on the problem of the Nut. I‘m asked to the meeting, although I don‘t have much to contribute. I avoid the conference table and perch in
the wide windowsill that has a view of the mountain in question. The commander from 2, a middle-aged woman named Lyme, takes us on a virtual tour of the Nut, its interior and fortifications, and recounts
the failed attempts to seize it. I‘ve crossed paths with her briefly a couple of times since my arrival, and was dogged by the feeling I‘d met her before. She‘s memorable enough, standing over six feet tall
and heavily muscled. But it‘s only when I see a clip of her in the field, leading a raid on the main entrance of the Nut, that something clicks and I realize I‘m in the presence of another victor. Lyme, the tribute
from District 2, who won her Hunger Games over a generation ago. Effie sent us her tape, among others, to prepare for the Quarter Quell. I‘ve probably caught glimpses of her during the Games over the
years, but she‘s kept a low profile. With my newfound knowledge of Haymitch‘s and Finnick‘s treatment, all I can think is: What did the Capitol do to her after she won?
When Lyme finishes the presentation, the questions from the brains begin. Hours pass, and lunch comes and goes, as they try to come up with a realistic plan for taking the Nut. But while Beetee
thinks he might be able to override certain computer systems, and there‘s some discussion of putting the handful of internal spies to use, no one has any really innovative thoughts. As the afternoon wears
on, talk keeps returning to a strategy that has been tried repeatedly—the storming of the entrances. I can see Lyme‘s frustration building because so many variations of this plan have already failed, so
many of her soldiers have been lost. Finally, she bursts out, “The next person who suggests we take the entrances better have a brilliant way to do it, because you‘re going to be the one leading that
mission!”
Gale, who is too restless to sit at the table for more than a few hours, has been alternating between pacing and sharing my windowsill. Early on, he seemed to accept Lyme‘s assertion that the
entrances couldn‘t be taken, and dropped out of the conversation entirely. For the last hour or so, he‘s sat quietly, his brow knitted in concentration, staring at the Nut through the window glass. In the
silence that follows Lyme‘s ultimatum, he speaks up. “Is it really so necessary that we take the Nut? Or would it be enough to disable it?”
“That would be a step in the right direction,” says Beetee. “What do you have in mind?”
“Think of it as a wild dog den,” Gale continues. “You‘re not going to fight your way in. So you have two choices. Trap the dogs inside or flush them out.”
“We‘ve tried bombing the entrances,” says Lyme. “They‘re set too far inside the stone for any real damage to be done.”
“I wasn‘t thinking of that,” says Gale. “I was thinking of using the mountain.” Beetee rises and joins Gale at the window, peering through his ill-fitting glasses. “See? Running down the sides?”
“Avalanche paths,” says Beetee under his breath. “It‘d be tricky. We‘d have to design the detonation sequence with great care, and once it‘s in motion, we couldn‘t hope to control it.”
“We don‘t need to control it if we give up the idea that we have to possess the Nut,” says Gale. “Only shut it down.”
“So you‘re suggesting we start avalanches and block the entrances?” asks Lyme.
“That‘s it,” says Gale. “Trap the enemy inside, cut off from supplies. Make it impossible for them to send out their hovercraft.”
While everyone considers the plan, Boggs flips through a stack of blueprints of the Nut and frowns. “You risk killing everyone inside. Look at the ventilation system. It‘s rudimentary at best. Nothing like
what we have in Thirteen. It depends entirely on pumping in air from the mountainsides. Block those vents and you‘ll suffocate whoever is trapped.”
“They could still escape through the train tunnel to the square,” says Beetee.
“Not if we blow it up,” says Gale brusquely. His intent, his full intent, becomes clear. Gale has no interest in preserving the lives of those in the Nut. No interest in caging the prey for later use.
This is one of his death traps.

