Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

President Snow sits in his white leather chair, inviting me to sit down. There’s really no other way to handle this, so I oblige. The room is pristine, not unlike the hospital room they kept me in. I guess we must be somewhere in the Training Center but I’m not sure. We could be anywhere in the Capitol, even in Snow’s own mansion. It wouldn’t be unlike him to have an entire hospital wing. The president wears a stark white suit, crisp to a fault. His cufflinks glint in the overhead lights. It makes the beige clothes I wear look muddy in this space.

Once I sit across from him, he waits for me to speak. Or so I think. I don’t speak, catch his eye for lack of anything more defiant to do than that. His eyes pierce me, but I can see that they’re bloodshot, as if he hasn’t slept in some time. Possibly the events of the last few days have stirred things too much for his liking. My eyes move toward a screen to his left. The screen is playing a loop of the burning remains of the arena, the one they retrieved me from days ago. The one I thought I would never leave because it meant Katniss could go home. I squeeze my hands into fists in my lap.

Finally, he speaks.

“Mister Mellark. You’ve been brought here for a very simple reason.” He sits up, puts his hands on the table, folds them in front of him. The skin of his hands is taut, almost painfully so. I force my eyes away and up to his face again.

“I invite you to watch with me and tell me all that you know about what happened in the arena.” I don’t let the confusion show on my face as he makes a movement with his index finger. The screen goes blank, then shows the arena a day before the fire.

I realize this must be the recap they’d been building, to be shown once the Victor was crowned. If they ever really intended to have one, that is.

I see myself and Katniss together with Finnick and Mags. We’re all sweating, panting in the oppressive heat of the jungle. I vividly remember the feeling of being trapped like an insect in the humid atmosphere. How quickly we became desperate for fresh water. I see how I cut into the force field, effectively stopping my heart. Only now do I see how Finnick revived me, Katniss crying hysterically over my prone body. How he sits back once I’m breathing again to allow Katniss to hug me. Then I see how Mags sacrifices herself in the fog that paralyzed us. How helpless Finnick looked in that moment. I see us meet Johanna, Beetee, Wiress. We figure out the arena is a clock, get disoriented on the island of the Cornucopia. Wiress is killed. We fight the Careers. Beetee hatches his ill-fated plan to use the force field, explains his idea with the coil and the lightning. Katniss and I sit on the beach. I see every moment of our conversation about the locket and our kiss. I will myself to keep looking, even as the memory of that kiss threatens to make me lose my composure. Katniss and I agree to break away from our allies, are then separated when Beetee asks different things of us. I see now how Johanna and Katniss went down with the coil when everything turned into chaos. Johanna cut Katniss’ arm, left her to bleed out. I trail my own arm with my fingers and quietly figure out she must have cut out Katniss’ tracker. It’s the same spot. My breathing halts when I see the agony on her face, knowing she was alone and I was doing nothing for her. My palms start to sweat as I see myself try to help Chaff, then kill Brutus. I can barely remember any of that. The memories of those moments have a fog over them that I find hard to get through. Katniss makes her way up to the lightning tree while I’m running through the jungle blindly. Katniss fires an arrow into the center of the arena’s sky, then falls back as the blast of the lightning strikes her. My throat closes when I see her lying there, alone, surrounded by flames. Her arm is a mess and she’s pale underneath the grime of the jungle. Almost unrecognizable except for the bow that lies next to her outstretched arm. The image breaks up into strips of color, signaling a loss of transmission.

I sit back, trying not to let my emotions show. My fingernails dig into my palms.

“So, now that I’ve jogged that memory of yours. Care to tell me what Miss Everdeen’s plan was here?”

I stall. If anything, the plan was to reunite after Beetee’s trap. Not this. Annoyance bubbles up inside me at the implication that Katniss was acting with the specific purpose of blowing up the arena. So I deflect.

“Well, from how I see it, I think she made a mess of your arena,” I say with more confidence than I have. What’s the worst he can do? Kill me? Snow laughs sarcastically.

“She sure did. But you must know she didn’t act alone.” He continues to stare at me intently, watching my face. I’m glad the clothes are light enough to stop me from sweating. What is he getting at here?

“Or you didn’t know?” He sits back in his chair, eyebrows raised. “Were you aware of anything planned before you all entered the arena? Your mentor, Haymitch Abernathy, didn’t mention anything to you?” I look at the screen again, showing the burning remains on a loop. Katniss and I didn’t know a thing. We couldn’t have known. Haymitch never discussed things beyond finding allies and food.

“Peeta, are you aware that Katniss was taken from the arena by a group of radicals who wish to overthrow my government?” he asks matter-of-factly, as if he’s asking me about cake options at the bakery.

“Radicals?” I say despite myself. Snow seems delighted to see me fumble and continues.

“It seems that Miss Everdeen and Mister Abernathy were both part of a plot to stop the Games and extract a number of victors from the arena. I would assume you would be kept in the loop,” he says. “It would seem logical for them to include you in important matters.” He lets me sit with that for a second.

“But then again, that’s never been their way, has it?” This time my confusion at his words makes place for anger as he once again makes a motion with his index finger and a clip starts playing. There’s no video, but the sound is clear as glass.

“Even in the arena, you two had some sort of system worked out, didn’t you? Something I wasn’t part of.”

“No. Not officially. I just could tell what Haymitch wanted me to do by what he sent, or didn’t send.”

Hearing Katniss’ voice is enough to break me, but what’s worse is that I remember when we said these words. In District 11, in the attic of the Justice Building, where Katniss, Haymitch and I thought no one would hear.

I guess we were wrong.

Snow looks at me with so much satisfaction that I almost lose my temper. But I don’t, and just sit back as if this doesn’t faze me.

“Pity they haven’t learned to include you after all, Mister Mellark.”

“Katniss didn’t know anything,” I say. “I’m sure of it.” She promised me to share anything important. She’d never hide something as big as this from me.

“How can you be? Are you aware of what these people have been doing after the Games ended?” he asks. “Thousands of people have already died for this cause, both on Capitol and district sides. They’re not afraid to shed blood. A sentiment that we share, I confess. But I’ve never shed blood this foolishly,” Snow goes on.

“How many districts are rebelling?” I ask.

“More than I’d like. I’m telling you this because I want you to know that these people are no more noble than what you’ve always believed of the Gamemakers. They’ll stop at nothing to reach their goal. But tell me this: what will be left once it’s over?”

Snow leans back in his chair. I see both smugness and concern in his face. He’s losing the way of life he’s built but still relishes in telling me about it.

“I think we both know where it ends,” I say, leaving him to stew in my reply.

“Still, we both know where it has ended for you thus far,” Snow says. He looks around the room and focuses back on me. “You must have added up that Katniss and the others left you to die in that arena.”

My hands start to tremble.

“She wouldn’t have allowed that, if she knew,” I bite back, all pretense of calm gone. Snow smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Maybe not. Maybe she wasn’t aware of the plan at all, as you so passionately believe. But would she truly want all of these deaths on her hands, regardless of it?”

“What do you want from me?” I finally ask, looking at him.

“To… use your words. You’ve always been good with them, haven’t you? Half the country fell in love with Katniss once you declared your devotion to her. Half the Capitol protested when you revealed Katniss was pregnant. And I believe you can do that again. If Katniss has aligned herself with people who want a war, then we must try to dissuade her. Remind her of the cost.”

“And what if I don’t?” I venture, already knowing the answer.

“You know better than that,” Snow says simply. “If you truly love Miss Everdeen that much, your choice has already been made.” I consider my total and utter lack of options. I’m in the Capitol, Katniss is somewhere else. There’s nothing I can do except protect her like I vowed I would. Keeping Katniss out of harm’s way has failed miserably, but not all hope is lost. So yes, protect her. It looks different to how I imagined it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t still ring true. Snow has a point. I don’t have a choice. When it comes to Katniss, my choice has been made for years.

“I’ll do it,” I say. “Whatever you need me to say.” Snow leans back in his chair and nods slowly.

“You may leave, Mister Mellark,” Snow says.

The door opens behind me and two guards come in, ordering me to stand up and follow them. I’m too stunned to speak, so I do as they say. I don’t look back at Snow, but one thing I’m sure of when I leave the office is that the Games are very much still on.

I get shown to my quarters, flanked by my two guards. The man is tall and stocky, the woman shorter but no less athletic. They don’t speak as they walk me through a set of hallways, into an elevator, down into another set of hallways. We halt at an unsuspecting door. Inside is a lush bedroom. Spacious, with cream furniture and large rugs on the floor. There’s a vase of white roses on a dresser, the scent marking the room firmly as Snow’s property.

“Settle in. They’ll come get you in a couple of hours,” says the woman. I turn toward my guards, frowning. Am I a prisoner or a house guest? Why these quarters? Already the cloying scent of the roses is making me nauseous.

“Who’s coming?” I ask as indifferently as I can. The woman shares a look with the man.

“No further orders. Wait here,” she says. The guards position themselves in opposite corners of the room, on either side of me. I had hoped to be left alone like I was in the hospital room. Maybe they’re here to make sure I don’t find a way to end things. I walk around, pace back and forth as I take in my new surroundings. What’s Snow’s idea here? His words still rattle in my mind. Did Katniss truly know about the plan all along? I find it hard to believe that she wouldn’t include me after what we’d been through in our first Games. I made myself very clear in District 11, even though the memory now feels tainted because Snow heard my words, too. I wouldn’t put it past Haymitch to keep things from me, though, but dismiss the thought because it isn’t helping me right now.

As I pace, my thoughts turn to Katniss again. Snow mentioned she’s with the radicals. Who they might be is a big question mark. I barely know about their plan from what Snow mentioned, except for the extraction. Who else did they save? Did they even get Katniss out in time before the entire arena collapsed? Is she hurt? Is she alive? The last thing I saw was her firing that arrow. Assuming she survived the blast, where is she now? The one thing I refuse to consider is that they meant to leave me in there. Not even Haymitch would be so callous. I decide, firmly, that I need to believe that. And others need to believe that, too. If Snow wants me to speak, I will. I will make sure all of Panem knows Katniss is innocent.

My legs carry me across the carpet again and again, wearing down a path of footsteps. I’m so distracted I barely notice when my leg starts to chafe.

My guards seem to get tired of me already and suggest I do something productive instead. Despite my annoyance at their presence, they do manage to snap me out of this spiral.

“Like what?” I ask, looking between them.

“There’s a deck of cards in the dresser,” the man says. I look toward the dresser that holds the vase and approach it. Suddenly I wonder if this is some sort of test. But no, inside the top drawer I find a deck of cards. It’s blue, with a geometric design on the back.

I’ve never been an avid card player. At home, my brothers and I preferred to be outside whenever we had free time. It’s how I got into wrestling. But now it seems the deck of cards will have to do. I set out to play a card game my father once taught me but my memory fails me and I can’t remember how to set it up. So I resort to using my steady hands and build a card house. And another. My guards hold their breath as I stack it higher, building the base to be wider. One breath and it collapses. I do this for what feels like hours, but there’s no way to track time in here so I can’t be sure.

At one point I take a break to give my cramping hands some rest and go into the bathroom. The mirror in it shows me healthier than I thought it would. My hair is clean, my face clear of any marks. My arms and legs feel strong enough. They’ve made sure I am back in good shape. I wonder what their plan is with me.

I return to my room to find one of the guards, the woman, picking up the deck of cards. She sees me enter and returns them to me without a word. I’m not sure, but I think she wants me to make more card houses. So I do. I must build another fifty of them, but the guards’ eyes on me are starting to throw me off and making me mess up. I choose to ignore them and find a new rhythm, build a new kind of base out of the cards that allows me to stack them higher than before. I’m almost proud of the accomplishment before I remember why I’m building them in the first place. Suddenly this useless pastime makes my mood sour.

A knock on the door makes me topple over the cards in a heap.

The woman lets them in. I rise from the table, run my hand through my hair automatically. Regret doing it because it doesn’t matter who it is.

But then in walk the last people I would have thought of. My prep team.

“Peeta! Darling!” Gaius exclaims, carrying an enormous bejeweled case. Lucia falls into my arms but just about stops herself from weeping. I’m almost too caught off guard to say anything. Lucia’s wig scratches against my cheek.

“I- What are you doing here?” I ask, looking between them. Questions come into my head immediately, the most pressing one tumbling out. “Where is Portia?” I ask, looking behind them in the hopes of seeing my stylist. No such luck.

“Portia’s… occupied,” Gaius says lightly, eyes flitting toward my guards. “But she sends her best!” Lucia coughs awkwardly and I realize that my prep team’s enthusiasm might be the best piece of acting they’ve ever done. It’s clear that something is off with them. I don’t press further.

“Still, it’s good to see familiar faces,” I say. These two are my only tether to the outside.

“It certainly is! Now, let’s get you settled,” Lucia says, pushing me toward the vanity table in one of the room’s corners. Gaius opens the case and sets out a full set of makeup, hair products, and nail polish. It’s like I’m going into my tribute interview all over again. Since they didn’t answer my question earlier, I carefully try again.

“I see you’ve been called in to make me handsome again,” I joke, looking at their reflections. Gaius and Lucia tut at my self-deprecating comment.

“Only the very best for our star!” she says brightly. “We can’t quite tell you what it’s for though, they’ve been very adamant-“ Gaius shoots her a stern look. Lucia backtracks. “We’re just here to turn you into the brightest version of yourself.”

Careful not to overstep, I ask them questions about the last few days. They change the topic every time, like they’ve gotten strict orders not to say anything of substance. Lucia visibly gets agitated, dropping a hair brush or a bottle of product, so I stop asking after a while.

After an hour of looking at myself in a mirror, I’m barely holding in my shock. I really do look like a tribute about to be interviewed. Down to the sharp, white suit they’ve put me in. My breaths come quicker at the thought of going through it all again, and the uncertainty of my situation doesn’t help. Lucia seems to notice my distress and puts her hands on my shoulders. She messes with my hair as if trying to lay it just so, but her eye contact through the mirror is as reassuring as she can make it. Focusing on the sensation of her hands in my hair helps ground me and I breathe out, calmer for now. I thank them out of courtesy. They hug me and leave, promising to be back soon. Gaius squeezes my shoulder harder than necessary and somehow I don’t believe them.

Without a word, my guards point me to the door. Out of the hallway, up the elevator, into yet another different hallway than the one before. Each hallway is full of marble walls and floors, flowers on side tables. As time moves on, I’m starting to think we might not be in the Training Center at all. My suspicions of being in Snow’s mansion start to be confirmed. What place is so big and garishly designed?