Categories: Mockingjay

Mockingjay Chapter 13

Mockingjay Part 2: The Assault

Chapter 13

The cold collar chafes my neck and makes the shivering even harder to control. At least I am no longer in the claustrophobic tube, while the machines click and whir around me, listening to a disembodied
voice telling me to hold still while I try to convince myself I can still breathe. Even now, when I‘ve been assured there will be no permanent damage, I hunger for air.
The medical team‘s main concerns—damage to my spinal cord, airway, veins, and arteries—have been allayed. Bruising, hoarseness, the sore larynx, this strange little cough—not to be worried
about. It will all be fine. The Mockingjay will not lose her voice. Where, I want to ask, is the doctor who determines if I am losing my mind? Only I‘m not supposed to talk right now. I can‘t even thank Boggs
when he comes to check on me. To look me over and tell me he‘s seen a lot worse injuries among the soldiers when they teach choke holds in training.
It was Boggs who knocked out Peeta with one blow before any permanent damage could be done. I know Haymitch would have come to my defense if he hadn‘t been utterly unprepared. To catch both
Haymitch and myself off guard is a rare thing. But we have been so consumed with saving Peeta, so tortured by having him in the Capitol‘s hands, that the elation at having him back blinded us. If I‘d had a
private reunion with Peeta, he would have killed me. Now that he‘s deranged.
No, not deranged, I remind myself. Hijacked. That‘s the word I heard pass between Plutarch and Haymitch as I was wheeled past them in the hallway. Hijacked. I don‘t know what it means.
Prim, who appeared moments after the attack and has stayed as close to me as possible ever since, spreads another blanket over me. “I think they‘ll take the collar off soon, Katniss. You won‘t be so
cold then.” My mother, who‘s been assisting in a complicated surgery, has still not been informed of Peeta‘s assault. Prim takes one of my hands, which is clutched in a fist, and massages it until it opens
and blood begins to flow through my fingers again. She‘s starting on the second fist when the doctors show up, remove the collar, and give me a shot of something for pain and swelling. I lie, as instructed,
with my head still, not aggravating the injuries to my neck.
Plutarch, Haymitch, and Beetee have been waiting in the hall for the doctors to give them clearance to see me. I don‘t know if they‘ve told Gale, but since he‘s not here, I assume they haven‘t. Plutarch
ushers the doctors out and tries to order Prim to go as well, but she says, “No. If you force me to leave, I‘ll go directly to surgery and tell my mother everything that‘s happened. And I warn you, she doesn‘t
think much of a Gamemaker calling the shots on Katniss‘s life. Especially when you‘ve taken such poor care of her.”
Plutarch looks offended, but Haymitch chuckles. “I‘d let it go, Plutarch,” he says. Prim stays.
“So, Katniss, Peeta‘s condition has come as a shock to all of us,” says Plutarch. “We couldn‘t help but notice his deterioration in the last two interviews. Obviously, he‘d been abused, and we put his
psychological state down to that. Now we believe something more was going on. That the Capitol has been subjecting him to a rather uncommon technique known as hijacking. Beetee?”
“I‘m sorry,” Beetee says, “but I can‘t tell you all the specifics of it, Katniss. The Capitol‘s very secretive about this form of torture, and I believe the results are inconsistent. This we do know. It‘s a type of
fear conditioning. The term hijack comes from an old English word that means ’to capture,‘ or even better, ’seize.‘ We believe it was chosen because the technique involves the use of tracker jacker
venom, and the jack suggested hijack. You were stung in your first Hunger Games, so unlike most of us, you have firsthand knowledge of the effects of the venom.”
Terror. Hallucinations. Nightmarish visions of losing those I love. Because the venom targets the part of the brain that houses fear.
“I‘m sure you remember how frightening it was. Did you also suffer mental confusion in the aftermath?” asks Beetee. “A sense of being unable to judge what was true and what was false? Most people
who have been stung and lived to tell about it report something of the kind.”
Yes. That encounter with Peeta. Even after I was clearheaded, I wasn‘t sure if he had saved my life by taking on Cato or if I‘d imagined it.
“Recall is made more difficult because memories can be changed.” Beetee taps his forehead. “Brought to the forefront of your mind, altered, and saved again in the revised form. Now imagine that I
ask you to remember something—either with a verbal suggestion or by making you watch a tape of the event—and while that experience is refreshed, I give you a dose of tracker jacker venom. Not
enough to induce a three-day blackout. Just enough to infuse the memory with fear and doubt. And that‘s what your brain puts in long-term storage.”
I start to feel sick. Prim asks the question that‘s in my mind. “Is that what they‘ve done to Peeta? Taken his memories of Katniss and distorted them so they‘re scary?”
Beetee nods. “So scary that he‘d see her as life-threatening. That he might try to kill her. Yes, that‘s our current theory.”
I cover my face with my arms because this isn‘t happening. It isn‘t possible. For someone to make Peeta forget he loves me… no one could do that.
“But you can reverse it, right?” asks Prim.
“Um… very little data on that,” says Plutarch. “None, really. If hijacking rehabilitation has been attempted before, we have no access to those records.”
“Well, you‘re going to try, aren‘t you?” Prim persists. “You‘re not just going to lock him up in some padded room and leave him to suffer?”
“Of course, we‘ll try, Prim,” says Beetee. “It‘s just, we don‘t know to what degree we‘ll succeed. If any. My guess is that fearful events are the hardest to root out. They‘re the ones we naturally remember
the best, after all.”
“And apart from his memories of Katniss, we don‘t yet know what else has been tampered with,” says Plutarch. “We‘re putting together a team of mental health and military professionals to come up
with a counterattack. I, personally, feel optimistic that he‘ll make a full recovery.”
“Do you?” asks Prim caustically. “And what do you think, Haymitch?”
I shift my arms slightly so I can see his expression through the crack. He‘s exhausted and discouraged as he admits, “I think Peeta might get somewhat better. But… I don‘t think he‘ll ever be the
same.” I snap my arms back together, closing the crack, shutting them all out.
“At least he‘s alive,” says Plutarch, as if he‘s losing patience with the lot of us. “Snow executed Peeta‘s stylist and his prep team on live television tonight. We‘ve no idea what happened to Effie
Trinket. Peeta‘s damaged, but he‘s here. With us. And that‘s a definite improvement over his situation twelve hours ago. Let‘s keep that in mind, all right?”
Plutarch‘s attempt to cheer me up—laced with the news of another four, possibly five, murders—somehow backfires. Portia. Peeta‘s prep team. Effie. The effort to fight back tears makes my throat
throb until I‘m gasping again. Eventually, they have no choice but to sedate me.
When I wake, I wonder if this will be the only way I sleep now, with drugs shot into my arm. I‘m glad I‘m not supposed to talk for the next few days, because there‘s nothing I want to say. Or do. In fact, I‘m
a model patient, my lethargy taken for restraint, obedience to the doctors‘ orders. I no longer feel like crying. In fact, I can only manage to hold on to one simple thought: an image of Snow‘s face
accompanied by the whisper in my head. I will kill you.
My mother and Prim take turns nursing me, coaxing me to swallow bites of soft food. People come in periodically to give me updates on Peeta‘s condition. The high levels of tracker jacker venom are
working their way out of his body. He‘s being treated only by strangers, natives of 13—no one from home or the Capitol has been allowed to see him—to keep any dangerous memories from triggering. A
team of specialists works long hours designing a strategy for his recovery.
Gale‘s not supposed to visit me, as he‘s confined to bed with some kind of shoulder wound. But on the third night, after I‘ve been medicated and the lights turned down low for bedtime, he slips silently
into my room. He doesn‘t speak, just runs his fingers over the bruises on my neck with a touch as light as moth wings, plants a kiss between my eyes, and disappears.
The next morning, I‘m discharged from the hospital with instructions to move quietly and speak only when necessary. I‘m not imprinted with a schedule, so I wander around aimlessly until Prim‘s
excused from her hospital duties to take me to our family‘s latest compartment. 2212. Identical to the last one, but with no window.
Buttercup has now been issued a daily food allowance and a pan of sand that‘s kept under the bathroom sink. As Prim tucks me into bed, he hops up on my pillow, vying for her attention. She cradles
him but stays focused on me. “Katniss, I know this whole thing with Peeta is terrible for you. But remember, Snow worked on him for weeks, and we‘ve only had him for a few days. There‘s a chance that
the old Peeta, the one who loves you, is still inside. Trying to get back to you. Don‘t give up on him.”
I look at my little sister and think how she has inherited the best qualities our family has to offer: my mother‘s healing hands, my father‘s level head, and my fight. There‘s something else there as well,
something entirely her own. An ability to look into the confusing mess of life and see things for what they are. Is it possible she could be right? That Peeta could return to me?
“I have to get back to the hospital,” Prim says, placing Buttercup on the bed beside me. “You two keep each other company, okay?”
Buttercup springs off the bed and follows her to the door, complaining loudly when he‘s left behind. We‘re about as much company for each other as dirt. After maybe thirty seconds, I know I can‘t stand