When we halt at a set of double doors, my heart is hammering in my chest. I’ve been made up, groomed, pampered even. To what end? Snow told me they left me behind. Left me in the hands of the enemy. He did ask me to use my words. The woman knocks on the door and a man dressed in a black turtleneck opens it.

Inside, two chairs are centered on a circular carpet with a small table between them, like a living room for rich people. In one of the chairs, smiling brightly, sits Caesar Flickerman.

Chapter Text

“It’s so good to see you!” Caesar says as he ushers me in, shaking my hand vigorously. I shake it back, finding my feet unsteady as I take in my surroundings.

It’s a stage.

The Capitol’s insect-like cameras are already being set up in front of the living room, lights being positioned to illuminate both chairs. I see now that they’re on a kind of dais, slightly higher than the floor.

When Snow told me to use my words, I should have known he wouldn’t wait long for me to do so. Did he count on the fact that I’d be quick on my feet?

“Good to see you too, Caesar,” I say. I manage a smile, but my cheeks strain with the effort. I’ve built up a good rapport with him in the past year, despite his role in the Games. I don’t have to like him; I just have to be very good at pretending to do so. It wouldn’t do me much good to burn bridges now. His hair is still the same color as it was during the Victory Tour. Caesar’s world hasn’t changed, it seems.

“Have they told you what we’ll be doing exactly?” Caesar asks, his overly white teeth almost blinding me. His suit is a sparkly green and shimmers with every tiny movement. He’s also been painted with makeup, but the layer is so thick that it looks like oil paint that’s been layered on. One wrong move and it cracks.

“No, not at all, I’ve-“ I’m interrupted by the man in the turtleneck, who seems to be the boss of this set. He introduces himself as Plautus, and he seems both in control and incredibly stressed. He’s carrying some kind of thin black screen that emits a faint, blue glow. He’s tapping away at it violently before speaking up again.

“You two will be conducting an interview on your experiences,” he explains. “What it’s been like in the Quarter Quell and such, and of course your relationship with Katniss Everdeen,” he continues. The object in his hand beeps and he looks down, frowning.

“No time like the present,” he mutters to himself, before loudly telling the people in the room to get into positions. Caesar touches my elbow to guide me to the seats. I sit down in the armchair and sink into its soft upholstery. Another overly luxurious place, not meant for someone like me. I tug at my clothes; the collar of my shirt is starting to become a little tight.

“What do you mean ‘talking about my experiences’, Caesar?”, I say when he’s sat down as well. “Hasn’t everyone seen what happened in the Games?” And what good would that do?

“Well yes, of course, but we can’t know what you were thinking in certain moments. That’s why we’re here!” he says, opening his arms to gesture around the room. I look around, eyeing all of the people who are preparing the set. Isn’t the world outside burning? How can they pretend this entire situation is normal?

“We’ll have a chat like we’ve always done. You’ll be excellent,” he reassures me. No mention of what I’ve been told is happening. It seems odd that Caesar wouldn’t broach the subject of the rebels, but I don’t press further. I have, after all, gotten used to improvising.

I sit back in the chair and press my nails into my hands again, trying to make sense of what’s going on. Why would the people want to see me now? What difference does it make? Snow reminded me of the cost of the rebellion, yes. The death toll is already increasing rapidly. I think about the rebels, these unknown people who want to change things. How they want to change things. If I have to believe Snow, many districts have lost thousands of their people to the rebellion. If it continues like this, what will be left? How many lives have to end before we realize it doesn’t work like this? For years they’ve turned children into killers, and now the entire population will follow. More death, more blood. I’m sick of the carnage.

I remember our conversation earlier. If I’m shown as Snow’s, if I’m on his side, then I’m supposed to be a peacekeeper. Not like the Capitol soldiers, but in the way I’ve always done things: by talking. If I want to live long enough to find out what’s happening and know where Katniss is, I need to play his game. If I want to keep Katniss safe, wherever she might be, and remind her to take care of herself first, then my words are the only thing I have.

So I use them.

Plautus counts down from 3 to 1 and suddenly the lights increase and the cameras move in to where Caesar and I sit. A switch turns in Caesar’s personality and there is the host of the tribute interviews as if nothing has changed. His blinding smile is the first thing the people will notice. The cameras aren’t on me immediately, as if they’re waiting to reveal me later. They probably are. Caesar welcomes all viewers to this very special interview, telling them to make sure to stay tuned. Then the camera pans over to me. I look into its reflective surface and see myself distorted by the round eye.

My best course of action is to stay calm and serious, I decide. I need to be confident. I wait as Caesar settles himself in his chair, as if he’s searching for a way to start the conversation. I can’t imagine he came unprepared. They would only do that to me.

“So… Peeta… welcome back,” he says solemnly.

“I bet you thought you’d done your last interview with me, Caesar,” I reply.

“I confess, I did. The night before the Quarter Quell…” when I told everyone Katniss was pregnant, I remember, “well… who ever thought we’d see you again?” Caesar says.

“It wasn’t part of my plan, that’s for sure,” I reply. It troubles me that he’s making me remember these things now, just when I need to be composed. I had expected to only talk about the Games themselves. Caesar leans in as if he’s saying something only the two of us can hear.

“I think it was clear to all of us what your plan was. To sacrifice yourself in the arena so that Katniss Everdeen and your child could survive.”

“That was it. Clear and simple,” I say. I start fidgeting with the armrest, looking at my hands for lack of anything better to do. It really was that simple, and then it wasn’t.

“But other people had plans as well,” I add. Neither I nor Caesar speak for a while, letting the words hang between us. I’m not sure how much Caesar knows. I’m not even sure how much I truly know. I wouldn’t put it past Snow to confuse me for the sport of it. But the truth of the matter is that whatever I had planned for myself and for Katniss didn’t happen because of the actions of others.

Caesar clears his throat, making me look up again.

“Why don’t you tell us about that last night in the arena? Help us sort a few things out,” Caesar suggests. I nod, but it takes me a while to find a good place to start. My memories of that night are hazy at best, even with Snow’s recap. I struggle to recall exactly what it’d been like, as if part of me has shut the door on it, stopping myself from thinking about it.

“That last night… to tell you about that last night… well, first of all, you have to imagine how it felt in the arena,” I start. “It was like being an insect trapped under a bowl filled with steaming air. And all around you, jungle… green and alive and ticking. That giant clock ticking away your life. Every hour promising some new horror. You have to imagine that in the past two days, sixteen people have died – some of them defending you,” I pause for a second, remembering the woman from District 6. “At the rate things are going, the last eight will be dead by morning. Save one. The victor. And your plan is that it won’t be you.”

Caesar nods, encouraging me to keep talking.

“Once you’re in the arena, the rest of the world becomes very distant. All the people and things you loved or cared about almost cease to exist. The pink sky and the monsters in the jungle and the tributes who want your blood become your final reality, the only one that ever mattered. As bad as it makes you feel, you’re going to have to do some killing, because in the arena, you only get one wish. And it’s very costly.”

“It costs your life,” Caesar says.

“Oh, no,” I reply immediately, “it costs a lot more than your life. To murder innocent people? It costs everything you are,” I say. Suddenly I think about holding a bloodied knife in a dark forest. I shake away the thought, focus on the present. Grip the armchair that grounds me to the floor.

“Everything you are,” Caesar mimics, as if he knows what I’m talking about. As if he’s ever had to scourge the blood from under his fingernails in a desperate attempt to feel clean again. You never really do.

“So you hold on to your wish. And that last night, yes, my wish was to save Katniss. But even without knowing about the rebels, it didn’t feel right. Everything was too complicated. I found myself regretting that I hadn’t run off with her earlier in the day, as she had suggested. But there was no getting out of it at that point,” I finish. What if we had just left them like we talked about? Would it have mattered?

"You were too caught up in Beetee's plan to electrify the salt lake," Caesar says.

"Too busy playing allies with the others. I should have never let them separate us! That's when I lost her,” I say, losing my temper. The last image of Katniss retreating into the jungle is making me relive the fear of losing her. Meet me at midnight, she’d said.

"When you stayed at the lightning tree, and she and Johanna Mason took the coil of wire down to the water," Caesar says unhelpfully.

"I didn't want to! But I couldn't argue with Beetee without indicating we were about to break away from the alliance. When that wire was cut, everything just went insane,” I burst out, holding onto the chair as memories flash before my eyes, “I can only remember bits and pieces. Trying to find her. Watching Brutus kill Chaff. Killing Brutus myself. I know she was calling my name. When the lightning bolt hit the tree, and the force field around the arena...blew out."

"Katniss blew it out, Peeta. You've seen the footage,” Caesar reminds me.

"She didn't know what she was doing. None of us could follow Beetee's plan. You can see her trying to figure out what to do with that wire," I snap. How could they think she would have wanted this?

"All right. It just looks suspicious. As if she was part of the rebels' plan all along."

I rise out of my chair, throwing any attempt at composure away as I lean in to Caesar, hands on either side of him on his chair.

"Really? And was it part of her plan for Johanna to nearly kill her? For that electric shock to paralyze her? To trigger the bombing? She didn't know, Caesar! Neither of us knew anything except that we were trying to keep each other alive!" I yell into his face. My eyes are wide, I see spittle fly from my mouth. There. I hadn’t expected to get so worked up, but I let the emotions go through me anyway, catching my breath. If anyone was ever in doubt that Katniss was a rebel all along, I think I’ve now explained the opposite.

Caesar puts his hand on my chest and pushes lightly, urging me to get out of his space while simultaneously saying, "Okay, Peeta, I believe you."

"Okay,” I say, moving away. I run my hands through my hair, feel the products Gaius and Lucia used and realize I messed up their work. I’m out of breath and dizzy as I slump back in my chair. The lights are too hot.

I think Caesar needs a moment to catch his breath as well, but then he speaks up and asks me about the last person I think I know.

"What about your mentor, Haymitch Abernathy?"

"I don't know what Haymitch knew,” I say through pursed lips.

"Could he have been part of the conspiracy?" Caesar asks.

"He never mentioned it," I reply.

"What does your heart tell you?"

"That I shouldn't have trusted him. That's all.” I don’t care if Haymitch is out there in some rebel camp seeing this. Caesar leans over and pats my shoulder.

"We can stop now if you want."

"Was there more to discuss?" I ask, spent from my own outburst.

"I was going to ask your thoughts on the war, but if you're too upset..." Caesar says.

"Oh, I'm not too upset to answer that,” I say. I take a moment and then look into the camera in the hopes of making myself as clear as possible. This is what Snow expects from me. This is what I believe about this war. This is what it takes to keep Katniss safe.

"I want everyone watching – whether you're on the Capitol or the rebel side – to stop for just a moment and think about what this war could mean. For human beings. We almost went extinct fighting one another before. Now our numbers are even fewer. Our conditions more tenuous. Is this really what we want to do? Kill ourselves off completely? In the hopes that – what? Some decent species will inherit the smoking remains of the earth?"

"I don't really...I'm not sure I'm following..." Caesar says.

"We can't fight one another, Caesar. There won't be enough of us left to keep going. If everybody doesn't lay down their weapons – and I mean, as in very soon – it’s all over, anyway."

"So...you're calling for a cease-fire?" Caesar asks.

"Yes. I'm calling for a cease-fire," I say. I’m suddenly tired of this, of having to explain why killing others is a bad idea.

"Now why don't we ask the guards to take me back to my quarters so I can build another hundred card houses?" I ask, looking around for them behind the cameras. Plautus is making a circular motion with his finger.

Caesar nods and turns back to the camera.

"All right. I think that wraps it up. So back to our regularly scheduled programming."

The cameras relax into their neutral positions and my guards appear out of nowhere. Caesar shakes my hand again but his spark is gone. I don’t apologize for yelling at him.

I keep my mouth shut as they guide me through the hallways again, back to my room. Nothing has changed, but it feels different in here. I find the bathroom and rinse off the makeup immediately. It doesn’t come off right away so I scrub at my skin until it’s raw. The white towels in the bathroom come back stained. What I’ve just done, what I told the entire population of Panem, is to stop fighting. I’ve effectively told the rebels their cause isn’t right. If Katniss is with them, I’m not sure if she’ll take my words in thanks. I just hope she’ll understand why I said what I said. Even if the rebels have good reason to stand up to the Capitol, isn’t there another way? Change is necessary, but we can’t go about it through violence. Diplomacy seems an option that wasn’t considered. Who are these rebels exactly? Who leads them? I look at myself in the mirror and see someone who, just a few minutes ago, became the Capitol’s lapdog.

I return to the main room to see that my guards have disappeared. The cards are still on the table so I clean them up, return them to the dresser drawer. I’m too worked up for card houses anyway. The vase with white flowers is still there, reminding me of Snow. Since no one’s here to stop me, I take the vase and smash it in the bathtub, letting the water drain away as the flowers lie in a crumpled heap, surrounded by ceramic pieces. They don’t wilt like regular flowers, as if the water in the vase was just there for looks. I’m suddenly disgusted by them, how they’ve been manufactured to bloom indefinitely. I don’t bother to pick them out.

Back in the room, I pace again. I take off the suit jacket and fling it over the table, sweating in the dress shirt. It’s strange that the guards have gone away, as if they were just meant to keep me alive for the interview. With no supervision, I’m not sure what I’m up for. Is Snow going to make me his spokesperson? It sure seems like it. He wasted no time to get me in front of a camera. If this is truly the case, then I think I might spend the rest of my life in this room, surrounded by wealth that means nothing, trying to keep Katniss safe without knowing how she’s doing. I stop pacing and grip the back of an armchair, doubled over with grief. In my head, I repeat the only things I know to be true. My name is Peeta Mellark. I’m in the Capitol. I don’t know where Katniss is. I’m sorry.

I’m lying down on the carpet to try and catch my breath when the door opens and two figures emerge. At first I think they’re my guards, but I don’t recognize these faces.

“Who are you?” I ask, but they don’t answer me. Instead, they move in with such speed that I’m unable to do anything as they grab me by my arms and lift me up. Something cold is injected into my left arm and as much as I try to fight the morphling, I know I’m gone.

Katniss and I are in the jungle arena. I’m sweating, feel it pouring down my temples as we hear Johanna call out something. Katniss runs toward the sound and I try to follow but there is Finnick holding me back, telling me it isn’t safe. I try to wrestle him off but he’s strong. When I look up at his face again he’s not Finnick anymore but Snow, wrangling me like a snake, his arms tight around my chest. It takes all of my strength to escape his hold, I hear the crunch of bone as I snap his fingers off of me. He’s yelling at me, then Katniss is yelling, too. I try to reach her but just miss her before a cannon sounds, stopping me in my tracks, choking me with its meaning. I sink to the ground.