being confined in the subterranean cell, and leave Buttercup to his own devices. I get lost several times, but eventually I make my way down to Special Defense. Everyone I pass stares at the bruises, and I
can‘t help feeling self-conscious to the point that I tug my collar up to my ears.
Gale must have been released from the hospital this morning as well, because I find him in one of the research rooms with Beetee. They‘re immersed, heads bent over a drawing, taking a
measurement. Versions of the picture litter the table and floor. Tacked on the corkboard walls and occupying several computer screens are other designs of some sort. In the rough lines of one, I recognize
Gale‘s twitch-up snare. “What are these?” I ask hoarsely, pulling their attention from the sheet.
“Ah, Katniss, you‘ve found us out,” says Beetee cheerfully.
“What? Is this a secret?” I know Gale‘s been down here working with Beetee a lot, but I assumed they were messing around with bows and guns.
“Not really. But I‘ve felt a little guilty about it. Stealing Gale away from you so much,” Beetee admits.
Since I‘ve spent most of my time in 13 disoriented, worried, angry, being remade, or hospitalized, I can‘t say Gale‘s absences have inconvenienced me. Things haven‘t been exactly harmonious
between us, either. But I let Beetee think he owes me. “I hope you‘ve been putting his time to good use.”
“Come and see,” he says, waving me over to a computer screen.
This is what they‘ve been doing. Taking the fundamental ideas behind Gale‘s traps and adapting them into weapons against humans. Bombs mostly. It‘s less about the mechanics of the traps than the
psychology behind them. Booby-trapping an area that provides something essential to survival. A water or food supply. Frightening prey so that a large number flee into a greater destruction. Endangering
off-spring in order to draw in the actual desired target, the parent. Luring the victim into what appears to be a safe haven—where death awaits it. At some point, Gale and Beetee left the wilderness behind
and focused on more human impulses. Like compassion. A bomb explodes. Time is allowed for people to rush to the aid of the wounded. Then a second, more powerful bomb kills them as well.
“That seems to be crossing some kind of line,” I say. “So anything goes?” They both stare at me—Beetee with doubt, Gale with hostility. “I guess there isn‘t a rule book for what might be unacceptable
to do to another human being.”
“Sure there is. Beetee and I have been following the same rule book President Snow used when he hijacked Peeta,” says Gale.
Cruel, but to the point. I leave without further comment. I feel if I don‘t get outside immediately, I‘ll just go ballistic, but I‘m still in Special Defense when I‘m waylaid by Haymitch. “Come on,” he says. “We
need you back up at the hospital.”
“What for?” I ask.
“They‘re going to try something on Peeta,” he answers. “Send in the most innocuous person from Twelve they can come up with. Find someone Peeta might share childhood memories with, but
nothing too close to you. They‘re screening people now.”
I know this will be a difficult task, since anyone Peeta shares childhood memories with would most likely be from town, and almost none of those people escaped the flames. But when we reach the
hospital room that has been turned into a work space for Peeta‘s recovery team, there she sits chatting with Plutarch. Delly Cartwright. As always, she gives me a smile that suggests I‘m her best friend in
the world. She gives this smile to everyone. “Katniss!” she calls out.
“Hey, Delly,” I say. I‘d heard she and her younger brother had survived. Her parents, who ran the shoe shop in town, weren‘t as lucky. She looks older, wearing the drab 13 clothes that flatter no one,
with her long yellow hair in a practical braid instead of curls. Delly‘s a bit thinner than I remember, but she was one of the few kids in District 12 with a couple of pounds to spare. The diet here, the stress,
the grief of losing her parents have all, no doubt, contributed. “How are you doing?” I ask.
“Oh, it‘s been a lot of changes all at once.” Her eyes fill with tears. “But everyone‘s really nice here in Thirteen, don‘t you think?”
Delly means it. She genuinely likes people. All people, not just a select few she‘s spent years making up her mind about.
“They‘ve made an effort to make us feel welcome,” I say. I think that‘s a fair statement without going overboard. “Are you the one they‘ve picked to see Peeta?”
“I guess so. Poor Peeta. Poor you. I‘ll never understand the Capitol,” she says.
“Better not to, maybe,” I tell her.
“Delly‘s known Peeta for a long time,” says Plutarch.
“Oh, yes!” Delly‘s face brightens. “We played together from when we were little. I used to tell people he was my brother.”
“What do you think?” Haymitch asks me. “Anything that might trigger memories of you?”
“We were all in the same class. But we never overlapped much,” I say.
“Katniss was always so amazing, I never dreamed she would notice me,” says Delly. “The way she could hunt and go in the Hob and everything. Everyone admired her so.”
Haymitch and I both have to take a hard look at her face to double-check if she‘s joking. To hear Delly describe it, I had next to no friends because I intimidated people by being so exceptional. Not
true. I had next to no friends because I wasn‘t friendly. Leave it to Delly to spin me into something wonderful.
“Delly always thinks the best of everyone,” I explain. “I don‘t think Peeta could have bad memories associated with her.” Then I remember. “Wait. In the Capitol. When I lied about recognizing the Avox
girl. Peeta covered for me and said she looked like Delly.”
“I remember,” says Haymitch. “But I don‘t know. It wasn‘t true. Delly wasn‘t actually there. I don‘t think it can compete with years of childhood memories.”
“Especially with such a pleasant companion as Delly,” says Plutarch. “Let‘s give it a shot.”
Plutarch, Haymitch, and I go to the observation room next to where Peeta‘s confined. It‘s crowded with ten members of his recovery team armed with pens and clipboards. The one-way glass and
audio setup allow us to watch Peeta secretly. He lies on the bed, his arms strapped down. He doesn‘t fight the restraints, but his hands fidget continuously. His expression seems more lucid than when he
tried to strangle me, but it‘s still not one that belongs to him.
When the door quietly opens, his eyes widen in alarm, then become confused. Delly crosses the room tentatively, but as she nears him she naturally breaks into a smile. “Peeta? It‘s Delly. From
home.”
“Delly?” Some of the clouds seem to clear. “Delly. It‘s you.”
“Yes!” she says with obvious relief. “How do you feel?”
“Awful. Where are we? What‘s happened?” asks Peeta.
“Here we go,” says Haymitch.
“I told her to steer clear of any mention of Katniss or the Capitol,” says Plutarch. “Just see how much of home she could conjure up.”
“Well… we‘re in District Thirteen. We live here now,” says Delly.
“That‘s what those people have been saying. But it makes no sense. Why aren‘t we home?” asks Peeta.
Delly bites her lip. “There was… an accident. I miss home badly, too. I was only just thinking about those chalk drawings we used to do on the paving stones. Yours were so wonderful. Remember
when you made each one a different animal?”
“Yeah. Pigs and cats and things,” says Peeta. “You said… about an accident?”
I can see the sheen of sweat on Delly‘s forehead as she tries to work around the question. “It was bad. No one… could stay,” she says haltingly.
“Hang in there, girl,” says Haymitch.
“But I know you‘re going to like it here, Peeta. The people have been really nice to us. There‘s always food and clean clothes, and school‘s much more interesting,” says Delly.
“Why hasn‘t my family come to see me?” Peeta asks.
“They can‘t.” Delly‘s tearing up again. “A lot of people didn‘t get out of Twelve. So we‘ll need to make a new life here. I‘m sure they could use a good baker. Do you remember when your father used to
let us make dough girls and boys?”
“There was a fire,” Peeta says suddenly.
“Yes,” she whispers.
“Twelve burned down, didn‘t it? Because of her,” says Peeta angrily. “Because of Katniss!” He begins to pull on the restraints.
“Oh, no, Peeta. It wasn‘t her fault,” says Delly.
“Did she tell you that?” he hisses at her.
“Get her out of there,” says Plutarch. The door opens immediately and Delly begins to back toward it slowly.
“She didn‘t have to. I was—” Delly begins.
“Because she‘s lying! She‘s a liar! You can‘t believe anything she says! She‘s some kind of mutt the Capitol created to use against the rest of us!” Peeta shouts.
“No, Peeta. She‘s not a—” Delly tries again.
“Don‘t trust her, Delly,” says Peeta in a frantic voice. “I did, and she tried to kill me. She killed my friends. My family. Don‘t even go near her! She‘s a mutt!”
A hand reaches through the doorway, pulls Delly out, and the door swings shut. But Peeta keeps yelling. “A mutt! She‘s a stinking mutt!”
Not only does he hate me and want to kill me, he no longer believes I‘m human. It was less painful being strangled.
Around me the recovery team members scribble like crazy, taking down every word. Haymitch and Plutarch grab my arms and propel me out of the room. They lean me up against a wall in the silent
hallway. But I know Peeta continues to scream behind the door and the glass.
Prim was wrong. Peeta is irretrievable. “I can‘t stay here anymore,” I say numbly. “If you want me to be the Mockingjay, you‘ll have to send me away.”
“Where do you want to go?” asks Haymitch.
“The Capitol.” It‘s the only place I can think of where I have a job to do.
“Can‘t do it,” Plutarch says. “Not until all the districts are secure. Good news is, the fighting‘s almost over in all of them but Two. It‘s a tough nut to crack, though.”
That‘s right. First the districts. Next the Capitol. And then I hunt down Snow.
“Fine,” I say. “Send me to Two.”