When I wake again, the first thing I hear is a scream.

Chapter Text

The cell is small. There’s a blanket on the floor and a toilet in the corner. A force field acts as the door. Only it doesn’t work like the force field in the arena, where sounds are blocked. They made sure I could hear everything happening outside of where they keep me. I’ve touched it and it didn’t electrocute me. Turns out the Capitol must have done that in the arena just because they could. They put me in brown rags, but the room is so stifling I don’t mind being lightly clothed. They took my leg as well. Not that I need to walk. But the fact that I have to hobble toward the toilet makes me boil with rage.

Beside me I can hear the same screaming that woke me up yesterday when I got here.

“You shitbags! Just kill me already!” Johanna screams into the open area that’s outside of our cells. She’s been relentless, yelling for hours on end. She’s been here ever since the arena exploded, she told me. Apparently she didn’t get the ‘cushy treatment’, as she called my first couple of days. I can only assume that Snow put me in a different place just to manipulate me, taunt me with Katniss’ position with the rebels. Johanna’s tie to Katniss is different.

They shaved her head and put her in a cell next to mine, taking her out for questioning when they please. Each time she returns, more bruises mark her arms and face. Sometimes she returns in sopping wet rags, drops of water marking her path.

She told me Annie is also here. I remember Annie, the tribute from 4 that Mags volunteered for. I wonder why they took her as well. They must have gone to District 4 immediately after the arena collapsed. The last cells in this block are reserved for Darius and Lavinia. They were here before I arrived. According to Johanna, the guards call them “the redheads” and take special care when beating them up. I remember Darius from home, but Lavinia turns out to be the girl Katniss met in the woods before she was captured. She’s the Avox who waited on us before our first Games. I pretended she looked exactly like Delly Cartwright, my friend from home. That moment feels like it happened a lifetime ago.

“Quiet, Mason!” Tiberius barks as he enters, followed closely by Atia. The two jailors position themselves in the center of the room, making sure all of us can see them. I hear Johanna spit more profanities, some of which are so colorful I can’t help but raise my eyebrows. I sit back in the furthest corner of my cell, positioning my leg as comfortably as I can. So far, I’ve been stuck in here since they took me from the white room.

As Tiberius locks eyes with me, I realize that’s now over.

“Mellark, you’re up.” Atia approaches my cell, scanning a code on her wrist so the force field falls away. Briefly I consider what it would do if I charged at them. But Atia doesn’t have to approach me at all. A device on her uniform flies out and zaps me. A current goes through me that turns my thoughts into a haze of confusion. I try to fight the feeling, but my limbs turn to jelly and I’m just sharp enough to know how incapacitated I am.

They drag me by my arms into a room off the main cell block. My leg drags painfully over the floor, heel digging into the concrete. I try to find purchase but my amputated leg throws me off balance. My eyes widen in terror as I see what they have in store.

A chair that’s tipped back sits in the middle of the room, straps on either side and at the height of each of my limbs. They deposit me in it as a light flashes into my eyes, blinding me. The room is large and stark, with objects lining the walls. Sharp, metal objects. I look at the ceiling and fight back tears as the reality of the situation sinks in. It’s right at this moment that the sedation of the shock wears off, too.

They want me to feel it all.

The jailors strap me firmly to the chair, tipping me back so that I’m almost lying upside down. I struggle against the restraints, which cut off blood and cause my hands and foot to feel like they’ve got ants in them. My breathing gets quicker and no matter how much I don’t want to give them the satisfaction, my breaths become shorter and shorter. As my shallow breaths fill the room, Tiberius closes the door.

Then it’s only them and me.

Their technique of interrogation turns out to be cruel in its simplicity. They ask a question I can’t answer, then either beat me or stab me with something. Not badly enough to kill me. Just badly enough to make sure my blood coats the chair by the time they’re done.

“Did you know of the rebel plans?”

“No.” Knuckles to jaw.

“What is Haymitch Abernathy’s involvement?”

“I don’t know.” Searing pain in my forearm.

“What is Plutarch Heavensbee’s role?”

“I. Don’t. Know,” I grit out. Atia’s boot crunches something in my leg.

They go on for what feels like hours. Tears and snot coat my face. Blood impairs my vision on my left side where Tiberius chose to use a knife to give me a cut above my eyebrow. The fear in me is so absolute that at one point I pass out. When I wake up, Atia’s there to punish me for it.

By the time they drag me out back to my cell, every part of me aches. My leg crunches, my arms are pincushions. I’ve given them nothing in terms of information. I pass out again once they put me down in a heap on top of the blanket.

When I wake up, a pail of water sits at my side. The pain sears through me as I push myself up. Dried blood cakes my arms and as I pull up the rags, I see how bruised the skin is. A cup sits next to the pail, so I drink first without hesitation. I can’t be sure if it’s safe to drink the water, but I don’t see the point in them poisoning me. Something tells me they’re not done with me yet. I use a corner of the blanket to clean myself and wince as I wipe my face. The movement causes the cut on my forehead to bleed again and I have to lie back to prevent myself from fainting from the blood loss.

“Peeta?” Johanna’s voice comes through our adjacent wall. My throat is bone dry, even with the water I just had, so all that comes out is a grunt.

“Good, you’re awake. I saw them drag you in. How you holding up?”

I clear my throat, drink more water.

“Bloody,” I manage to croak out. I hear Johanna’s cynical laugh.

“Welcome to the club. They shaved your head, too? I couldn’t tell with the blood.”

“N- no,” I reply. Johanna sighs. I don’t know what to make of her response.

“How are you?” I ask, my voice gaining a bit of strength. I crawl to the wall, lean against where I think she might be sitting.

“Well, they took me out again for questioning after you passed out. Annie’s in there now.”

Johanna doesn’t mention what they did to her, and I don’t ask. There seems to be an unspoken rule about topics we can’t discuss. We haven’t talked about the rebels beyond her mentioning something about an extraction. I figure it’s too dangerous to talk openly. It’s not worth implicating Johanna, even though I’m sure she was in on the plan.

A door opens and I see the jailors drag out a speechless Annie. There’s no blood anywhere on her, but her eyes are so bloodshot that I fear they might be subjecting her to worse than physical torture. She doesn’t seem to register us as they drag her past.

Time goes by and at one point I think Johanna falls asleep. I lay down on my least harmed side and have more water. I haven’t seen food passed around yet. Neither Johanna nor I have gotten more than water. My stomach contracts and I drink more, but the pains don’t subside. My father once told me that humans can survive without food as long as they have water.

With a pang, I think about my family.

I don’t know what’s going on in District 12. No one has told me and I haven’t been in the position to ask. Are they alive? Are my brothers alive? My friends? I stare up at the ceiling and wonder about the outside world. The last time I saw my family, I didn’t even say goodbye. Regret is useless now, but I feel it all the same. The only thing Snow mentioned is that many of the districts are rebelling. Is 12 a part of them? What has happened since I called for the cease-fire? My brain works so fast that I almost manage to tune out the pain in my body. Torturing myself with the idea that my family is in danger is worse than any pain the guards can put me through.

I decide that whenever I need to, I will remind myself of them. I will have to assume that they’re dead, for my own sake. I will have to mourn them quietly. I’ve gotten good at that.

This goes on for a few days. I wake up, am taken to a room that’s still coated with the previous person’s blood. The torture ranges from cuts to pouring buckets of water over my face which makes me feel like I’m drowning. I start to become wary of washing my face. They keep pushing me for information and I keep being oblivious about all of it. Still no food comes and the pains of hunger start to subside as my body tries to survive on just the water. Each time I’m recovered enough from the last time they took me, I’m dragged back in. I start lying awake at all hours, even though there’s no way to tell the time in here. I think about Katniss and my family. I talk to them in my head when Johanna’s asleep. I’m mostly glad none of them have to see me like this. I tell myself who I am, where I’m from, where I am. Johanna laughs whenever I do this, but I hear her whisper it too, sometimes. When I do fall asleep after particularly brutal sessions, my dreams are filled with blood and terror, each one building on the last. Like a never ending loop of violence. Physical by day, mental by night.

Tiberius is upon me the second I wake up. He and Atia drag me back, but this time I’m shoved into a different kind of room. The lighting is less harsh, but there’s a chair in the center, just like in the other room. I think about Johanna’s mention of my ‘cushy treatment’. To be fair, any item that isn’t soaked in blood feels like a step up at this point. But I’m not so naïve to think that this isn’t a new form of torture.

They strap me into the chair, but this time, both jailors leave. My head spins from sitting up and stars blur my vision as I hold on to consciousness. I take deep breaths, allow my body to get used to this position. I’ve been lying down in my cell because I get lightheaded whenever I sit up. They must know I’m on the verge of passing out from the lack of food. The breathing helps, though. I wish I’d had more water to fill the ache in my stomach.

Once I’ve gotten my vision back, Snow enters from a side door. I struggle against my restraints at seeing him. This man who’s allowed the torture of innocents. The murder of children. I’m too angry to pretend his presence doesn’t faze me. Snow makes a gesture with his arms, motioning for me to calm down.

“I’m not going near you,” he says. “I’m merely here to talk.” He seems almost disgusted by my state; the rags I wear have become so bloody that they hang in stiff peaks down my body. I don’t have to look at myself to know that my face is bruised and full of scabs. Just like my limbs and torso. How fitting that a man who uses violence is so displeased by the outcome of it.

“What’s the point of these?” I juggle the restraints as much as I can, then wince, regretting it.

“A safeguard. Now, let’s not waste each other’s time. I haven’t been entirely honest with you,” Snow says. He sits down on a white leather chair. He takes a moment to gloat, it seems, because his face adopts an expression of satisfaction once again.

“Care to elaborate?” I bite back, swallowing down bile rising in my throat. I hate throwing up.

“Certainly. I have mentioned before that a few districts have decided to cast us off. Now, I’m aware you’re not in favor of a rebellion yourself, hm? You so delicately spoke about it, for which I thank you,” Snow says. At once my words hit me in the face. I never said that I don’t want things to change. I said that it’s the way we enact change that matters. But Snow seems to think that I’m on his side, so I don’t respond.

“Well, it seems that Miss Everdeen hasn’t gotten the message.” The wall behind the president lights up with an image of the Capitol seal, then starts playing footage of ravaged buildings.

“What is this?” I croak, heart racing. The buildings don’t look familiar, so it can’t be District 12. So it has to be someplace else. Somewhere the rebellion is actively being fought out.

“This is what the rebellion has become. What we’ve had to do,” he adds emphatically.

The footage shows a block of buildings. It seems to be some kind of hospital, because I can see people being carried in on boards. A stretch of canvas acts as a door, but doesn’t do much in the form of concealing who’s inside. Wounded and sick people crowd the space; there’s barely enough floor left to walk anywhere. My brows knit together at this scene until it happens.

Hovercrafts.

Dozens of hovercrafts drop bombs on this hospital, on these innocent people. I don’t look away because I need to see this, even if the grief of their misery threatens to choke me. The hospital roof collapses, then the fires begin. I can hear the screaming and crying, the smoke that must be suffocating them, trapping them inside. I think about mining accidents we’ve had in District 12. How the miners’ families collapsed with grief. I think about Katniss’ father. Then Snow comes into view, the Capitol seal behind him. I see him take responsibility for the attack, to show the rebels what they’re up against if they want to pursue this war. The seal comes on again, together with the anthem of Panem. I look at Snow, confused, grieving for these lives lost. But he merely shakes his head and beckons me to keep watching.

The shock of seeing her alive on the screen makes my heart feel like it will burst. My arms move involuntarily in an attempt to touch the image of her, tears filling my eyes. There is Katniss, panting, looking right into the camera as if she’s looking at me through the screen. She’s crying but her face reads as pure rage. She catches her breath to speak, and when she does, I hold my breath so I don’t miss a single word.

"I want to tell the rebels that I am alive. That I'm right here in District Eight, where the Capitol has just bombed a hospital full of unarmed men, women, and children. There will be no survivors. I want to tell people that if you think for one second the Capitol will treat us fairly if there's a cease-fire, you're deluding yourself. Because you know who they are and what they do. This is what they do! And we must fight back! President Snow says he's sending us a message? Well, I have one for him. You can torture us and bomb us and burn our districts to the ground, but do you see that? Fire is catching! And if we burn, you burn with us!"

Chapter Text

The footage cuts abruptly and I’m left in stunned silence. Katniss is alive. She’s fighting, and she’s alive. A part of me settles; an ache deep in my bones that’s finally soothed. But I can’t control the sobs that rack my body. Hearing her voice, seeing her face, I hadn’t realized how badly I needed these things. To know that she’s still out there somewhere. That outside of this nightmarish place, where each day I’m met with more pain, she’s not giving up.

I barely register anything as I cry. I don’t know how long I go on for, but my breaths come short and fast when I finally stop. As I come back to myself, I realize where I am. Snow is implacable before me, waiting for me to listen again. I would be embarrassed about this, but I reason that there’s no more dignity to lose. I’m already his prisoner. Already his puppet. Since there’s no way to wipe my face anyway, I look into his eyes, knowing I’m a blubbering mess. Let him be uncomfortable, even if he won’t show it.

He waits for me to be totally silent before he speaks again.

“Katniss Everdeen has aligned herself with the rebels in District Thirteen,” Snow says simply.

“Thirteen? They don’t exist anymore,” I reply, snorting loudly to combat the snot dripping out of my nose. During the Dark Days, District Thirteen was bombed until there was nothing left. Punishment for leading the rebellion against the Capitol. The only footage we have of it are burning remains, still radioactive from the last war.

“They’ve been underground for years, as it turns out. And now they’ve gotten it into their heads to not only house Miss Everdeen, but lead the war against me.” So they’re the leaders behind the rebellion once again.

“Underground?” I ask.

“Oh, yes. The details don’t matter here, but let us agree that their operation has steered away from live and let live.” They’ve been there this entire time, and didn’t intervene until now?

“Why did they want Katniss?” I ask.

“As a symbol, I presume. Don’t you see how they’re using her to puppeteer their rebellion?”

“She wouldn’t just agree if she didn’t believe in this.” My knee jerk reaction is to defend her, even if I’m not entirely sure what is going on.

“How do you know? Does she know these people?”

“No, but –“

“Answer me this: can she trust these people?”

“That’s for her to figure out.”

“I suppose so, yes. You’ve talked about the human cost of this war before. On television, even. Wouldn’t you agree that Katniss is aiding humanity’s destruction?”

I don’t reply.

“Would you say she knows the cost of her actions? The true cost?”

“She’s seen you bomb innocent people, so I would say she does, yes,” I bite back.

Suddenly tears start rolling down my face again. All of these innocent, injured people died in the burning shell of a hospital. Katniss could have been one of them. But she survived. She’s not safe, but she’s still here. The relief of that fact is enough to keep me going for at least a little longer. I think about Johanna and the others, who didn’t escape the Capitol’s clutches.

As Snow decides to meet my retort with stony silence, I start to wonder why I was shown this clip. I can bet on anything that Johanna and the others won’t see it. I think about Snow using me to speak to Katniss. He must have known she was alive this entire time. Why else use me specifically to broadcast his message? Annie would have done the same thing, if given the instructions. But they didn’t choose  her, or Johanna. Because he knows Katniss would want to see me. He knows that whatever is between Katniss and I, she would care if I died. That’s what we do. We protect each other.

And suddenly, like a tap being opened, it dawns on me why he’s given me the cushy treatment, only for me to end up in a cell anyway. Tortured, bloody, grieving.

The president asked me if Katniss knows the cost of her actions. I think I know what he meant.

“The true cost of her actions,” I say, looking over Snow’s shoulder as I try to articulate my thoughts, “is not about innocent people in a hospital in District Eight. Not even your own soldiers, is it?” I start to sweat, feel it mixing with the snot on my face.

I look at him, determined now to see his face.

“It’s me, isn’t it?”

Snow smiles.

He seems almost pleased that I’ve worked it out then and there, for his viewing pleasure. The president informs me about his intentions. I’m not sure how much to believe, but from what I know about him, I don’t see why he would lie about this. It all checks out so far.

They’re using me as an example. Not that the others have been spared so far. He won’t disclose why Annie and Johanna are kept here. But reading between the lines, I know what Snow wants: to hurt Katniss. And he seems convinced that the way to do this is by hurting me. It’s one thing to be taken prisoner. It’s another to be taken as a prize.

He tells me that the rebels left me behind in the arena because their eyes were on Katniss only. That Katniss knows I’m alive because of the televised interview. It had to be me in front of Caesar. No one else they could get their hands on was as close to Katniss as I was. The rebels don’t particularly care about me. But just in case Katniss loves me as much as she’s always claimed, the Capitol needs to make sure that she knows her actions have consequences. Personal consequences.

I’m nothing more than a pawn being tossed around.

All this time, thinking I could somehow prove that I wouldn’t play their game, I was right in the middle of it. No matter how clever I may think I am, they’re always one step ahead. And I’m powerless to do anything about it.

Reeling from the revelation, they deposit me back in my cell. I don’t answer when Johanna wants to speak to me. I’m lost in my own world. Thinking about Katniss, about the Games. It’s true: you never truly leave them. Not really.

My name is Peeta Mellark. I’m in the Capitol. Katniss is in District 13. Snow wants to hurt her by hurting me.

I drift off into sleep with the image of Katniss, fire blazing bright behind her.

When I wake up, a tray with a bowl of drab, lifeless mush sits in front of me. Sleep has not brought me much peace, but the novelty of seeing food for the first time in weeks is enough to distract me from the doom overshadowing my thoughts. I pick the bowl up slowly, but it’s made of some sort of thick paper and weighs almost nothing. From the taste I can gather it’s some kind of oat mixture. We used to eat it at home, but my father would add a bit of honey or, if we could afford to, fresh strawberries. One per person. The mayor’s daughter, Madge, would sometimes trade a punnet of them for some cookies. He never told my mother exactly how he got hold of them. These oats are nothing like that. But even though it’s bland, the sensation of eating and filling my stomach is so good that I eat every last morsel. I have to take breaks between bites because my stomach needs to get used to solid food again and I don’t want to throw up. At first I try to save some for later, but the hunger takes over. If I don’t get food again, then at least I’ve had this. The only consistency here so far is a pail of water every day and interrogations. They seem to have us on some kind of rotation; we all get taken at set intervals.

As I think about the rotation, I realize that Darius and Lavinia have not left their cells in a few days now. I never see them pass, anyway. I start to wonder if they’re keeping them here because of their involvement with me. I’m their tie to Katniss. Their only crime was to come near us.

Just when I think Darius and Lavinia might just have to wait it out, Snow decides to give me a message. I know it’s for me, because he has made sure I’m front and center for it.

They drag out Lavinia first. The chair used in the torture room is set up in the middle of the open space in the cell block. Lavinia seems to be sedated at first because she doesn’t struggle or fight, but they snap her out of it in time to electrocute her. Atia attaches a band of some kind to Lavinia’s head. She dials something and I see how Lavinia goes completely taut, all of her limbs straight as a rod. Then she starts shaking and frothing at the mouth. From where I sit, I can see her eyes roll back. Atia curses and stops the electricity, then checks Lavinia’s pulse. She swears again when she has to conclude that Lavinia is dead. I start to wheeze, my food making its way up my throat. They drag Lavinia’s lifeless body out while Tiberius and Atia loudly debate how much they messed this up. She must have made a mistake with the dials and given her too high a voltage. At least Lavinia didn’t have to suffer for long.

They come back right away for Darius.

It lasts for days with him. I lose my food once they start cutting off his fingers, plug my ears to stop myself from hearing his animalistic sounds. He begs for his life with his whines. They ask him questions he can’t possibly answer and start chopping off toes once all of his fingers are gone. I beg and beg for Darius to die, because it’s the only way he’ll be free. After what feels like eternity, I can hear the moment his rattling breaths stop.

They carry what’s left of him away but don’t clean up his blood for another few hours. The metallic smell fills the cell block and I have to breathe through my mouth to bear it. They want me to be reminded of what I’ve done by being associated with them. I bang my head against the wall to stop myself from hearing echoes of Darius’ horrible cries, but to no avail.

Johanna tries to talk to me but I can’t speak. She resorts to distracting me with stories, safe stories that don’t include anyone we know. At first I don’t want to hear them, but then I can’t help but listen.

I somehow manage to fall asleep. My nightmares now include grotesque versions of the Avoxes chasing me, holding their tongues in their hands as they leave a trail of blood. I wake up crying and thrashing, upsetting wounds and bruises. A new pail of water has been placed into my cell. I crawl over to it to rinse my mouth and dab my face with a part of the blanket. I still can’t have water touching my face directly.

The blood from Darius’ torture is gone as if he was never there. When I look out at the open space, I see my guards talk into a device. A small figure appears on top of it, hovering like a miniature version of the person is coming out of the device itself. It ripples sometimes. Tiberius speaks to that small figure as if they’re there in the room with them. I pick up bits and pieces of the conversation. Nothing to give me enough context. I see both of them nod before pressing a button that causes the figure to go away. Not thinking much of it, I decide to sit down on my blanket and have sips of water from time to time as I try to stay awake, in case the nightmares come back.

The knowledge of why I’m here sits like a brick in my stomach. I wring my hands over and over, rubbing them raw. Snow never believed in our love story. Yet somehow, in some way, he must have realized it was real. He’s used it against me, to persuade me to show up on television. And now he knows that Katniss loves me, too. It doesn’t matter in what way. Love takes many forms. And now he’s twisting it out of shape, using it to manipulate her. Manipulate me.

A different pair of guards appears at my cell seemingly out of nowhere. They incapacitate me like Atia and Tiberius do, but the fact that I don’t know them awakens something in me. I breathe in deeply to slow my raging heart. In, out. In, out. In, out. I’m not bleeding to death, I’m alive, my stubborn heart continues to beat. My leg is already gone, they can’t take it twice. By the time I’m calm enough to look at my surroundings, they’ve brought me into a room that has a bed in the middle. I’m strapped in again like I am on the chair, but the bed cushions me more so I could almost forget I’m restrained. The guards position themselves at different corners of the room and wait. So I wait, counting my breaths. Eventually, the door opens and in walks a stiff, surly man with white hair. His eyes are cold and lifeless, almost like he’s a dead person brought back to life. I instantly know that he’s not a torturer in the way my jailors are.

“Mister Mellark, it is my pleasure to work with you,” he says in a monotone. Some other people come in and start setting up what looks like an operating site; they ready syringes and bring in vials of luminous fluids. It’s useless to try and wrench my arms away from their grasp, but I still try. They tighten the restraints as retaliation, causing me to see spots. My clammy hands grasp the sheets.

“I’m not sure it’s reciprocated,” I say lamely, eyeing the assistants at their busywork. The old man laughs.

“All you have to do is lie there and remember,” he says cryptically. The assistants pull on my restraints so hard that my arms no longer have an inch of room. They approach me with a needle on my left side, sticking it into my arm, right above a large scab that has just started healing a little. I wince at the pain, looking away as the needle is pushed deeper into one of my veins. When the needle pulls out, I can see a slim, flexible tube coming out of my arm.

“Remember what?” I ask, thinking he might try interrogating me again. A different approach to Atia and Tiberius.

“Your past. What matters to you. Or rather, who matters.”

Are they going to read my mind? Extract information that way? I thought we would be past pretending I was here to provide them with intel.

The ceiling above me lights up with the seal of Panem. But instead of more war footage or Katniss talking to the camera, I see the last image I thought I would see.

“Remember how it felt to be there, hm?” the old man says.

It’s the arena from the 74^th Hunger Games. Katniss is sawing away at a tree branch containing a tracker jacker nest, getting stung as the buzzing mutts realize what she’s doing. I’m sleeping underneath the tree with the Careers. I remember how I wasn’t truly asleep at that point. How I could get away just in time to save myself from the worst of the stings. How I came back to warn Katniss to run from Cato. Katniss told me afterward that I had saved her life. I remember Cato slashing at my leg, leaving me bleeding and delirious as the tracker jacker venom made me question my reality.

I can’t look away from the ceiling. I literally can’t, because they’ve fixed my head on the bed. I could close my eyes but they have small devices to prevent me from blinking. I’m forced to remember the agony of the wound and the venom, seeing Katniss turn Glimmer over to take her bow and arrows. The snap of Glimmer’s fingers breaking.

“Good job, Peeta,” the doctor says.

Right when I tell Katniss to run, pushing her in the opposite direction of where I believed Cato to be, a cold sensation runs up my arm. I can’t see it, but I can feel something running into my veins. The pinching, piercing sensation makes way for burning and suddenly I’m in agony all over again. The images on the ceiling start replaying as Katniss is sawing away at the branch again, me sleeping underneath the tree. My heart hammers and I start to sweat, feeling it drip down my temples as the images take on nightmarish proportions. Katniss turns Glimmer’s body over and I start to shake, fearing I might retch and choke myself as Glimmer’s maimed and disfigured body turns over. The video ends with Katniss turning and running, only for Cato to come back and strike me.

Panting now, the ceiling cuts to black. I barely register them removing the eye things but it’s no use now. In a stupor I thrash against my restraints, the hopelessness of the situation catching up. I must pass out at some point because when I next open my eyes, the doctor is sitting in a chair in the corner of the room. I try to sit up, then remember the restraints.

“What happened?” I ask.

“You just had an adverse reaction to seeing the video of the arena, that’s all,” the doctor says. “Katniss tried to hurt you in there, didn’t she? With the tracker jackers?”

I frown. Did she? The memory comes back to me but it makes my head hurt to think about. I recall the sawing, Katniss dropping the nest. Being afraid for my life as she dropped it on all of us. A deep-seated fear of what she was attempting to do.

“But she – she meant to hurt the Careers,” I say, headache sharpening.

“Weren’t you with them at the time? What makes you think she would have tried to save you?” the doctor prompts. I lie back and wrack my brain. No, no. I came back for her to tell her she needed to go. I wouldn’t have done that if – no, wait. She needed to run from Cato. Right?

“She killed Glimmer, I remember. Then I came back…” I say.

“Just to get yourself hurt, Peeta,” the doctor almost scoffs, “truly, she left you there, didn’t she?”

I close my eyes and try some deep breaths. There’s no denying it was a horrible moment. Not knowing what would happen, the hopelessness of being surrounded by the mutts.

But surely Katniss didn’t mean to stay there. She found me afterwards and nursed me back to health, risked her life getting me medicine. That’s not someone who wanted me dead.

“You’re wrong.” I grit my teeth. If I could turn away from this ghoul, I would. “You don’t know her.”

The doctor sighs deeply, as if I failed some kind of test. He addresses the assistants in the room to come back. They appear from behind my bed and begin their procedure again.

“It seems your memory is not serving you well. We should resume our… conversation.”

The doctor disappears for a while and then comes back with some kind of renewed fervor. He claps his hands. In the meantime, my restraints and eye openers have been tightened again. I’m not sure how long I’ve been here, but my sweat soaks the bed.

“Let’s try this again, shall we?”

The ceiling projects images again. Me sleeping in the mud, delirious from fever and blood loss. Then Katniss finds me and gets me out, washes and feeds me as best as she can. She’s not a healer, but she tried everything she knew. I joke that she can kiss me however much she wants and cringe now, knowing what happened after.

The piercing sensation in my arm returns. They replay the footage.

Katniss finds me, but a sense of foreboding comes over me. Seeing her approach me, remembering it, feels like something bad is bound to happen. Seeing Katniss assess the wound makes me gag. Her face is the picture of unease as she cleans me and feeds me, fiddling with the small pot she uses to make soup in. I make the joke and register disgust on her face now, how hadn’t I noticed that before? Something akin to irritation creeps in as I remember the footage now, remember the reality of it. If I hadn’t tried to save her from Cato, I wouldn’t have gotten hurt and she wouldn’t have had to take care of me. My breathing quickens as the conflict in me heightens. Because I needed to save Katniss, because I promised myself I would. Then why would I hold any of this against her? She told me herself she isn’t a healer. But then why wouldn’t she have let me die in the mud instead of going to the trouble? Somewhere along the way I start crying, because snot is pouring down my face mixed with the sweat from the exertion.

When I wake up, I’m back in my cell as if nothing happened. My arm shows no sign of a needle, but the place where the liquid went in is sore. I’m shivering and hot at the same time, curling myself in my blanket that I must have kicked away in my sleep.

The doctor and the room come back to me now. Katniss comes back, too. The haze around what I’ve been shown today starts to clear a little as I try to remember what happened. I saw Katniss trying to kill me, even if something in me tells me that isn’t right. But I saw it with my own eyes. The shine of her hair as she whips around when I tried to warn her. She left me to fend off Cato, then came to find me after, when I’d almost died from the wound he gave me. She nursed me clumsily, almost reluctantly. But I remember her going to get me medicine. That doesn’t match up with what I remember from before that.