Categories: Mockingjay

Mockingjay Chapter 12

Mockingjay Part 2: The Assault

Chapter 12

Today I might lose both of them.
I try to imagine a world where both Gale‘s and Peeta‘s voices have ceased. Hands stilled. Eyes unblinking. I‘m standing over their bodies, having a last look, leaving the room where they lie. But when I
open the door to step out into the world, there‘s only a tremendous void. A pale gray nothingness that is all my future holds.
“Do you want me to have them sedate you until it‘s over?” asks Haymitch. He‘s not joking. This is a man who spent his adult life at the bottom of a bottle, trying to anesthetize himself against the
Capitol‘s crimes. The sixteen-year-old boy who won the second Quarter Quell must have had people he loved—family, friends, a sweetheart maybe—that he fought to get back to. Where are they now?
How is it that until Peeta and I were thrust upon him, there was no one at all in his life? What did Snow do to them?
“No,” I say. “I want to go to the Capitol. I want to be part of the rescue mission.”
“They‘re gone,” says Haymitch.
“How long ago did they leave? I could catch up. I could—” What? What could I do?
Haymitch shakes his head. “It‘ll never happen. You‘re too valuable and too vulnerable. There was talk of sending you to another district to divert the Capitol‘s attention while the rescue takes place. But
no one felt you could handle it.”
“Please, Haymitch!” I‘m begging now. “I have to do something. I can‘t just sit here waiting to hear if they died. There must be something I can do!”
“All right. Let me talk to Plutarch. You stay put.” But I can‘t. Haymitch‘s footsteps are still echoing in the outer hall when I fumble my way through the slit in the dividing curtain to find Finnick sprawled out
on his stomach, his hands twisted in his pillowcase. Although it‘s cowardly—cruel even—to rouse him from the shadowy, muted drug land to stark reality, I go ahead and do it because I can‘t stand to face
this by myself.
As I explain our situation, his initial agitation mysteriously ebbs. “Don‘t you see, Katniss, this will decide things. One way or the other. By the end of the day, they‘ll either be dead or with us. It‘s… it‘s
more than we could hope for!”
Well, that‘s a sunny view of our situation. And yet there‘s something calming about the idea that this torment could come to an end.
The curtain yanks back and there‘s Haymitch. He has a job for us, if we can pull it together. They still need post-bombing footage of 13. “If we can get it in the next few hours, Beetee can air it leading
up to the rescue, and maybe keep the Capitol‘s attention elsewhere.”
“Yes, a distraction,” says Finnick. “A decoy of sorts.”
“What we really need is something so riveting that even President Snow won‘t be able to tear himself away. Got anything like that?” asks Haymitch.
Having a job that might help the mission snaps me into focus. While I knock down breakfast and get prepped, I try to think of what I might say. President Snow must be wondering how that bloodsplattered
floor and his roses are affecting me. If he wants me broken, then I will have to be whole. But I don‘t think I will convince him of anything by shouting a couple of defiant lines at the camera.
Besides, that won‘t buy the rescue team any time. Outbursts are short. It‘s stories that take time.
I don‘t know if it will work, but when the television crew‘s all assembled aboveground, I ask Cressida if she could start out by asking me about Peeta. I take a seat on the fallen marble pillar where I had
my breakdown, wait for the red light and Cressida‘s question.
“How did you meet Peeta?” she asks.
And then I do the thing that Haymitch has wanted since my first interview. I open up. “When I met Peeta, I was eleven years old, and I was almost dead.” I talk about that awful day when I tried to sell the
baby clothes in the rain, how Peeta‘s mother chased me from the bakery door, and how he took a beating to bring me the loaves of bread that saved our lives. “We had never even spoken. The first time I
ever talked to Peeta was on the train to the Games.”
“But he was already in love with you,” says Cressida.
“I guess so.” I allow myself a small smile.
“How are you doing with the separation?” she asks.
“Not well. I know at any moment Snow could kill him. Especially since he warned Thirteen about the bombing. It‘s a terrible thing to live with,” I say. “But because of what they‘re putting him through, I
don‘t have any reservations anymore. About doing whatever it takes to destroy the Capitol. I‘m finally free.” I turn my gaze skyward and watch the flight of a hawk across the sky. “President Snow once
admitted to me that the Capitol was fragile. At the time, I didn‘t know what he meant. It was hard to see clearly because I was so afraid. Now I‘m not. The Capitol‘s fragile because it depends on the
districts for everything. Food, energy, even the Peacekeepers that police us. If we declare our freedom, the Capitol collapses. President Snow, thanks to you, I‘m officially declaring mine today.”
I‘ve been sufficient, if not dazzling. Everyone loves the bread story. But it‘s my message to President Snow that gets the wheels spinning in Plutarch‘s brain. He hastily calls Finnick and Haymitch over
and they have a brief but intense conversation that I can see Haymitch isn‘t happy with. Plutarch seems to win—Finnick‘s pale but nodding his head by the end of it.
As Finnick moves to take my seat before the camera, Haymitch tells him, “You don‘t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do. If it will help her.” Finnick balls up his rope in his hand. “I‘m ready.”
I don‘t know what to expect. A love story about Annie? An account of the abuses in District 4? But Finnick Odair takes a completely different tack.
“President Snow used to… sell me… my body, that is,” Finnick begins in a flat, removed tone. “I wasn‘t the only one. If a victor is considered desirable, the president gives them as a reward or allows
people to buy them for an exorbitant amount of money. If you refuse, he kills someone you love. So you do it.”
That explains it, then. Finnick‘s parade of lovers in the Capitol. They were never real lovers. Just people like our old Head Peacekeeper, Cray, who bought desperate girls to devour and discard
because he could. I want to interrupt the taping and beg Finnick‘s forgiveness for every false thought I‘ve ever had about him. But we have a job to do, and I sense Finnick‘s role will be far more effective
than mine.
“I wasn‘t the only one, but I was the most popular,” he says. “And perhaps the most defenseless, because the people I loved were so defenseless. To make themselves feel better, my patrons would
make presents of money or jewelry, but I found a much more valuable form of payment.”
Secrets, I think. That‘s what Finnick told me his lovers paid him in, only I thought the whole arrangement was by his choice.
“Secrets,” he says, echoing my thoughts. “And this is where you‘re going to want to stay tuned, President Snow, because so very many of them were about you. But let‘s begin with some of the others.”
Finnick begins to weave a tapestry so rich in detail that you can‘t doubt its authenticity. Tales of strange sexual appetites, betrayals of the heart, bottomless greed, and bloody power plays. Drunken
secrets whispered over damp pillow-cases in the dead of night. Finnick was someone bought and sold. A district slave. A handsome one, certainly, but in reality, harmless. Who would he tell? And who
would believe him if he did? But some secrets are too delicious not to share. I don‘t know the people Finnick names—all seem to be prominent Capitol citizens—but I know, from listening to the chatter of
my prep team, the attention the most mild slip in judgment can draw. If a bad haircut can lead to hours of gossip, what will charges of incest, back-stabbing, blackmail, and arson produce? Even as the
waves of shock and recrimination roll over the Capitol, the people there will be waiting, as I am now, to hear about the president.
“And now, on to our good President Coriolanus Snow,” says Finnick. “Such a young man when he rose to power. Such a clever one to keep it. How, you must ask yourself, did he do it? One word.
That‘s all you really need to know. Poison.” Finnick goes back to Snow‘s political ascension, which I know nothing of, and works his way up to the present, pointing out case after case of the mysterious
deaths of Snow‘s adversaries or, even worse, his allies who had the potential to become threats. People dropping dead at a feast or slowly, inexplicably declining into shadows over a period of months.
Blamed on bad shellfish, elusive viruses, or an overlooked weakness in the aorta. Snow drinking from the poisoned cup himself to deflect suspicion. But antidotes don‘t always work. They say that‘s why
he wears the roses that reek of perfume. They say it‘s to cover the scent of blood from the mouth sores that will never heal. They say, they say, they say… Snow has a list and no one knows who will be
next.
Poison. The perfect weapon for a snake.
Since my opinion of the Capitol and its noble president are already so low, I can‘t say Finnick‘s allegations shock me. They seem to have far more effect on the displaced Capitol rebels like my crew
and Fulvia—even Plutarch occasionally reacts in surprise, maybe wondering how a specific tidbit passed him by. When Finnick finishes, they just keep the cameras rolling until finally he has to be the one
to say “Cut.”
The crew hurries inside to edit the material, and Plutarch leads Finnick off for a chat, probably to see if he has any more stories. I‘m left with Haymitch in the rubble, wondering if Finnick‘s fate would
have one day been mine. Why not? Snow could have gotten a really good price for the girl on fire.
“Is that what happened to you?” I ask Haymitch.
“No. My mother and younger brother. My girl. They were all dead two weeks after I was crowned victor. Because of that stunt I pulled with the force field,” he answers. “Snow had no one to use against
me.”
“I‘m surprised he didn‘t just kill you,” I say.
“Oh, no. I was the example. The person to hold up to the young Finnicks and Johannas and Cashmeres. Of what could happen to a victor who caused problems,” says Haymitch. “But he knew he had
no leverage against me.”
“Until Peeta and I came along,” I say softly. I don‘t even get a shrug in return.
With our job done, there‘s nothing left for Finnick and me to do but wait. We try to fill the dragging minutes in Special Defense. Tie knots. Push our lunch around our bowls. Blow things up on the
shooting range. Because of the danger of detection, no communication comes from the rescue team. At 15:00, the designated hour, we stand tense and silent in the back of a room full of screens and
computers and watch Beetee and his team try to dominate the airwaves. His usual fidgety distraction is replaced with a determination I have never seen. Most of my interview doesn‘t make the cut, just
enough to show I am alive and still defiant. It is Finnick‘s salacious and gory account of the Capitol that takes the day. Is Beetee‘s skill improving? Or are his counterparts in the Capitol a little too
fascinated to want to tune Finnick out? For the next sixty minutes, the Capitol feed alternates between the standard afternoon newscast, Finnick, and attempts to black it all out. But the rebel techno team
manages to override even the latter and, in a real coup, keeps control for almost the entire attack on Snow.
“Let it go!” says Beetee, throwing up his hands, relinquishing the broadcast back to the Capitol. He mops his face with a cloth. “If they‘re not out of there by now, they‘re all dead.” He spins in his chair to see Finnick and me reacting to his words. “It was a good plan, though. Did Plutarch show it to you?”
Of course not. Beetee takes us to another room and shows us how the team, with the help of rebel insiders, will attempt—has attempted—to free the victors from an underground prison. It seems to
have involved knockout gas distributed by the ventilation system, a power failure, the detonation of a bomb in a government building several miles from the prison, and now the disruption of the broadcast.
Beetee‘s glad we find the plan hard to follow, because then our enemies will, too.
“Like your electricity trap in the arena?” I ask.
“Exactly. And see how well that worked out?” says Beetee.
Well… not really, I think.
Finnick and I try to station ourselves in Command, where surely first word of the rescue will come, but we are barred because serious war business is being carried out. We refuse to leave Special
Defense and end up waiting in the hummingbird room for news.
Making knots. Making knots. No word. Making knots. Tick-tock. This is a clock. Do not think of Gale. Do not think of Peeta. Making knots. We do not want dinner. Fingers raw and bleeding. Finnick
finally gives up and assumes the hunched position he took in the arena when the jabberjays attacked. I perfect my miniature noose. The words of “The Hanging Tree” replay in my head. Gale and Peeta.
Peeta and Gale.
“Did you love Annie right away, Finnick?” I ask.
“No.” A long time passes before he adds, “She crept up on me.”
I search my heart, but at the moment the only person I can feel creeping up on me is Snow.
It must be midnight, it must be tomorrow when Haymitch pushes open the door. “They‘re back. We‘re wanted in the hospital.” My mouth opens with a flood of questions that he cuts off with “That‘s all I
know.”
I want to run, but Finnick‘s acting so strange, as if he‘s lost the ability to move, so I take his hand and lead him like a small child. Through Special Defense, into the elevator that goes this way and that,
and on to the hospital wing. The place is in an uproar, with doctors shouting orders and the wounded being wheeled through the halls in their beds.
We‘re sideswiped by a gurney bearing an unconscious, emaciated young woman with a shaved head. Her flesh shows bruises and oozing scabs. Johanna Mason. Who actually knew rebel secrets. At
least the one about me. And this is how she has paid for it.
Through a doorway, I catch a glimpse of Gale, stripped to the waist, perspiration streaming down his face as a doctor removes something from under his shoulder blade with a long pair of tweezers.
Wounded, but alive. I call his name, start toward him until a nurse pushes me back and shuts me out.
“Finnick!” Something between a shriek and a cry of joy. A lovely if somewhat bedraggled young woman—dark tangled hair, sea green eyes—runs toward us in nothing but a sheet. “Finnick!” And
suddenly, it‘s as if there‘s no one in the world but these two, crashing through space to reach each other. They collide, enfold, lose their balance, and slam against a wall, where they stay. Clinging into one
being. Indivisible.
A pang of jealousy hits me. Not for either Finnick or Annie but for their certainty. No one seeing them could doubt their love.
Boggs, looking a little worse for wear but uninjured, finds Haymitch and me. “We got them all out. Except Enobaria. But since she‘s from Two, we doubt she‘s being held anyway. Peeta‘s at the end of
the hall. The effects of the gas are just wearing off. You should be there when he wakes.”
Peeta.
Alive and well—maybe not well but alive and here. Away from Snow. Safe. Here. With me. In a minute I can touch him. See his smile. Hear his laugh.
Haymitch‘s grinning at me. “Come on, then,” he says.
I‘m light-headed with giddiness. What will I say? Oh, who cares what I say? Peeta will be ecstatic no matter what I do. He‘ll probably be kissing me anyway. I wonder if it will feel like those last kisses
on the beach in the arena, the ones I haven‘t dared let myself consider until this moment.
Peeta‘s awake already, sitting on the side of the bed, looking bewildered as a trio of doctors reassure him, flash lights in his eyes, check his pulse. I‘m disappointed that mine was not the first face he
saw when he woke, but he sees it now. His features register disbelief and something more intense that I can‘t quite place. Desire? Desperation? Surely both, for he sweeps the doctors aside, leaps to his
feet, and moves toward me. I run to meet him, my arms extended to embrace him. His hands are reaching for me, too, to caress my face, I think.
My lips are just forming his name when his fingers lock around my throat.