The images in my mind start to overlap and confuse me to the point where it feels like a knife is being thrust into my left eye. The fear of being hurt by Katniss doesn’t make sense next to the knowledge of what happened after. But the fear is real. My heart quickens at the thought of seeing her hover over me in the tree, attempting to drop the tracker jacker nest on all of us. I push the palms of my hands into my eye sockets to block out the pain but to no avail.

I start to fear that I may be going mad in here.

Chapter Text

The doctor doesn’t return. Instead, Atia and Tiberius resume their rotation as if nothing happened. A blink in reality that shouldn’t be considered. Johanna’s and Annie’s screams fill my waking and sleeping hours, unless my own do. I start dreaming about Katniss, wake up screaming as she transforms from the girl I know into someone I don’t. I try not to dwell on it while I’m awake but the lingering unease makes my skin crawl.

My guards don’t seem to care, though.

They keep trying to push information out of me that I don’t have, as if they’re still pretending to interrogate me. I’d rather they just kicked me and bled me and didn’t speak, but I’m not even granted that courtesy. Instead, when I answer in a way they don’t like (which is every time), they resort to hurting me in new and original ways. There seems to be no limit to their imagination.

Two days ago, Atia kicked my head so hard that my hands started shaking. They haven’t stopped since. I always prided myself on how steady my hands were, how I could get the smallest detail of a decoration right. But now my hands won’t do what I want them to. I guess I wouldn’t need them for icing anyway.

It seems there is little for me to do anymore but exist, stubbornly.

I can barely keep the water in, let alone the mush they give us every few days. My throat is parched, perpetually sore. The bruises and wounds on my body don’t get time to heal before new ones are added.

When they collect me again, pain blooms wherever I’m touched.

I’m dragged into the office space where the president informed me of his plan, but it’s not his face I meet. Instead, my prep team is huddled next to their makeshift vanity as they assess my state. I don’t even try to smile because there’s a bruise on my cheek that throbs with every heartbeat. Lucia is pale underneath her makeup. Gaius, I see, is not wearing a wig anymore. His once colorful hair is now a regular, dark brown. Only a hairband adorns him now.

“G-good afternoon, Peeta,” Gaius says. His eyes flit towards the guards, then back to me. Does he look thinner? I suppose the war hasn’t spared the Capitol citizens, either. How must he be coping with hunger?

“Is it? I haven’t seen the sun in weeks,” I say tersely, then remember these people are not to blame. Still, I’m sure some wit won’t kill them. The guards sit me upright in a chair, restraining my wrists as if I would attack the only people in the Capitol who still somewhat wish me well. I blink away the spots as I breathe in and out deeply, trying to stay conscious.

“Are you here to make me handsome again?” I wince, my muscles aching in this upright position. Snow must be planning another interview. Why else would he drag my prep team in to see me?

Lucia nods and picks up a hairbrush, then drops it again when she sees the state of my hair. In the mirror, I get the first look at myself in weeks. Bruises bloom over my arms, neck, and torso. Cuts and scrapes litter my skin as if I fell into a pool of knives. My hair is a matted clump of brown, dried blood. Gaius asks the guards if they could bring in some warm water so they can clean me. With a huff, Tiberius disappears from the room and returns a few minutes later with a small pail and a wet rag. No soap, but that’s no surprise. Gaius starts on my head, then works his way down to my shoulders. He has to squeeze the rag as dry as possible and run it over me bit by bit because any more water than that makes me feel like I’m choking. I wish I could clean my own face, but I let Gaius work on a small part at a time. The most I can do is not move and let it happen. I feel like I did when Katniss found me in the arena. My eyes flit to Gaius’ face, to see if the same look of disgust shows on his face as well. I’m not sure, but I think he’s a little green.

Lucia starts putting on a thick layer of makeup once I’m clean. Now that the blood is gone, the pallor of my skin becomes apparent. And where I’m not white, I’m purple. Dark bags sit under my eyes, my eyes themselves bloodshot. I can see how my collarbone is more visible than it was before. The bruise on my cheek is worked away to where there’s only a faint hint of something. Gaius carefully combs my hair but stops when the scabs on my scalp start to flake off. I can see the dark pieces of skin and blood fall to the floor. He resorts to laying it down with his hands. They refrain from painting my nails, given how some of them are cracked and my hands won’t stay still enough for them to work.

Both the guards and my prep team have to help me into the suit. It’s a stark black, draping over my body. Lucia and Gaius frantically pin it in place and I wince as they tug and pull on the clothing, making it look like it fits. Even so, the collar sits uncomfortably tight. The shock of seeing myself naked almost makes me pass out. I must have lost fifteen pounds in the past two weeks. It’s gotten to the point where a doctor needs to come in to look at a new socket for my leg. Since they’d taken it off when they brought me here, the sensation of the leg on my skin feels almost foreign again. Like I have to relearn how to use it. I haven’t been walking so it’s only now that I notice how much my legs have changed. The doctor makes sure that I can stand on it without losing my balance, but the pain of standing up is not caused by the prosthetic. Tears spill down my cheeks when they set me down again. Lucia quickly reworks the thick layer of makeup to conceal the tracks on my face.

They leave, muttering pleasantries into the air between us before escaping through the door. I don’t think either of them dares to say anything out of the ordinary. They’ve barely talked in the time we’ve shared the room.

A wheelchair is rolled in that I’m once again strapped into.

They roll me into an elevator that takes us to a rooftop, but it’s dark out and I wouldn’t know where I am even in daylight. I haven’t felt a breeze on my skin in weeks and the fresh air makes my head spin. I let it caress my face and hair, breathe in deeply, wince when it tugs on sore muscles and ribs. A hovercraft appears out of nowhere. They don’t tell me where we’re going, but they don’t have to.

When the familiar set of doors comes back into view, I remember how different everything seemed the first time I was here. Before I knew what I am to Snow.

Caesar disguises his shock well when I come in and the guards settle me into the chair opposite his. He stops himself from shaking my hand; I notice it in the twitch of his right arm. There are no straps on this chair, but I assume they don’t think I’ll try anything here. They’ve made sure I’m too broken for it, anyway.

“You look… well-groomed,” Caesar says unhelpfully.

“Thanks. The suit brings out my bruises, doesn’t it?” I respond. Caesar makes a sound that is between a cough and clearing his throat, then sits back.

“Have they told you what we’ll be discussing?” he asks. I try shaking my head, cringe in pain, then say no.

“You’re aware that Katniss is filming videos for the rebels?” Caesar asks. I say I do. “Well, I’m sure we can both agree that it is stirring up quite a bit in the districts. Our President has talked with you about Katniss’ involvement with the rebels.”

“Yes.”

“That’s what we’ll talk about. I’m sure you’ll know what to say,” Caesar says. The fact that Caesar has to prepare me for the interview makes me feel nervous. I’ve always been able to count on myself in social situations. Maybe he fears I’ll speak out of turn now. Snow hasn’t visited again, but I remember his words clearly. What’s at stake for everybody. What my part is. I know what I have to say. I clear my throat; the collar chafes against my neck.

Plautus comes into view and completely ignores me. He calls for places and lights, then counts down until Caesar puts on his smile and addresses the camera. He introduces himself and teases a unique night before cutting to the chase.

“I’m here with a very special guest tonight.” The camera pans over to me. My distorted reflection in its bug-like lens feels apt.

Caesar asks me about myself (I lie) then about how it feels to be here again (I lie) until he finally arrives at the thing he needs to talk about. The image of Katniss in front of the burning hospital shows up in my mind’s eye.

“Katniss Everdeen has been making so-called ‘propos’ for the rebels. Propaganda videos. What are your thoughts on that?”

"They're using her, obviously,” I say, “to whip up the rebels. I doubt she even really knows what's going on in the war. What's at stake." My hands continue shaking. I’m sweating underneath the makeup.

"Is there anything you'd like to tell her?" Caesar asks me.

"There is," I reply. I turn slowly towards the camera, look right into it. I hope she sees this all the way in District 13. Snow expects me to dissuade her for his government’s sake. I just hope she’ll understand that all I want, all I need, is for her to be safe.

"Don't be a fool, Katniss. Think for yourself. They've turned you into a weapon that could be instrumental in the destruction of humanity. If you've got any real influence, use it to put the brakes on this thing. Use it to stop the war before it's too late. Ask yourself, do you really trust the people you're working with? Do you really know what's going on? And if you don't...find out." I exhale when I finish speaking, looking into the camera.

The filming stops abruptly and the lights go down. I’ve done what they expected me to: no more, no less. It’s taken everything out of me to get the words out in one piece. Disgust fills me as they put me back in the wheelchair. The ride on the hovercraft is deathly silent. They remove my leg before they cart me off into the building.

I’m wheeled back to my cell and dumped in my suit. I decide to use the jacket as a pillow. My heart feels hollow; I’m no better than any Capitol official at this point. A lapdog trained to do and say what they need me to. Katniss probably hates me for it. I wouldn’t be surprised if my efforts have driven her to question my love for her. That, at the end of the day, she was right to keep her distance. Her face appears before me, disgust written all over it.

I will myself to think about anything else.

Johanna just got back from her rotation, I think, because I can hear her heavy breathing all the way into my cell.

“Johanna?” I whisper, but no response comes. I think she might be unconscious. I realize, with a start, that I’ve been neglecting her. The most we’ve talked has been in short conversations about when the next meal would come or how bad Annie looked the last time she was dragged out. And the time she distracted me with stories. I resolve to be there for her next time. At least it would help keep my mind off how badly I’ve messed everything up.

I strip out of the dress pants and cover myself in the blanket immediately, trying not to look at my body too much. I don’t need another reminder of how things have changed. So much has been lost already. Who knows what’s happened since the last time Snow showed me footage of the war. If Katniss saw this new video with Caesar, I wonder if she thinks I’ve lost my mind completely. Will she know why I’m doing this? That I’m still trying to look out for her? If Katniss aligns herself with the rebels, she has to have a good reason to do so. Because I refuse to believe she would allow all of this loss to happen otherwise. What if they’ve taken her family? She would do anything to save Prim. The leaders in District 13 know that, if they have been caught up on everything in Panem. Her role as their symbol will undoubtedly be used to justify the death and carnage. And while I know Katniss can kill, I know she never does it willingly. I start to develop a headache from thinking too hard and resolve to give my mind some rest.

Without meaning to, it takes me to memories of the life I used to have.

I think about the first day my father allowed me into the bakery. My brothers had already been called in to work, but I think my father wanted me to be a child for a bit longer. I remember he asked me to bring him a sack of flour. I must have been nine or ten at the time. Because I wanted to prove myself in all of my childish glory, I used all of my strength to hoist a half empty bag of flour over my shoulder from the pantry into the bakery, leaving a trail of the white powder on the floor behind me. I remember how grown up I felt; sure that I was being a big help. My father laughed, genuinely, at the display. “You’ll be strong, I can tell,” he told me then. A sentiment he would repeat often, especially after wrestling matches. He used to say other things, too. I lose myself in the memories of that life, up until I’m sixteen. I stop reminiscing once he hugs me before I step onto the tribute train.

Hours pass and I lie awake in the cell, hearing how Johanna eventually wakes up. I know this because she always sounds the same; first, she gasps for breath, then I hear a thud. Then she yawns loudly enough to wake up the whole room.

“Hello?” I say. I wait. After a few seconds, I hear shuffling, then a grunt.

“Morning,” Johanna croaks, clearing her throat. She coughs; a rattling, wet sound.

“Just a guess or have they let you outside?” I say.

“Use your brain, bread boy.” That coaxes a smile out of me. “What’ve you been up to?”

“Met Caesar again, actually,” I say. Johanna is quiet for a second.

“What did he want to know?”

“He wanted me to talk about Katniss and the rebels. You know, how they’re using her to rouse the districts.”

Johanna scoffs loudly. I think her time in the Capitol has not helped her opinion of Katniss.

“She’s better off than either of us, I can tell you that much. Let her shoot her arrows and run around for them.”

“But what if she doesn’t want to do it?” I prompt, waiting to hear Johanna’s thoughts.

“So what? We do things we don’t want all the time. I bet those people in Thirteen don’t think twice about us, so I don’t think about them, either. The way I see it, we’ll die in here anyway.” That shuts me right up. Johanna grunts again and I hear some splashing sounds, then more coughing.

More hours pass. I resort to counting my breaths and trying to shut out my own thoughts. My memories from earlier are just making me immeasurably sad now. Aching for a life that was by no means safe, or easy. But at least it felt a bit more like my own. Even if I’d worked in the bakery until my final days. I was useful there. I wish for sleep to carry me away but then wake up screaming when another nightmare takes over.

The doctor is the first thing I see when I open my eyes again. He doesn’t bother saying hello this time.

I’m back in the bed, syringe already administered. I have the presence of mind to blink a few times before they fix my eyes and bombard me with footage again.

Katniss and I in the cave. We’re shivering in the cold, wet dark. Vines hang in the mouth of the cave as a makeshift door. I look delirious and hot, my hair plastered to my forehead. She goes out and comes back in with a metal pot, stirring something inside. With a nauseating jolt, I know what they’re showing me. Katniss feeds me the berry mixture and I stare at her in horror when I realize, too late, that she’s given me sleep syrup. She kisses me and then leaves to go get me medicine. The footage cuts out after that. But I know she came back and I was angry with her for leaving me.

The cold burn snaps me back to the present. Absolute fear chills me. The footage loops.

Katniss feeding me poison. No, not poison, but what was it? Suddenly the memory of eating that berry mixture fills me with panic. I was drugged. I fell asleep after. Terrified, I recall the moment I woke up and found myself alone in the dark. She must have come back for me, but now the idea of her returning feels foreboding. Why? I remember us making it out of the cave afterward, so she didn’t kill me. She went out to… do what? Kill someone else? She was wounded, yes, I remember now. The blood shimmers in the dark, dripping down her face. I feel frightened as I recall how she staggered in and plunged something into my leg. A needle. More poison? But no, I already know we walked out of there. A sharp pain in my right eye signals a headache as it becomes painful to remember what actually happened. Confused, I open my eyes again and the mental image of Katniss feeding me the poison is stamped into my mind.

They do it again.

We’re now the last tributes left, limping towards the lake. My leg is bleeding profusely, Katniss is visibly holding on to her last strength as we wait for the hovercraft to come fetch us. Nothing comes. Claudius Templesmith announces the rule change. Katniss points her arrow at me while I throw my knife in the lake. We agree to kill ourselves with the nightlock.

Burning.

Katniss wanted to kill me, get rid of me to become the sole victor that year. I recall the cold, bitter night. Lying on the cornucopia, shivering. Cato whining beneath us. Katniss shot him, I’m sure. She then chose to shoot me but stopped herself. Did I say something? The stabbing pain behind my right eye starts up again. We both survived, that much is clear. Nightlock was involved. Katniss poured some berries into my hand, then into her own. We raised them to our mouths before Claudius stopped us. Did she hope I’d be too fast and kill myself? Afterwards, she acted strangely. Did she regret letting me live? But no, no, that’s not right. It’s not right. But the fear is real.

The pain in my head becomes so bad that all I can do is take deep breaths and stop my thoughts from spiraling. Every time I try to think of Katniss, it intensifies. My heart starts hammering and I fear I might vomit but it never comes.

They take me back to the cell.

Chapter Text

Johanna’s getting worse.

When she returns from her latest session with Tiberius and Atia, I can hear gurgling every time she breathes. I can’t sleep for fear of her dying, imagine her last, hurtling breath over and over in the long hours that stretch out. Though I never considered Johanna a friend before, I recognize that her presence grounds me. Selfishly, I don’t want her to leave me by myself. She’s my only ally.

When she eventually wakes up, I learn that they did something new to her. What it is, she refuses to tell me. I can only assume it’s the reason why she sounds out of breath even when she speaks slowly.

“I wish they’d just kill me already,” she says between a gasp and a grunt.

“Must be a reason they haven’t yet,” I say. Johanna doesn’t need me to soothe her with platitudes.

“Well, I wish they’d enlighten me,” she huffs. I can hear her struggling toward her pail of water because after some grunting there is the unmistakable sound of water splashing. Johanna gasps and gags and I’m near the wall where she is, trying to get her to calm down. She does this more and more: tries to drink and then panics, her breaths short and gasping.

“Johanna, focus,” I say, counting from one to five and back down again. I do this until I can hear her breathing slowly starting to even out. She sighs.

“Thanks,” she mumbles. I nod before realizing she can’t see me.

Hours pass without any motion, any event. I drink water; Johanna’s snores indicate that she’s sleeping. Part of me is relieved at the reprieve, but another, nagging part of me senses that something is off. Why are they not following the schedule? I try to sleep but the blanket has started to smell and I keep going back and forth between gagging and being cold from pushing it away. I inspect my wounds and find most of them to be scabbed, resist tugging at the crusts on my skin for lack of anything better to do. The rags around my body are stiff with sweat.

I startle when the door to the cell block finally opens and I hear the familiar footfalls of my jailors. They seem to be alone. I tense, but once I pick up their conversation, I try to look as dead to the world as possible.

“Keep it down, will you? They might be stuck here but they’re still District,” Atia says sharply. Tiberius tuts.

“District scum, more like. And who cares? Mellark is halfway gone because of Dr. Gaul and Mason is losing her marbles. It’d be a miracle if they survive longer than the attack,” Tiberius says. I strain to hear their words; they’re walking around the back.

“You think it’ll be over then?” Atia inquires almost timidly.

“Sure will be for most of them. Thirteen might be a bunker but our bombs don’t miss.” Tiberius is moving toward my cell now.

“Come morning time, they won’t know what hit them.” Does he know I’m awake? Why is he taunting me? Are they really so naïve to think they can talk about this without us noticing? I can hear Atia protest but the words have already been spoken. They hang in the stale air of the cell block, bounce around in my skull.

The Capitol is attacking District Thirteen tomorrow. They’ve figured out where to drop their bombs.

They’re planning to kill Katniss.

The thought is like a punch in my gut. Katniss might be dead soon. I start to sweat, my hands clammy against my sides. The already soiled clothes cling to me as I lie there, agonizing. The thought of Katniss in danger leaves me in anguish, but there’s something else there. My head starts to hurt as I try to make out why. I don’t know. I don’t know.

Blood pounds in my ears as I strain to lay still. If I give any indication that I heard what they said, they might make me pay for it immediately. So I try to calm myself. Close my eyes. Count to 100. I am Peeta Mellark. I’m a prisoner in the Capitol. The Capitol is bombing Thirteen.

It doesn’t work.

By the time Johanna wakes up, the doctor and his team arrive. I have no way to tell her what I overheard without alerting everyone else. With almost mechanical precision, they trap me, strap me to the bed. The doctor, whose name is Dr. Gaul apparently, is his usual self. He takes time to exchange pleasantries this time.

“Good day to you, Mister Mellark. Ready for another session?” he asks cheerily, rubbing his hands together like a cricket. The assistants administer the syringes once again and I bite back the nauseating fear of what is about to happen. My eyes are glued to the ceiling. I have nowhere to run.

Our last night in the arena. Katniss and I on the Cornucopia bleeding and freezing, hoping against hope that dawn will come. This is the memory that came back to me last time. How did they know? Katniss kills Cato with her last arrow, then binds my leg. The night is sharp, I recall the incessant cold, the fear running through both of us that the other might doze off and wouldn’t wake up again. Then dawn breaks, the rules change again. Katniss points her arrow while I toss my knife in the lake, deciding not to fight anymore. We agree that neither can survive without the other. They cut the footage right before Katniss brings up the berries.

We saved each other that night, I tell myself. Kept each other alive through sheer will, then fleeting hope. I remember that. I know that. I hold on to what I know to be true.

I brace myself for what’s coming.

Sharp jab, ice cold. The footage on a loop.

Katniss kills Cato, we lie on the Cornucopia. Suddenly the memory feels horrific, the cold and fear reach a fever pitch as I recall how scared I was of dying, how alone I felt. Katniss beside me, cold. The chill so deep it sinks into my bones never to come out again. The dawn breaks. Sliding and falling off of the Cornucopia. I’m bleeding, bleeding out onto the grass and Katniss is standing there with her arrow pointed at my heart. My heart races as I see her face in that moment, the determination. I’m another kill. Another creature pierced by her arrow. My knife lies uselessly at the bottom of that lake, my leg is starting to die. I can feel myself getting weaker.

Black.

Katniss tried to kill me then. She was readying herself for it. But why? Didn’t she bring up the berries next, didn’t she suggest we both take them? I remember; the glint in her eye as she suggested it. With a start, the last session comes back to me as well. She wanted to win. She meant for me to eat them first, wait it out until I would crumple, bleeding, on the grass. So she could be the victor.

No, no, no.

The last thing I recall is hot tears staining my face, wetting the pillow underneath me. The pain of memories that split open my skull like a sword, bleeding out in shock and fear. Questioning every second of those horrible moments.

I wake up on the ground in my cell, drenched in sweat. The memories of that final night play over and over, the anguish, the cold, the pain. The look in Katniss’ shimmering eyes as she sizes me up. I claw at my throat, gasping for air. Panic seizes me as I try to sit up, desperate to get air into my lungs. Johanna is gone; I can hear her screams further away. There’s no one here. I’m alone. Utterly alone. I use a handful of water to dampen my face, shock myself out of it. Drag myself across the floor to the toilet to retch.

My name is Peeta Mellark. I’m in the Capitol. I don’t know what’s happening to me.

Stars start to cloud my vision and I can vaguely register my head hitting the ground before I pass out.

When I come to, Atia and Tiberius are dragging Annie back. Johanna’s snoring, occasional moans of pain escaping her as she tosses and turns. Tiberius casts a glance in my direction and looks satisfied as he sizes me up. Sizing me up, Katniss is sizing me up, going in for the k-. I slap my face, hard. Tiberius laughs. Atia approaches my cell.

“Get up,” she says. “And stop hitting yourself.”

Bewildered, I’m taken to the room off to the cell block once again. Lucia and Gaius are shown in, set their cases down. I almost don’t recognize them, too out of it to process what’s happening. I’m cold, disoriented, thirsty. How long did I sleep? Atia and Tiberius lift me into the chair, where I cringe as I see myself once again. My cheeks are gaunt. A red handprint marks my face. The blue of my veins makes my skin look translucent. Bones protrude from my collar, my wrists, my head looks too large for my body. I’m bruised all over. My eyes are a wild animal’s. Gaius approaches me as if I am one.

“Darling, you know why we’re here right? To make you look nice?” he says it like I’m a child. I whimper, look away from myself and down at the floor. I don’t see the point in them doing this. Gaius touches my shoulder and I jerk my entire body away, can’t bear to be touched by gentle hands.

“Peeta. You have to let us touch you. You know, with the hair brush?” Lucia says helpfully, holding up her bejeweled brush. I look at it, take a few seconds to register what it is. I nod.

“Lovely. Just sit, alright? Close your eyes if you want,” Lucia says. She touches my hair and I fight the urge to shrink into myself. Gaius approaches again and I let him touch my face this time. Although they’re not as adorned as they used to be, the smell of them is strong. They smell like roses.

It takes them time to do their work. An Avox carries in some warm water and soap, they wash me again. At one point I start begging them to stop and they do, but then Atia loudly proclaims that no time should be lost.

I keep wracking my brain for what’s causing my distress. I’ve been here before. I struggle to recall it, but it’s true. I’ve been in this room, this chair. Caesar must be expecting me. Another interview. To do what? I can barely string a sentence together. Tears sting my eyes and Lucia delicately wipes my face as I sob quietly into the thick layer of makeup she’s already applied. Without a word, she reapplies it.

Gaius combs my hair thoroughly. The scabs on my scalp are peeling off in heaps, my hair brittle. He smothers it in a type of wax. It leaves my hair locked down to my scalp, itching and greasy.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispers as he tackles the hair near the nape of my neck. A particularly nasty bruise sits there, I can tell.

The doctor puts my leg on again once I’m hauled into the suit. The fabric scratches at my skin. The collar feels like it’s smothering me and I start to tremble. I fold my hands into themselves in my lap, but the shaking doesn’t stop. Lucia approaches with her nail file but quickly puts it away once she realizes this, too.

When they’re done, Lucia applies one last touch of something pink to my cheeks almost as an afterthought. As she does so, she catches my eye. “Be strong,” she says under her breath. Clearing her throat, she and Gaius leave the room.

Wheelchair, hovercraft. The set of double doors doesn’t come into view this time. Instead, they wheel me into a far more imposing room, one so lavish that I instantly know this isn’t where I’m seeing Caesar. The dread of it makes me want to cry.

President Snow is expecting me.

I’m wheeled into the room and deposited in front of a dark, wooden desk. On it sits a delicate vase with a single white rose in it. The smell is strong enough to knock me out, but I breathe through my mouth and try not to upset any bruised ribs. I wring my hands in my lap as I wait.

Finally, the president appears out of a side door, flanked by a woman who holds a device similar to what I’ve seen Atia and Tiberius use. The screen casts a blueish glow on her dark skin. The president sits across from me, his eyes as bloodshot as I remember from last time.

He eyes me almost languidly, not taken aback by my state. I wonder if he’s proud of what he’s done to me, to all of us.

“You’ve cleaned up nicely,” he says, smiling. His snake-like eyes pierce mine and I look away, gasping. He chuckles.

“You’re probably wondering why they’ve brought you here,” he says. “I believe it’s time to show Panem that you truly are against the rebel cause. After all, you’ve done nothing but call for a stop, haven’t you?”

He’s not wrong. I have. But how much of that was me and how much of that was him? I struggle to recall all that’s happened. The details are hazy at best. He could be telling me anything.

“You want me to talk about the cease-fire again?” I say. It takes me a couple of tries before I can get the words out in one coherent sentence. Gradually, my voice comes back.

The president nods, leans forward.

“While you’ve been safely tucked away here, the world outside has… become quite chaotic. And what is chaos if not the loss of control? Who do you think controls this war?” Snow asks. I try to mull over what he’s saying.

“Whoever is winning the most battles,” I say dumbly. The president lets my reply hang in the air.

“I suppose you’re right, in a way. And battles have been abundant. The rebels have spared no time to attack us from every angle. That’s what I need you to convey, Mister Mellark.”

I look up at him, not understanding.

“Convey… what?”

“That no matter how much they attack, it will not be sufficient. And if we allow their actions to wreak further havoc, we will, as you’ve so eloquently put it before, simply have nothing left. And then where would that leave us?” he says.

“You want me to address the rebels and talk them out of their plan. Again,” I say, finally catching on to his meaning. He needs me to act as his puppet again. But why? I have no idea what’s happening, no contact with the outside world. I barely know who’s winning the war up until now. And he needs me to be his spokesperson? After battering and bruising me, making me forget my own life? The gaps in my memory, the pain and fear, not recognizing myself in a mirror? Suddenly I want to leap out of the chair and strike him. Get him right in his menacing eyes. The urge is so violent I have to stop myself, gripping the armrests of the chair.

“Precisely,” Snow continues. If he’s noticing my distress, he’s ignoring it.

“And I trust you will do so adequately.”

Before I have a chance to reply, someone comes and wheels me out of the room. I know now that my chat with Snow was only formal; he knows I will do as he says. He has me exactly where he needs me to be. No matter how much I may hate myself, I know I will have to do it.

The room where the broadcast happens is larger than the set with Caesar.

I’m positioned to the side of where Snow will stand. A large screen shows a map op Panem, highlighted with the areas I will have to discuss. A man tells me a screen will show what I have to say, I will just have to read it from there. They walk me through how it works and I struggle to concentrate on the words, but I manage once they slow down the rate at which the words appear. I resign to this system with a nod.

They transfer me from the wheelchair into a chair that sits higher from the ground, my feet planted on metal rungs for support. My leg starts to shake, causing my prosthetic foot to tap against the metal rung. I try to stop, but the muscle seems to spasm and I contort my face in effort, to no avail. My hands cling to the arm rests as I search for purchase, but they come back slick with sweat.

Plautus appears again, commanding an entire team of cameras and people behind the scenes. Lights are set up and trained on me. In a booth near the back of the room sit people with devices on their heads that they seem to talk through. I try to distract myself by following one of them, a woman who keeps pressing the ear part to her head as if she doesn’t hear very well without it.

Plautus calls for places and I see how Snow positions himself behind a kind of high table that he leans on. In front him is a screen that also reads the words he will say. I vaguely wonder why he doesn’t know this by heart.

Plautus counts down from five to one and then I see how a large monitor lights up with the seal of Panem in front of me. The anthem plays. Gem of Panem. Suddenly I see the president’s cold eyes staring at me and I do a double take as I see how he stands there beside me, a few feet off. The monitor must be showing how we come across around the nation. I try not to look at it and look at my hands instead.

“Greetings, citizens of Panem. Welcome to this special broadcast brought to you live from the Capitol. I am joined today by someone you all know. He will discuss with you our latest news about the war.”