Categories: Mockingjay

Mockingjay Chapter 11

Mockingjay Part 2: The Assault

Chapter 11

What will break me?
This is the question that consumes me over the next three days as we wait to be released from our prison of safety. What will break me into a million pieces so that I am beyond repair, beyond
usefulness? I mention it to no one, but it devours my waking hours and weaves itself throughout my nightmares.
Four more bunker missiles fall over this period, all massive, all very damaging, but there‘s no urgency to the attack. The bombs are spread out over the long hours so that just when you think the raid is
over, another blast sends shock waves through your guts. It feels more designed to keep us in lockdown than to decimate 13. Cripple the district, yes. Give the people plenty to do to get the place running
again. But destroy it? No. Coin was right on that point. You don‘t destroy what you want to acquire in the future. I assume what they really want, in the short term, is to stop the Airtime Assaults and keep me
off the televisions of Panem.
We receive next to no information about what is happening. Our screens never come on, and we get only brief audio updates from Coin about the nature of the bombs. Certainly, the war is still being
waged, but as to its status, we‘re in the dark.
Inside the bunker, cooperation is the order of the day. We adhere to a strict schedule for meals and bathing, exercise and sleep. Small periods of socialization are granted to alleviate the tedium. Our
space becomes very popular because both children and adults have a fascination with Buttercup. He attains celebrity status with his evening game of Crazy Cat. I created this by accident a few years ago,
during a winter blackout. You simply wiggle a flashlight beam around on the floor, and Buttercup tries to catch it. I‘m petty enough to enjoy it because I think it makes him look stupid. Inexplicably, everyone
here thinks he‘s clever and delightful. I‘m even issued a special set of batteries—an enormous waste—to be used for this purpose. The citizens of 13 are truly starved for entertainment.
It‘s on the third night, during our game, that I answer the question eating away at me. Crazy Cat becomes a metaphor for my situation. I am Buttercup. Peeta, the thing I want so badly to secure, is the
light. As long as Buttercup feels he has the chance of catching the elusive light under his paws, he‘s bristling with aggression. (That‘s how I‘ve been since I left the arena, with Peeta alive.) When the light
goes out completely, Buttercup‘s temporarily distraught and confused, but he recovers and moves on to other things. (That‘s what would happen if Peeta died.) But the one thing that sends Buttercup into a
tailspin is when I leave the light on but put it hopelessly out of his reach, high on the wall, beyond even his jumping skills. He paces below the wall, wails, and can‘t be comforted or distracted. He‘s useless
until I shut the light off. (That‘s what Snow is trying to do to me now, only I don‘t know what form his game takes.)
Maybe this realization on my part is all Snow needs. Thinking that Peeta was in his possession and being tortured for rebel information was bad. But thinking that he‘s being tortured specifically to
incapacitate me is unendurable. And it‘s under the weight of this revelation that I truly begin to break.
After Crazy Cat, we‘re directed to bed. The power‘s been coming and going; sometimes the lamps burn at full brightness, other times we squint at one another in the brownouts. At bedtime they turn
the lamps to near darkness and activate safety lights in each space. Prim, who‘s decided the walls will hold up, snuggles with Buttercup on the lower bunk. My mother‘s on the upper. I offer to take a bunk,
but they make me keep to the floor mattress since I flail around so much when I‘m sleeping.
I‘m not flailing now, as my muscles are rigid with the tension of holding myself together. The pain over my heart returns, and from it I imagine tiny fissures spreading out into my body. Through my torso,
down my arms and legs, over my face, leaving it crisscrossed with cracks. One good jolt of a bunker missile and I could shatter into strange, razor-sharp shards.
When the restless, wiggling majority has settled into sleep, I carefully extricate myself from my blanket and tiptoe through the cavern until I find Finnick, feeling for some unspecified reason that he will
understand. He sits under the safety light in his space, knotting his rope, not even pretending to rest. As I whisper my discovery of Snow‘s plan to break me, it dawns on me. This strategy is very old news
to Finnick. It‘s what broke him.
“This is what they‘re doing to you with Annie, isn‘t it?” I ask.
“Well, they didn‘t arrest her because they thought she‘d be a wealth of rebel information,” he says. “They know I‘d never have risked telling her anything like that. For her own protection.”
“Oh, Finnick. I‘m so sorry,” I say.
“No, I‘m sorry. That I didn‘t warn you somehow,” he tells me.
Suddenly, a memory surfaces. I‘m strapped to my bed, mad with rage and grief after the rescue. Finnick is trying to console me about Peeta. “They‘ll figure out he doesn‘t know anything pretty fast.
And they won‘t kill him if they think they can use him against you.”
“You did warn me, though. On the hovercraft. Only when you said they‘d use Peeta against me, I thought you meant like bait. To lure me into the Capitol somehow,” I say.
“I shouldn‘t have said even that. It was too late for it to be of any help to you. Since I hadn‘t warned you before the Quarter Quell, I should‘ve shut up about how Snow operates.” Finnick yanks on the end
of his rope, and an intricate knot becomes a straight line again. “It‘s just that I didn‘t understand when I met you. After your first Games, I thought the whole romance was an act on your part. We all expected
you‘d continue that strategy. But it wasn‘t until Peeta hit the force field and nearly died that I—” Finnick hesitates.
I think back to the arena. How I sobbed when Finnick revived Peeta. The quizzical look on Finnick‘s face. The way he excused my behavior, blaming it on my pretend pregnancy. “That you what?”
“That I knew I‘d misjudged you. That you do love him. I‘m not saying in what way. Maybe you don‘t know yourself. But anyone paying attention could see how much you care about him,” he says gently.
Anyone? On Snow‘s visit before the Victory Tour, he challenged me to erase any doubts of my love for Peeta. “Convince me,” Snow said. It seems, under that hot pink sky with Peeta‘s life in limbo, I
finally did. And in doing so, I gave him the weapon he needed to break me.
Finnick and I sit for a long time in silence, watching the knots bloom and vanish, before I can ask, “How do you bear it?”
Finnick looks at me in disbelief. “I don‘t, Katniss! Obviously, I don‘t. I drag myself out of nightmares each morning and find there‘s no relief in waking.” Something in my expression stops him. “Better
not to give in to it. It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart.”
Well, he must know. I take a deep breath, forcing myself back into one piece.
“The more you can distract yourself, the better,” he says. “First thing tomorrow, we‘ll get you your own rope. Until then, take mine.”
I spend the rest of the night on my mattress obsessively making knots, holding them up for Buttercup‘s inspection. If one looks suspicious, he swipes it out of the air and bites it a few times to make
sure it‘s dead. By morning, my fingers are sore, but I‘m still holding on.
With twenty-four hours of quiet behind us, Coin finally announces we can leave the bunker. Our old quarters have been destroyed by the bombings. Everyone must follow exact directions to their new
compartments. We clean our spaces, as directed, and file obediently toward the door.
Before I‘m halfway there, Boggs appears and pulls me from the line. He signals for Gale and Finnick to join us. People move aside to let us by. Some even smile at me since the Crazy Cat game
seems to have made me more lovable. Out the door, up the stairs, down the hall to one of those multidirectional elevators, and finally we arrive at Special Defense. Nothing along our route has been
damaged, but we are still very deep.
Boggs ushers us into a room virtually identical to Command. Coin, Plutarch, Haymitch, Cressida, and everybody else around the table looks exhausted. Someone has finally broken out the coffee—
although I‘m sure it‘s viewed only as an emergency stimulant—and Plutarch has both hands wrapped tightly around his cup as if at any moment it might be taken away.
There‘s no small talk. “We need all four of you suited up and aboveground,” says the president. “You have two hours to get footage showing the damage from the bombing, establish that Thirteen‘s
military unit remains not only functional but dominant, and, most important, that the Mockingjay is still alive. Any questions?”
“Can we have a coffee?” asks Finnick.
Steaming cups are handed out. I stare distastefully at the shiny black liquid, never having been much of a fan of the stuff, but thinking it might help me stay on my feet. Finnick sloshes some cream in
my cup and reaches into the sugar bowl. “Want a sugar cube?” he asks in his old seductive voice. That‘s how we met, with Finnick offering me sugar. Surrounded by horses and chariots, costumed and
painted for the crowds, before we were allies. Before I had any idea what made him tick. The memory actually coaxes a smile out of me. “Here, it improves the taste,” he says in his real voice, plunking
three cubes in my cup.
As I turn to go suit up as the Mockingjay, I catch Gale watching me and Finnick unhappily. What now? Does he actually think something‘s going on between us? Maybe he saw me go to Finnick‘s last