The lights move and I catch a glimpse of myself before looking away again as the cameras move on to me. I’m sweating profusely underneath the scrutiny, the makeup waxy on my face. I feel like I’m dreaming, floating a little ways away from myself as Plautus directs my eyes toward the screen with my lines. My head feels light and I struggle to read. Suddenly I’m frustrated with the whole thing, the theatrics of having to report on death and disaster.

I read.

“I am here tonight to urge you all to recognize the need for a cease-fire. It is with no small effort that I bring this message to you, as I know how much damage has already been done,” I say slowly. I steal a glance at the monitor that shows me.

Behind me, the map starts changing.

“In District Seven, a dam was broken by rebels, flooding a residential area. Reports conclude that there will be no survivors. A rebel faction in District Five have taken over a train heading toward District Three, causing it to derail. The train contained toxic waste meant for recycling. In District Ten, a makeshift bomb was thrown into a granary, causing all grain inside to go up in flames. This is what the rebels have done. This is what we have come to. We must stop-“

The sudden static that bursts through the room startles me into almost falling out of the chair. I look toward the monitor, where I see a flash of Katniss. She’s standing in ruins, the remains still smoking in some places. My heart catches at the sight of the old oven in the back. The one my family saved up for.

With another flash, I see myself again. The room is abuzz. I struggle to catch what people are muttering, the urgency with which they’re trying to move on with the program. Was that real? Katniss in District 12? Seeing her makes me nervous. My heart skips at the memory of her in front of my parents’ bakery, then suddenly the memory of us in the arena, her arrow trained on me. A wail starts to form in my throat as I battle with the conflicting emotions. But I don’t even get to react. Plautus is motioning toward my screen impatiently, telling me to read on. I struggle to pick up where I left off, the sight of Katniss causing my head to hurt again. I see the words twice and have to blink a few times to see them clearly.

“Uh… in- in District Eight, rebels have reportedly bombed a- a water purification plant-“

Suddenly there is Finnick on the monitor, talking about Rue. His words are cut off mid-sentence as the control booth takes charge of the broadcast again, but I can see the frantic figures in the back try to hold on to that control. I sit, stunned, as clips of me staring at the screen and clips of Katniss, Finnick, the rebels alternate. The entire set descends into chaos. The president is running around, ordering anyone and everyone to get their damned heads together to fix this. They try multiple times to get me to talk more, but by the time I find the breath to start, the rebels are broadcasting again. My head spins with all of the commotion, not used to being around all of these people. No one notices when I start to hyperventilate, dig my broken nails into my thighs to pull myself back together.

Eventually, a loud voice calls out ‘Cut!’ and the screen goes black, then the seal reappears. Instead of the anthem, a flat audio tone plays, as if they couldn’t manage to find the right sound. Snow finds his place behind the high table again. He looks over his shoulder, directly at me, as if to make sure I’m still there to do his bidding. I slouch in my seat, weary and confused about what is happening. The cameras go live before everyone is ready and the shouting behind the set is undoubtedly being broadcast now, too. Someone shushes them loudly as the president raises his voice to go over the din of chatter.

“Clearly, the rebels are now attempting to disrupt the dissemination of information they find incriminating. But both truth and justice will reign!” I see spittle fly from his blood-stained mouth.

“The full broadcast will resume when security has been reinstated,” he adds. Suddenly, his attention is on me again. He looks me in the eyes as he says: “Mister Mellark, given tonight’s demonstration, do you have any parting thoughts for Katniss Everdeen?”

I frown at him, trying to remember why him speaking her name is making me feel a rush of foreboding. Katniss. What do I want to say to Katniss? I remember that Snow wants me to dissuade her from aiding the rebels. That clearly hasn’t worked. He wants me to remind her of the cost, yes.

“Katniss… how do you think this will end? What will be left? No one is safe,” I start to say, my forehead creasing with effort. No one is safe. Snow may pretend he’s been keeping me safe here, but he couldn’t tell worse lies. Everyone is paying the price for this war. “Not in the Capitol. Not in the districts. And you…” the realization comes over me like a bucket of cold water. “In Thirteen…” The flash of a memory. Tiberius saying Thirteen will be nothing but rubble. An attack. A bomb! I bite back the urge to vomit, inhale sharply to give myself the strength to say the words before I cry out in desperation: “Dead by morning!”

The words rush out of me like an explosion, the shock of this knowledge coming back to me. My breaths come in short and fast as I try to explain.

“End it!” orders Snow.

“Katniss, run! They’re going to bomb-“

A pack of Peacekeepers rush into the room, knocking over equipment. The cameras thump to the floor heavily as I try to rise out of my seat, but they’re upon me in seconds.

The first one to reach me connects his knuckles with my jaw. I cry out in pain at the sensation, clutching my face. I try to get away but they’re taking me, holding me up in the light.

The second one knocks his fist into my nose. I hear the sickening crunch of bone, the sharp stab of something broken, and catch my blood spattering the floor before everything goes dark.

Chapter Text

By the time they’re done with me, I can’t see through the blood that coats my face. My nose is still bleeding and hurts whenever I make the slightest move. Not to mention the searing pain that emanates from my ribs.

They dump me in my cell, dazed and battered, and I’m fairly sure one of the Peacekeepers spits on me before leaving.

Still, I’m certain they’re not done with me yet.

As I stare up at the ceiling and blink away dark spots, the events of the last couple of hours play on a loop. My moment of clarity during the broadcast can’t have been for nothing, I decide, as I lay gasping on the floor. I will it into existence. That I helped somehow. In this desolate, hopeless cell, I hold on to the idea that I might have done something good for once.

I pass out shortly after and come to only to find three pairs of eyes looking down on me as I lie on the bed in the doctor’s room. I gasp awake, staring wildly at the people who are sure to harm me. Everything hurts; my head, my limbs, the gasping breaths that tear at my lungs. I can feel a rattling in my chest, a pressure that increases whenever I inhale.

I’m strapped into the bed again, like always, but already it is drenched in sweat. The clothes they left me in are soiled and stained. I can see brown, congealed blood all over me. Then they fix my eyes to the screen even before the doctor enters.

“Mister Mellark, it’s time we wrap things up,” he says upon entering. I don’t see him, but I can hear his footsteps approach me until he’s staring at me from above. Unable to even blink, I’m resigned to look right into his face. “It’s been a pleasure.”

I can just catch his smile before he leaves my sight. He orders his assistants to set things in motion.

The last remnants of who I am are taken from me.

Katniss in the 74^th Games, killing Cato. Her arrow finds his neck, he gurgles his last breath.

Katniss in the 74^th Games, yelling at me for gathering nightlock. The lifeless body of the girl we named Foxface on the forest floor, lips stained by the berries she ate behind my back.

Katniss and Gale in District 12, from what I can tell. The layer of coal dust on everything, the buildings in the back. This is not something I remember because I wasn’t there. I’m confused about why they’re showing me this until their conversation takes a turn. Gale leans in. Katniss kisses him back after a moment’s hesitation. Something akin to annoyance settles deep in my chest.

I await the jab, the cold of the injection. It doesn’t come. Instead, a new clip is shown. And I remember everything about it.

Katniss and I on the beach in the Quarter Quell arena. I’ve just shown her my token, the locket I had Effie make. My last ditch effort to convince Katniss that she should live, not me. Katniss isn’t persuaded, I can tell. I can remember. I tell her that no one would miss me if I died and feel that same sensation as when I said it in the past: certainty that the world would go on without me in it. Katniss says she needs me. We kiss. Despite everything, every confusing, painful, horrific moment, I still remember that kiss as if it happened a minute ago. How it felt like no kiss I’d ever shared with her before. It awakened something in me, in us, that lay dormant until then. The clip cuts when lightning strikes and it breaks us up.

They leave me with that kiss for several seconds, until I can feel the ice cold liquid finding its way into my veins once again. I want nothing more than to close my eyes, block out everything around me, but I know the wish is futile. The clip is played again. The memory becomes a nightmare.

I try to persuade Katniss to stay alive, but suddenly my motivations elude me. Who is this person sitting next to me? Previous memories flood in: Katniss’ disgust at my oozing leg, Katniss drugging me to go out on her own, Katniss pointing the arrow at me that would have made her a Victor. Why did I want to make sure she lived? I tell her no one needs me, and she says she does. I don’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. Instead, the only emotion I can untangle from the mess of memories is fear. Fear for my life, fear of dying in the mud, in a dark cave, with my leg gushing blood at the edge of a lake. Fear of being all alone, but wasn’t I truly, even before? Alone. Katniss kisses me and I want to scream. I realize after a few seconds that I actually do scream. The clip cuts and yet my voice still rises, reaching a wailing pitch.

Katniss. Why did we ever kiss? What did she ever do apart from proving that she wants me dead? She has Gale back home. I remember they kissed, too. She has nothing to do with me except make me believe something that isn’t real.

More clips are shown. Clips from both of our Games, of District 12, Katniss in each and every one of them. The sight of her sends me back into the mattress as I see her hunt, shoot, frown, laugh. More and more of the liquid is turning my veins into ice, the sharpness adding to the growing panic inside me. Katniss kills Cato. We hunt together, I pick up nightlock, she nearly throttles me when she tries to slap the berries out of my hands. Foxface dies and why do I feel guilty? Katniss suggested keeping the berries on hand. Our Victory Tour, presenting ourselves as a happy pair while both of us knew how untrue that was. My proposal on live television produces hot tears that streak my face. The theater of pretending she loved me.

And underlying all of it, every last moment, is the knowledge that I was afraid in each and every one of them.

Soon, all I see are the images over top of each other, unable to distinguish one clip from another but it doesn’t matter. I can’t look away.

I can’t stop remembering.

The doctors and assistants leave as I thrash in the bed, not caring about moving a cracked rib anymore. They remove my eye and head restraints and I nearly bite one of them in my frenzy.

I lie there with the memories for a long time, my breaths coming so quickly I almost pass out. But I don’t. I’m forced to reckon with the fact that what I’ve seen and what I’ve come to know are indisputable truths. I just couldn’t see it before. The thought of ever having been close to her grips my throat tightly, making me choke on my sobs. How wrong I was. How stupid. How foolish.

The image of Katniss is burned into my memory, like she’s calling to me now. Taunting me. Hunting me. Predator and prey.

I wake up with a start, not remembering ever dozing off. Did they give me something? I expect someone in the room with me holding a syringe.

Instead of them, another figure walks into the room. His suit is stark in the overhead lights.

“Peeta. I see you’ve learned the truth at long last,” President Snow says. I stop moving, stop making a sound. Something in me shrinks back at his proximity.

“You couldn’t believe me until now, and I don’t blame you. After all, Katniss had you in her clutches.”

At the mention of her name I start to shake, my forehead beaded with sweat.

“What did you do?” I ask, my voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

“Showed you what she’s like. This girl you were so willing to protect when you just got here, when all she wanted was to see you die. Haven’t you seen that?”

The wound, the arrow, the disgust. I nod.

“Peeta, when you first got here, it became clear to me that you would need to see the truth for yourself. I couldn’t just tell you; you wouldn’t have believed me if I did! Even at the mention that Katniss and Haymitch Abernathy may have been in on the rebel plot you contested the very notion. But now you see what you previously couldn’t: Katniss is not on your side.”

He lets the words hang in the air between us.

“I want you to remember one thing very clearly, Mister Mellark: Katniss Everdeen wants you dead. Nothing she says can be trusted. It stands to reason that there is only one way to stop her.”

Another sharp jab registers vaguely near my arm, but the president’s words are starting to form an incoherent mix in my brain. He calls me back to him by hovering over me, standing close enough to smell the rose in his lapel. I gag, eyes watering. But his eyes command me to look at him. He points up at the ceiling and I look past him to an image of Katniss. I’ve seen this version of her before; armored, weathered. I don’t remember where, though. As I gaze at this person I don’t know anymore, the president leaves me with a final message. One I can only believe is true because everything I know about her confirms it.

“She has to die.”

I nod, dazed, lay back on the bed. President Snow leaves me alone in the room without saying goodbye. I can still feel the cold spot where the injection went in but struggle to remember what it pertains to.

The room is now empty of people and images, but I don’t need them anymore. I’ve seen the truth. The horrendous, sickening truth. My heartbeat picks up, that stubborn cadence that reminds me I’m alive. And I’m angry. I have to be strong now. Even so, I can’t stop my mind.

My thoughts are filled with her.

She wants me dead. She’s vicious, and calculating, oh yes. Ruthless, mean, out for blood. She might as well be a – a mutt! A cruel, self-centered mutt who used me for her own gain. She never cared about me. Sobs rack my body as I cry out for the life I thought I had, the person she made me believe she was. Oh, how I trusted her. She made me think she cared when all along she was waiting for the right moment to abandon me, sacrifice me to save herself. Katniss can’t be trusted. Katniss wants me dead. Katniss has to die. But even as I think these things, know them to be true, a part of me aches. For the stupidity of falling for her trap.

Even as I dream, I see her. In a yard somewhere, hunched low to the ground, a snarl on her face. I hold a loaf of bread in my hands and toss it her way before quickly making my way inside to safety. I hear her tear into it like a rabid animal and bolt the door with shaking hands.

I awake in my cell once again, panting.

Hair is plastered to my forehead. My head feels greasy and I vaguely remember the blood. It’s stinging my eyes so I drag myself to the pail of water to dab water on my face. But then the cold is making me panic so I stop and lay on the floor, water dripping down my temples. The more I try to make sense of anything at all, the worse I feel. I seem to remember the president, but what did he say to me? Was it recent? My own memory feels like a treacherous jungle. I try to sit up but find the strength in my arms to be so weak I can’t push myself further than halfway before collapsing back onto the ground with a grunt.

A voice next to me startles me out of the haze of fear.

“Peeta? Are you awake?” It takes me a moment to connect the voice to the person.

“Johanna?” I struggle, my throat bone dry.

“What did they do?” she asks quietly. As I try to come up with a way to respond, I find that the only thing I can do is cry. I wail, grip at my throat to catch my breath. I hear her shush me through the wall; she’s apologizing. For what?

“Shhh, you don’t have to tell me. Shhhh,” she says, but all I can manage is an animalistic sound that sounds so foreign to me I’m scaring myself. Eventually, she goes quiet.

Two jailors come and get her after a while and she struggles, but I can see how thin her arms and legs are, how broken she is. Even her screams sound faint.