night. I would‘ve passed the Hawthornes‘ space to get there. I guess that probably rubbed him the wrong way. Me seeking out Finnick‘s company instead of his. Well, fine. I‘ve got rope burn on my fingers, I
can barely hold my eyes open, and a camera crew‘s waiting for me to do something brilliant. And Snow‘s got Peeta. Gale can think whatever he wants.
In my new Remake Room in Special Defense, my prep team slaps me into my Mockingjay suit, arranges my hair, and applies minimal makeup before my coffee‘s even cooled. In ten minutes, the cast
and crew of the next propos are making the circuitous trek to the outside. I slurp my coffee as we travel, finding that the cream and sugar greatly enhance its flavor. As I knock back the dregs that have
settled to the bottom of the cup, I feel a slight buzz start to run through my veins.
After climbing a final ladder, Boggs hits a lever that opens a trapdoor. Fresh air rushes in. I take big gulps and for the first time allow myself to feel how much I hated the bunker. We emerge into the
woods, and my hands run through the leaves overhead. Some are just starting to turn. “What day is it?” I ask no one in particular. Boggs tells me September begins next week.
September. That means Snow has had Peeta in his clutches for five, maybe six weeks. I examine a leaf on my palm and see I‘m shaking. I can‘t will myself to stop. I blame the coffee and try to focus
on slowing my breathing, which is far too rapid for my pace.
Debris begins to litter the forest floor. We come to our first crater, thirty yards wide and I can‘t tell how deep. Very. Boggs says anyone on the first ten levels would likely have been killed. We skirt the
pit and continue on.
“Can you rebuild it?” Gale asks.
“Not anytime soon. That one didn‘t get much. A few backup generators and a poultry farm,” says Boggs. “We‘ll just seal it off.”
The trees disappear as we enter the area inside the fence. The craters are ringed with a mixture of old and new rubble. Before the bombing, very little of the current 13 was aboveground. A few guard
stations. The training area. About a foot of the top floor of our building—where Buttercup‘s window jutted out—with several feet of steel on top of it. Even that was never meant to withstand more than a
superficial attack.
“How much of an edge did the boy‘s warning give you?” asks Haymitch.
“About ten minutes before our own systems would‘ve detected the missiles,” says Boggs.
“But it did help, right?” I ask. I can‘t bear it if he says no.
“Absolutely,” Boggs replies. “Civilian evacuation was completed. Seconds count when you‘re under attack. Ten minutes meant lives saved.”
Prim, I think. And Gale. They were in the bunker only a couple of minutes before the first missile hit. Peeta might have saved them. Add their names to the list of things I can never stop owing him for.
Cressida has the idea to film me in front of the ruins of the old Justice Building, which is something of a joke since the Capitol‘s been using it as a backdrop for fake news broadcasts for years, to
show that the district no longer existed. Now, with the recent attack, the Justice Building sits about ten yards away from the edge of a new crater.
As we approach what used to be the grand entrance, Gale points out something and the whole party slows down. I don‘t know what the problem is at first and then I see the ground strewn with fresh
pink and red roses. “Don‘t touch them!” I yell. “They‘re for me!”
The sickeningly sweet smell hits my nose, and my heart begins to hammer against my chest. So I didn‘t imagine it. The rose on my dresser. Before me lies Snow‘s second delivery. Long-stemmed
pink and red beauties, the very flowers that decorated the set where Peeta and I performed our post-victory interview. Flowers not meant for one, but for a pair of lovers.
I explain to the others as best I can. Upon inspection, they appear to be harmless, if genetically enhanced, flowers. Two dozen roses. Slightly wilted. Most likely dropped after the last bombing. A crew
in special suits collects them and carts them away. I feel certain they will find nothing extraordinary in them, though. Snow knows exactly what he‘s doing to me. It‘s like having Cinna beaten to a pulp while I
watch from my tribute tube. Designed to unhinge me.
Like then, I try to rally and fight back. But as Cressida gets Castor and Pollux in place, I feel my anxiety building. I‘m so tired, so wired, and so unable to keep my mind on anything but Peeta since I‘ve
seen the roses. The coffee was a huge mistake. What I didn‘t need was a stimulant. My body visibly shakes and I can‘t seem to catch my breath. After days in the bunker, I‘m squinting no matter what
direction I turn, and the light hurts. Even in the cool breeze, sweat trickles down my face.
“So, what exactly do you need from me again?” I ask.
“Just a few quick lines that show you‘re alive and still fighting,” says Cressida.
“Okay.” I take my position and then I‘m staring into the red light. Staring. Staring. “I‘m sorry, I‘ve got nothing.”
Cressida walks up to me. “You feeling okay?” I nod. She pulls a small cloth from her pocket and blots my face. “How about we do the old Q-and-A thing?”
“Yeah. That would help, I think.” I cross my arms to hide the shaking. Glance at Finnick, who gives me a thumbs-up. But he‘s looking pretty shaky himself.
Cressida‘s back in position now. “So, Katniss. You‘ve survived the Capitol bombing of Thirteen. How did it compare with what you experienced on the ground in Eight?”
“We were so far underground this time, there was no real danger. Thirteen‘s alive and well and so am—” My voice cuts off in a dry, squeaking sound.
“Try the line again,” says Cressida. “’Thirteen‘s alive and well and so am I.‘”
I take a breath, trying to force air down into my diaphragm. “Thirteen‘s alive and so—” No, that‘s wrong.
I swear I can still smell those roses.
“Katniss, just this one line and you‘re done today. I promise,” says Cressida. “’Thirteen‘s alive and well and so am I.‘”
I swing my arms to loosen myself up. Place my fists on my hips. Then drop them to my sides. Saliva‘s filling my mouth at a ridiculous rate and I feel vomit at the back of my throat. I swallow hard and
open my lips so I can get the stupid line out and go hide in the woods and—that‘s when I start crying.
It‘s impossible to be the Mockingjay. Impossible to complete even this one sentence. Because now I know that everything I say will be directly taken out on Peeta. Result in his torture. But not his death,
no, nothing so merciful as that. Snow will ensure that his life is much worse than death.
“Cut,” I hear Cressida say quietly.
“What‘s wrong with her?” Plutarch says under his breath.
“She‘s figured out how Snow‘s using Peeta,” says Finnick.
There‘s something like a collective sigh of regret from the semicircle of people spread out before me. Because I know this now. Because there will never be a way for me to not know this again.
Because, beyond the military disadvantage losing a Mockingjay entails, I am broken.
Several sets of arms would embrace me. But in the end, the only person I truly want to comfort me is Haymitch, because he loves Peeta, too. I reach out for him and say something like his name and
he‘s there, holding me and patting my back. “It‘s okay. It‘ll be okay, sweetheart.” He sits me on a length of broken marble pillar and keeps an arm around me while I sob.
“I can‘t do this anymore,” I say.
“I know,” he says.
“All I can think of is—what he‘s going to do to Peeta—because I‘m the Mockingjay!” I get out.
“I know.” Haymitch‘s arm tightens around me.
“Did you see? How weird he acted? What are they—doing to him?” I‘m gasping for air between sobs, but I manage one last phrase. “It‘s my fault!” And then I cross some line into hysteria and there‘s a
needle in my arm and the world slips away.
It must be strong, whatever they shot into me, because it‘s a full day before I come to. My sleep wasn‘t peaceful, though. I have the sense of emerging from a world of dark, haunted places where I traveled alone. Haymitch sits in the chair by my bed, his skin waxen, his eyes bloodshot. I remember about Peeta and start to tremble again.
Haymitch reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. “It‘s all right. We‘re going to try to get Peeta out.”
“What?” That makes no sense.
“Plutarch‘s sending in a rescue team. He has people on the inside. He thinks we can get Peeta back alive,” he says.
“Why didn‘t we before?” I say.
“Because it‘s costly. But everyone agrees this is the thing to do. It‘s the same choice we made in the arena. To do whatever it takes to keep you going. We can‘t lose the Mockingjay now. And you
can‘t perform unless you know Snow can‘t take it out on Peeta.” Haymitch offers me a cup. “Here, drink something.”
I slowly sit up and take a sip of water. “What do you mean, costly?”
He shrugs. “Covers will be blown. People may die. But keep in mind that they‘re dying every day. And it‘s not just Peeta; we‘re getting Annie out for Finnick, too.”
“Where is he?” I ask.
“Behind that screen, sleeping his sedative off. He lost it right after we knocked you out,” says Haymitch. I smile a little, feel a bit less weak. “Yeah, it was a really excellent shoot. You two cracked up and
Boggs left to arrange the mission to get Peeta. We‘re officially in reruns.”
“Well, if Boggs is leading it, that‘s a plus,” I say.
“Oh, he‘s on top of it. It was volunteer only, but he pretended not to notice me waving my hand in the air,” says Haymitch. “See? He‘s already demonstrated good judgment.”
Something‘s wrong. Haymitch‘s trying a little too hard to cheer me up. It‘s not really his style. “So who else volunteered?”
“I think there were seven altogether,” he says evasively.
I get a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Who else, Haymitch?” I insist.
Haymitch finally drops the good-natured act. “You know who else, Katniss. You know who stepped up first.”
Of course I do.
Gale.

Categories: Mockingjay

Mockingjay Chapter 10

Mockingjay Part 2: The Assault

Chapter 10

The scream begins in my lower back and works its way up through my body only to jam in my throat. I am Avox mute, choking on my grief. Even if I could release the muscles in my neck, let the sound tear
into space, would anyone notice it? The room‘s in an uproar. Questions and demands ring out as they try to decipher Peeta‘s words. “And you… in Thirteen… dead by morning!” Yet no one is asking
about the messenger whose blood has been replaced by static.
A voice calls the others to attention. “Shut up!” Every pair of eyes falls on Haymitch. “It‘s not some big mystery! The boy‘s telling us we‘re about to be attacked. Here. In Thirteen.”
“How would he have that information?”
“Why should we trust him?”
“How do you know?”
Haymitch gives a growl of frustration. “They‘re beating him bloody while we speak. What more do you need? Katniss, help me out here!”
I have to give myself a shake to free my words. “Haymitch‘s right. I don‘t know where Peeta got the information. Or if it‘s true. But he believes it is. And they‘re—” I can‘t say aloud what Snow‘s doing to
him.
“You don‘t know him,” Haymitch says to Coin. “We do. Get your people ready.”
The president doesn‘t seem alarmed, only somewhat perplexed, by this turn in events. She mulls over the words, tapping one finger lightly on the rim of the control board in front of her. When she
speaks, she addresses Haymitch in an even voice. “Of course, we have prepared for such a scenario. Although we have decades of support for the assumption that further direct attacks on Thirteen would
be counterproductive to the Capitol‘s cause. Nuclear missiles would release radiation into the atmosphere, with incalculable environmental results. Even routine bombing could badly damage our military
compound, which we know they hope to regain. And, of course, they invite a counterstrike. It is conceivable that, given our current alliance with the rebels, those would be viewed as acceptable risks.”
“You think so?” says Haymitch. It‘s a shade too sincere, but the subtleties of irony are often wasted in 13.
“I do. At any rate, we‘re overdue for a Level Five security drill,” says Coin. “Let‘s proceed with the lockdown.” She begins to type rapidly on her keyboard, authorizing her decision. The moment she
raises her head, it begins.
There have been two low-level drills since I arrived in 13. I don‘t remember much about the first. I was in intensive care in the hospital and I think the patients were exempted, as the complications of
removing us for a practice drill outweighed the benefits. I was vaguely aware of a mechanical voice instructing people to congregate in yellow zones. During the second, a Level Two drill meant for minor
crises—such as a temporary quarantine while citizens were tested for contagion during a flu outbreak—we were supposed to return to our living quarters. I stayed behind a pipe in the laundry room,
ignored the pulsating beeps coming over the audio system, and watched a spider construct a web. Neither experience has prepared me for the wordless, eardrum-piercing, fear-inducing sirens that now
permeate 13. There would be no disregarding this sound, which seems designed to throw the whole population into a frenzy. But this is 13 and that doesn‘t happen.
Boggs guides Finnick and me out of Command, along the hall to a doorway, and onto a wide stairway. Streams of people are converging to form a river that flows only downward. No one shrieks or
tries to push ahead. Even the children don‘t resist. We descend, flight after flight, speechless, because no word could be heard above this sound. I look for my mother and Prim, but it‘s impossible to see
anyone but those immediately around me. They‘re both working in the hospital tonight, though, so there‘s no way they can miss the drill.
My ears pop and my eyes feel heavy. We are coal-mine deep. The only plus is that the farther we retreat into the earth, the less shrill the sirens become. It‘s as if they were meant to physically drive us
away from the surface, which I suppose they are. Groups of people begin to peel off into marked doorways and still Boggs directs me downward, until finally the stairs end at the edge of an enormous
cavern. I start to walk straight in and Boggs stops me, shows me that I must wave my schedule in front of a scanner so that I‘m accounted for. No doubt the information‘s going to some computer
somewhere to make sure no one‘s gone astray.
The place seems unable to decide if it‘s natural or man-made. Certain areas of the walls are stone, while steel beams and concrete heavily reinforce others. Sleeping bunks are hewn right into the
rock walls. There‘s a kitchen, bathrooms, a first-aid station. This place was designed for an extended stay.
White signs with letters or numbers are placed at intervals around the cavern. As Boggs tells Finnick and me to report to the area that matches our assigned quarters—in my case E for Compartment
E—Plutarch strolls up. “Ah, here you are,” he says. Recent events have had little effect on Plutarch‘s mood. He still has a happy glow from Beetee‘s success on the Airtime Assault. Eyes on the forest, not
on the trees. Not on Peeta‘s punishment or 13‘s imminent blasting. “Katniss, obviously this is a bad moment for you, what with Peeta‘s setback, but you need to be aware that others will be watching you.”
“What?” I say. I can‘t believe he actually just downgraded Peeta‘s dire circumstances to a setback.
“The other people in the bunker, they‘ll be taking their cue on how to react from you. If you‘re calm and brave, others will try to be as well. If you panic, it could spread like wildfire,” explains Plutarch. I
just stare at him. “Fire is catching, so to speak,” he continues, as if I‘m being slow on the uptake.
“Why don‘t I just pretend I‘m on camera, Plutarch?” I say.
“Yes! Perfect. One is always much braver with an audience,” he says. “Look at the courage Peeta just displayed!”
It‘s all I can do not to slap him.
“I‘ve got to get back to Coin before lockdown. You keep up the good work!” he says, and then heads off.
I cross to the big letter E posted on the wall. Our space consists of a twelve-by-twelve-foot square of stone floor delineated by painted lines. Carved into the wall are two bunks—one of us will be
sleeping on the floor—and a ground-level cube space for storage. A piece of white paper, coated in clear plastic, reads BUNKER PROTOCOL. I stare fixedly at the little black specks on the sheet. For a while,
they‘re obscured by the residual blood droplets that I can‘t seem to wipe from my vision. Slowly, the words come into focus. The first section is entitled “On Arrival.”
1. Make sure all members of your Compartment are accounted for.
My mother and Prim haven‘t arrived, but I was one of the first people to reach the bunker. Both of them are probably helping to relocate hospital patients.
2. Go to the Supply Station and secure one pack for each member of your Compartment. Ready your Living Area. Return pack(s).
I scan the cavern until I locate the Supply Station, a deep room set off by a counter. People wait behind it, but there‘s not a lot of activity there yet. I walk over, give our compartment letter, and request
three packs. A man checks a sheet, pulls the specified packs from shelving, and swings them up onto the counter. After sliding one on my back and getting a grip on the other two with my hands, I turn to
find a group rapidly forming behind me. “Excuse me,” I say as I carry my supplies through the others. Is it a matter of timing? Or is Plutarch right? Are these people modeling their behavior on mine?
Back at our space, I open one of the packs to find a thin mattress, bedding, two sets of gray clothing, a toothbrush, a comb, and a flashlight. On examining the contents of the other packs, I find the only
discernible difference is that they contain both gray and white outfits. The latter will be for my mother and Prim, in case they have medical duties. After I make up the beds, store the clothes, and return the
backpacks, I‘ve got nothing to do but observe the last rule.
3. Await further instructions.
I sit cross-legged on the floor to await. A steady flow of people begins to fill the room, claiming spaces, collecting supplies. It won‘t take long until the place is full up. I wonder if my mother and Prim are
going to stay the night at wherever the hospital patients have been taken. But, no, I don‘t think so. They were on the list here. I‘m starting to get anxious, when my mother appears. I look behind her into a
sea of strangers. “Where‘s Prim?” I ask.
“Isn‘t she here?” she replies. “She was supposed to come straight down from the hospital. She left ten minutes before I did. Where is she? Where could she have gone?”
I squeeze my lids shut tight for a moment, to track her as I would prey on a hunt. See her react to the sirens, rush to help the patients, nod as they gesture for her to descend to the bunker, and then
hesitate with her on the stairs. Torn for a moment. But why?
My eyes fly open. “The cat! She went back for him!”
“Oh, no,” my mother says. We both know I‘m right. We‘re pushing against the incoming tide, trying to get out of the bunker. Up ahead, I can see them preparing to shut the thick metal doors. Slowly
rotating the metal wheels on either side inward. Somehow I know that once they have been sealed, nothing in the world will convince the soldiers to open them. Perhaps it will even be beyond their control.
I‘m indiscriminately shoving people aside as I shout for them to wait. The space between the doors shrinks to a yard, a foot; there are only a few inches left when I jam my hand through the crack.
“Open it! Let me out!” I cry.
Consternation shows on the soldiers‘ faces as they reverse the wheels a bit. Not enough to let me pass, but enough to avoid crushing my fingers. I take the opportunity to wedge my shoulder into the
opening. “Prim!” I holler up the stairs. My mother pleads with the guards as I try to wriggle my way out. “Prim!”
Then I hear it. The faint sound of footsteps on the stairs. “We‘re coming!” I hear my sister call.
“Hold the door!” That was Gale.
“They‘re coming!” I tell the guards, and they slide the doors open about a foot. But I don‘t dare move—afraid they‘ll lock us all out—until Prim appears, her cheeks flushed with running, hauling
Buttercup. I pull her inside and Gale follows, twisting an armload of baggage sideways to get it into the bunker. The doors are closed with a loud and final clank.
“What were you thinking?” I give Prim an angry shake and then hug her, squashing Buttercup between us.
Prim‘s explanation is already on her lips. “I couldn‘t leave him behind, Katniss. Not twice. You should have seen him pacing the room and howling. He‘d come back to protect us.”
“Okay. Okay.” I take a few breaths to calm myself, step back, and lift Buttercup by the scruff of the neck. “I should‘ve drowned you when I had the chance.” His ears flatten and he raises a paw. I hiss
before he gets a chance, which seems to annoy him a little, since he considers hissing his own personal sound of contempt. In retaliation, he gives a helpless kitten mew that brings my sister immediately
to his defense.
“Oh, Katniss, don‘t tease him,” she says, folding him back in her arms. “He‘s already so upset.”
The idea that I‘ve wounded the brute‘s tiny cat feelings just invites further taunting. But Prim‘s genuinely distressed for him. So instead, I visualize Buttercup‘s fur lining a pair of gloves, an image that
has helped me deal with him over the years. “Okay, sorry. We‘re under the big E on the wall. Better get him settled in before he loses it.” Prim hurries off, and I find myself face-to-face with Gale. He‘s
holding the box of medical supplies from our kitchen in 12. Site of our last conversation, kiss, fallout, whatever. My game bag‘s slung across his shoulder.
“If Peeta‘s right, these didn‘t stand a chance,” he says.
Peeta. Blood like raindrops on the window. Like wet mud on boots.
“Thanks for… everything.” I take our stuff. “What were you doing up in our rooms?”
“Just double-checking,” he says. “We‘re in Forty-Seven if you need me.”
Practically everyone withdrew to their spaces when the doors shut, so I get to cross to our new home with at least five hundred people watching me. I try to appear extra calm to make up for my frantic
crashing through the crowd. Like that‘s fooling anyone. So much for setting an example. Oh, who cares? They all think I‘m nuts anyway. One man, who I think I knocked to the floor, catches my eye and rubs
his elbow resentfully. I almost hiss at him, too.
Prim has Buttercup installed on the lower bunk, draped in a blanket so that only his face pokes out. This is how he likes to be when there‘s thunder, the one thing that actually frightens him. My mother
puts her box carefully in the cube. I crouch, my back supported by the wall, to check what Gale managed to rescue in my hunting bag. The plant book, the hunting jacket, my parents‘ wedding photo, and the
personal contents of my drawer. My mockingjay pin now lives with Cinna‘s outfit, but there‘s the gold locket and the silver parachute with the spile and Peeta‘s pearl. I knot the pearl into the corner of the
parachute, bury it deep in the recesses of the bag, as if it‘s Peeta‘s life and no one can take it away as long as I guard it.
The faint sound of the sirens cuts off sharply. Coin‘s voice comes over the district audio system, thanking us all for an exemplary evacuation of the upper levels. She stresses that this is not a drill, as
Peeta Mellark, the District 12 victor, has possibly made a televised reference to an attack on 13 tonight.
That‘s when the first bomb hits. There‘s an initial sense of impact followed by an explosion that resonates in my innermost parts, the lining of my intestines, the marrow of my bones, the roots of my
teeth. We‘re all going to die, I think. My eyes turn upward, expecting to see giant cracks race across the ceiling, massive chunks of stone raining down on us, but the bunker itself gives only a slight
shudder. The lights go out and I experience the disorientation of total darkness. Speechless human sounds—spontaneous shrieks, ragged breaths, baby whimpers, one musical bit of insane laughter—
dance around in the charged air. Then there‘s a hum of a generator, and a dim wavering glow replaces the stark lighting that is the norm in 13. It‘s closer to what we had in our homes in 12, when the
candles and fire burned low on a winter‘s night.
I reach for Prim in the twilight, clamp my hand on her leg, and pull myself over to her. Her voice remains steady as she croons to Buttercup. “It‘s all right, baby, it‘s all right. We‘ll be okay down here.”
My mother wraps her arms around us. I allow myself to feel young for a moment and rest my head on her shoulder. “That was nothing like the bombs in Eight,” I say.
“Probably a bunker missile,” says Prim, keeping her voice soothing for the cat‘s sake. “We learned about them during the orientation for new citizens. They‘re designed to penetrate deep in the ground
before they go off. Because there‘s no point in bombing Thirteen on the surface anymore.”
“Nuclear?” I ask, feeling a chill run through me.
“Not necessarily,” says Prim. “Some just have a lot of explosives in them. But… it could be either kind, I guess.”
The gloom makes it hard to see the heavy metal doors at the end of the bunker. Would they be any protection against a nuclear attack? And even if they were one hundred percent effective at sealing
out the radiation, which is really unlikely, would we ever be able to leave this place? The thought of spending whatever remains of my life in this stone vault horrifies me. I want to run madly for the door and
demand to be released into whatever lies above. It‘s pointless. They would never let me out, and I might start some kind of stampede.
“We‘re so far down, I‘m sure we‘re safe,” says my mother wanly. Is she thinking of my father‘s being blown to nothingness in the mines? “It was a close call, though. Thank goodness Peeta had the
wherewithal to warn us.”
The wherewithal. A general term that somehow includes everything that was needed for him to sound the alarm. The knowledge, the opportunity, the courage. And something else I can‘t define. Peeta
seemed to have been waging a sort of battle in his mind, fighting to get the message out. Why? The ease with which he manipulates words is his greatest talent. Was his difficulty a result of his torture?
Something more? Like madness?
Coin‘s voice, perhaps a shade grimmer, fills the bunker, the volume level flickering with the lights. “Apparently, Peeta Mellark‘s information was sound and we owe him a great debt of gratitude.
Sensors indicate the first missile was not nuclear, but very powerful. We expect more will follow. For the duration of the attack, citizens are to stay in their assigned areas unless otherwise notified.”
A soldier alerts my mother that she‘s needed in the first-aid station. She‘s reluctant to leave us, even though she‘ll only be thirty yards away.
“We‘ll be fine, really,” I tell her. “Do you think anything could get past him?” I point to Buttercup, who gives me such a halfhearted hiss, we all have to laugh a little. Even I feel sorry for him. After my
mother goes, I suggest, “Why don‘t you climb in with him, Prim?”
“I know it‘s silly… but I‘m afraid the bunk might collapse on us during the attack,” she says.
If the bunks collapse, the whole bunker will have given way and buried us, but I decide this kind of logic won‘t actually be helpful. Instead, I clean out the storage cube and make Buttercup a bed inside.
Then I pull a mattress in front of it for my sister and me to share.
We‘re given clearance in small groups to use the bathroom and brush our teeth, although showering has been canceled for the day. I curl up with Prim on the mattress, double layering the blankets
because the cavern emits a dank chill. Buttercup, miserable even with Prim‘s constant attention, huddles in the cube and exhales cat breath in my face.
Despite the disagreeable conditions, I‘m glad to have time with my sister. My extreme preoccupation since I came here—no, since the first Games, really—has left little attention for her. I haven‘t been
watching over her the way I should, the way I used to. After all, it was Gale who checked our compartment, not me. Something to make up for.
I realize I‘ve never even bothered to ask her about how she‘s handling the shock of coming here. “So, how are you liking Thirteen, Prim?” I offer.
“Right now?” she asks. We both laugh. “I miss home badly sometimes. But then I remember there‘s nothing left to miss anymore. I feel safer here. We don‘t have to worry about you. Well, not the same
way.” She pauses, and then a shy smile crosses her lips. “I think they‘re going to train me to be a doctor.”
It‘s the first I‘ve heard of it. “Well, of course, they are. They‘d be stupid not to.”
“They‘ve been watching me when I help out in the hospital. I‘m already taking the medic courses. It‘s just beginner‘s stuff. I know a lot of it from home. Still, there‘s plenty to learn,” she tells me.
“That‘s great,” I say. Prim a doctor. She couldn‘t even dream of it in 12. Something small and quiet, like a match being struck, lights up the gloom inside me. This is the sort of future a rebellion could
bring.
“What about you, Katniss? How are you managing?” Her fingertip moves in short, gentle strokes between Buttercup‘s eyes. “And don‘t say you‘re fine.”
It‘s true. Whatever the opposite of fine is, that‘s what I am. So I go ahead and tell her about Peeta, his deterioration on-screen, and how I think they must be killing him at this very moment. Buttercup
has to rely on himself for a while, because now Prim turns her attention to me. Pulling me closer, brushing the hair back behind my ears with her fingers. I‘ve stopped talking because there‘s really nothing
left to say and there‘s this piercing sort of pain where my heart is. Maybe I‘m even having a heart attack, but it doesn‘t seem worth mentioning.
“Katniss, I don‘t think President Snow will kill Peeta,” she says. Of course, she says this; it‘s what she thinks will calm me. But her next words come as a surprise. “If he does, he won‘t have anyone left
you want. He won‘t have any way to hurt you.”
Suddenly, I am reminded of another girl, one who had seen all the evil the Capitol had to offer. Johanna Mason, the tribute from District 7, in the last arena. I was trying to prevent her from going into the
jungle where the jabberjays mimicked the voices of loved ones being tortured, but she brushed me off, saying, “They can‘t hurt me. I‘m not like the rest of you. There‘s no one left I love.”
Then I know Prim is right, that Snow cannot afford to waste Peeta‘s life, especially now, while the Mockingjay causes so much havoc. He‘s killed Cinna already. Destroyed my home. My family, Gale,
and even Haymitch are out of his reach. Peeta‘s all he has left.
“So, what do you think they‘ll do to him?” I ask.
Prim sounds about a thousand years old when she speaks.
“Whatever it takes to break you.”

Categories: Mockingjay