I’m lying on my back of the floor in my cell, unable to move when she returns. Or rather, she’s being returned by the others. The woman, Atia (the name comes slowly, as if I’m wading through water to find it), deposits her on the floor with a loud thud. Her breath rasps and gurgles, making me feel sick. A couple of times she wheezes and seems to choke, but then she coughs and the gurgling continues. I’m prone in my cell as I listen to her, wondering if this nightmare will ever end.

It feels like I’m only partly a person; the sense that something that used to be there, is gone. But I can’t tell what it is. I only feel an absence where someone used to be. The ceiling of my cell starts to play tricks on my eyes after staring at it for so long. The gray concrete starts to swirl into different shapes. At first the shapes make no sense but then they writhe into the shape of a snake, it seems, coiling and weaving itself around and around. It becomes more and more agitated as I watch, until suddenly the shape seems to come out of the ceiling toward me. I scream and scream, but nothing happens. I turn away from the ceiling and vow to never look at it again.

I drift off eventually, awakened only by Johanna’s gurgling. I drink some water but my throat feels hoarse and I think I might have been screaming in my sleep. The water hurts on the way down and I will it to stay there for fear of hurting myself more by throwing up.

“Peeta?” Johanna says. Her voice is a whisper, barely audible. I turn toward the wall.

“Yes?” I say quietly. Drinking the water has helped, but I still can’t produce a clear sound.

“I think this might be it,” she says. A rush of cold sinks into my heart. I’ve seen her body; the shell of who she was. Bloody, battered.

She’s giving up.

“What did they do?” I ask, then realize it’s a stupid question. I know what they do.

“Made sure I know what’s next,” she says cryptically. She coughs, a sickening sound.

“Please, Johanna-“ I start to say, but she scoffs, then hisses.

“Don’t.”

We sit in silence for a long time before she speaks again.

“You know why I agreed to this?” she asks. I tell her no. At first I’m not sure what she’s asking. But then I realize that she’s talking about the rebellion.

“When I won my Games, I thought I’d outsmarted everyone. I actually thought I had one upped the Capitol, tricked them into having a young, scared girl win. And what did they do? As soon as they let me out of that arena, the messages started. First from officials, then the President himself. They said I was ‘popular’ in the Capitol. You know what that word means?” I don’t want to guess. She takes a deep, painful breath.

“It means the people thought I was pretty. Desirable. Ugh, to think of those ridiculous, stuffy monsters pawing at me because they think they own me. Know me. As if buying me an ax meant I could be bought, too. I refused when the President suggested I ‘entertain the citizens of the Capitol’, thinking I had a choice. When I told him to take his offer and shove it, he didn’t take that in thanks. I should have known better, but the idea of it was so revolting that I almost thought he was joking. Of course he wasn’t. A few months later, every last one of my family members, friends, my partner, was dead. All deemed ‘accidents’, of course. They started falling out of trees, having bad food, being careless with their axes and gear. But I knew. And I couldn’t stop it. I begged the people I loved to stay inside, out of harm’s way. But we all knew it didn’t work like that. In District Seven, we learn how to work from the minute we can hold a twig, because we have to. For a long time after, I couldn’t leave my house. I couldn’t risk jeopardizing another person’s life simply because I wanted to talk to someone. The only people I had were the other Victors. Then when Snow was sure he’d gotten me where it hurts, he goes and announces the third Quarter Quell.”

I remember how angry she’d been. How careless about what she said in front of the cameras. It all makes sense now.

“When the rebels approached me, I didn’t hesitate for a second. Anything that would take Snow down would be something I wanted to be a part of. I thought I was going to be this beacon of change,” she scoffs, “and now look how far it got me.”

She really must think they’ll kill us all soon. These secrets were too dangerous to speak aloud mere weeks ago and now she’s laying them out in the open. All I can think about is how heartbreaking it is, how senseless the violence. What her life would have been like if she hadn’t refused. A thought creeps into my brain. Who else would they have forced into that kind of life? She must know, from speaking with the other Victors. A shudder runs through me at the thought of having to prostitute myself for the Capitol’s favor. As if having to be in the Hunger Games isn’t punishment enough. I dismiss it immediately and think again about the young woman on the other side of the wall. The fact that she’s telling me this has to mean that she needed someone to hear her story.

“I’m s-“

“Do not say you’re sorry. Please. In any case, we both have endured enough to know what it feels like to be at the mercy of the President. Stop with the sympathy already,” she says. I shut my mouth. Think of something to say that might actually mean something to her.

“For what it’s worth,” I start to say, “I think what matters most in the end is the people we get to love. That we can show them we love them. Your family, your friends, they knew you cared. There’s no doubt about that.”

She’s silent for a moment.

“Thanks.”

We both lie down on the floor. At least, I imagine we do so. I can’t be sure what Johanna’s doing. I start to get drowsy, which is weird. I was fully awake just a minute ago. Maybe the nightmares are taking their toll. I yawn, feeling the pull on my eyelids that tells me I should sleep. I haven’t felt this tired, genuinely exhausted, in a while.

Suddenly, the world tilts.

“Hey, can you heaaaa-,” Johanna slurs, followed by a loud thump. I struggle to understand what’s happening as I register a faint hissing sound from somewhere further off. Confused, I battle the fatigue and drag myself toward the opening of my cell until my vision doubles and the last thing I notice is how the only thing I am able to do is sleep.

Voices. Nonsensical, blurred by drowsiness. Most of them sound low, distorted. My eyes won’t open, and I welcome the languid, heavy feeling in my limbs. Like being held under in a hot bath. Time passes, or doesn’t, there’s no rush. I float in the absence of sensation.

The voices are stronger now. Urgent, lights flashing somewhere. The heaviness in my arms starts to constrict me, drowning in the heat.

“Is he coming to?” I make out, just as my breathing starts to pick up.

“Give him something, will you? It won’t do him much good,” a gruff voice calls out.

Heaviness. Darkness. I welcome it.

The moment my limbs start to feel like my own again, the world is different.

I wake up gasping, fighting to open my eyes but the light is harsh, blinding me. Is it the sun? My vision blurs. I blink to sharpen it, realize that there is no sunshine here. The big lights on the ceiling are beating down on me.

“Peeta, are you awake?” Someone knows my name, someone whose voice I don’t know. I turn my head, half expect it to stay put. Why? It turns without restraint, looking into an unfamiliar face. They’re smiling at me. I look behind them and see two more, dressed in long, white coats. Doctors. I remember people in white coats. They do things to people – bad things. The sight of them makes my palms sweat. My head turns to my arm but there’s nothing there. I don’t know why I checked but I needed to be sure. I gasp for air again, looking back into the face of the first person.

“You’re safe now, Peeta. You’re not in the Capitol anymore.”

What? Where am I?

“You’re in District Thirteen. We got you out. No one will hurt you here,” the person says.

I lie back, stare up at the ceiling. The only thing I know for sure is that I feel strangely numb.

I turn back toward the person.

“How did I get here?” I ask, surprised that my voice is steady.

“We’ll fill you in on the details later, I promise. First you have to get better,” they say. With a start, I remember the others.

“Where are Johanna and – and Annie?” I ask, looking between all of them. Their expressions remain neutral. One of them speaks up.

“They’re also here, Peeta. We got all of you out, don’t worry.” I lie back on the bed, feeling a little bit lighter. I’m not in the Capitol anymore. Johanna and Annie are safe. But something in the back of my mind halts at the idea of being in District 13. Something foreboding.

“Is it ok if we run some small tests, Peeta?” the first doctor brings me back to the present. These people don’t seem bent on hurting me.

I look down at myself and see the bloody rags, the bones that protrude everywhere. The crust of gore on my skin shifts as I move. Despite the heavy feeling in my limbs and the confusion about my surroundings, I can’t help but focus on how deeply filthy I am.

“I feel gross,” I say weakly, almost embarrassed. The person looks behind them and discusses something under their breath. Turning back to me, they smile again.

“If you want, we can clean you up first. We didn’t want to touch you while you were unconscious, so we waited until now.” I nod.

They open a side door to the room. Inside is what appears to be a shower, with tiles lining the walls and floor. The thought of water hitting me uncontrollably is making my head spin and I turn away. The doctor notices, I think, and suggests a bed bath. I comply. They bring in water in a small bucket with a cloth. The water is warm. It smells clean. I try to wash myself but it’s slow going and someone comes to help me. When they try to wash my hair, I grip their wrist. This startles them and I drop my hand quickly. I wash my hair myself. They provide something clean to wear, a kind of gown. I put it on gingerly, the movement causing a painful shift in my ribs.

“Better?” the first doctor asks.

“Yes,” I say quietly. The water has taken some of the numbness away, replacing it with a sense of calm. I’m unsure why I’m not more skeptical of these doctors. But something in me tells me that they’re different. And now that I no longer feel like a living scab, they get back to business.

“We just need to check some things, all right? With this,” the person says, shining a small flashlight down on the palm of their hand. I nod. Another doctor asks if it’s okay to touch my wrist to check my pulse.

“Will you do the light first?” I ask. They shine the light into my eyes, then the other one asks for my hand. I hold it out slowly, as if I’m trying to pet an animal that might bite me. They take my wrist and a shudder wracks me so violently I yell for them to stop. Once I’m calm enough, they try again. After a couple more minutes of this, the people nod at one another and establish that I must be somewhat still alive. They promise to do more tests later, to see what’s going on with my ribs and lungs. The prospect doesn’t excite me.

They fit me a new leg, crudely made but usable, and adjust it to me. I’m asked to stand up near the bed and see stars until I breathe through it. Then I realize the leg is working just fine. I tell them as much. I pace a little, hold on to the bed for support.

These doctors are clearly helpful so far. Whoever they might be. I resolve to untangle the mess of what happened once I’m alone. All that matters now is that I’m not in the Capitol anymore.

What’s throwing me off the most is the fact that I can’t seem to remember much from before. I remember Johanna and Annie, I remember getting hurt, but nothing clearer than that will show itself to me. Frowning, I sit down again.

I’m about to tell the doctors about this weird feeling when one of them says something through a button in the wall and suddenly a door opens on the opposite side of the room, revealing a young woman with dark hair, pulled back in a braid.

Suddenly I know why District 13 makes me weary.

She’s here.

The image of her in the doorway, alive and well, sparks something in me that could burn this room down. She’s smiling, eyes wide, as if she’s happy to see me. She walks in as if she expects me to jump into her arms. How dare she be in here, just now that they’ve told me I’m safe. They’re liars. I’m not safe! As long as she’s alive, I never will be!

As I sit on the bed, surrounded by strangers, the only familiar feeling fighting its way to the surface is the unsurmountable fact that Katniss Everdeen wants to kill me.

I get up from the bed and push the doctors aside, ignore their startled outcries, and make my way toward her in a few swift steps. Never mind the pain, the dizziness. I need to stop her before she can complete her goal. I need to save myself.

As she stands there, a look of surprise crosses her features. Just long enough for me to see it turn into despair as I close my hands around her throat.

Chapter Text

Someone knocked me out.

I can tell because the bruise on the back of my head was not there before. I wake up strapped to my hospital bed and try to find a comfortable position for the bruise, but no luck. The leather restraints are soft on my joints, but one wrong move and the bite of them makes me grind my teeth. When I first notice them, I start to panic so badly that the doctors use morphling to calm me down. The drip in my arm is there continuously. Seeing it there does little to comfort me. So far, District 13 is proving to be no better than the Capitol.

It’s the only thing I seem to remember, though.

I know they took me from there and that Annie and Johanna were with me. I haven’t seen either of them yet. I hope they’re ok. Other than that, my time there is shrouded in a haze of confusion. I know pain was involved, and something about doctors, too. But that’s all I have.

The knowledge that I lost a part of my memories frightens me, but not as much as the knowledge that somewhere in this massive complex, walking and breathing and scheming, is Katniss. I know that’s why they knocked me out. I tried to save everyone by killing her and they stopped me. Don’t they know what a threat she is? No wonder they’re protecting her; she’s got them all wrapped up in her lies. I hope I never have to see her again. I try not to show my anger outright for fear of getting even more morphling injected. So I seethe quietly and let the lull of the drug pull me under.

The doctors who were there before come back once I’m fully awake again. Only they’ve brought in seven more people, all dressed in either white coats or a gray uniform. The first doctor introduces himself as Dr. Aurelius. The others take turns as well, but the only other names I remember are Dr. Selene and Dr. Cassius. Selene, because she’s the only one who smiles at me as she says her name. Cassius, because he has glasses. Their expressions are grim as they enter, making me nervous. This bombardment of people in my room is making my hands sweat.

“Peeta, we’ve reviewed your situation,” Dr. Aurelius says. He’s holding something that has charts and text on it, too small for me to read. My situation?

“What do you mean?” I ask, looking behind him to the other doctors. Aurelius speaks again.

“What happened yesterday, with Miss Everdeen… based on your reaction, we think something more might be at play here.” His answer does little to reassure me about anything.

“What more could that be? Katniss is dangerous; the fact that you don’t see that is your problem,” I say with a huff. I lie back on the bed, turn away my head. They can’t say I didn’t warn them.

“Peeta, do you remember anything from your time in the Capitol?” Dr. Selene speaks up. I turn my gaze to her, wait a few seconds.

“Not much,” I reply. I tell them all I recall: Johanna and Annie, pain, doctors. They pry, asking me again and again if there is anything at all that I know for certain. I get so agitated, thinking they don’t believe me, that I start spitting out answers. Why isn’t this enough? The throbbing at the back of my head intensifies as a headache starts up.

“We’ll stop,” Aurelius concludes after I reply to their last question with a groan. He doesn’t seem aware that I moved my head wrong, but I don’t correct him in thinking it was because of him.

They regroup at the edge of the room, speak in hushed tones. It all feels disorganized. Like they’re grasping at straws just as much as I am. So far, it’s hard not to be skeptical.

“Could we run some tests?” Dr. Cassius says, stepping forward at last. I look at him and frown at the question. It comes out of nowhere. His hands are on his back, but I imagine he must be wringing them.

“What kind of tests would that be?” I say.

“We will show you some images. You simply tell us how they make you feel, ok?” he explains. “No more questions.”

I nod slowly, thinking this must be too easy. Like they’re playing a game behind my back. No test is that straightforward.

Turns out it is.

I lie back on the bed as they give me a device that’s made up of a screen and nothing else. My restraints are loosened so I can move my arms more, but I’m not free. The light feels odd on my eyes; harsh and blue. They add things to my temples that are supposed to measure my brain activity or something. I got lost when they tried to explain it. All I’m supposed to do is look at the images and describe what I see.

“This is a forest. I’ve been in one before, I’m sure,” I say, focusing hard. The trees and moss look unfamiliar, but the scene itself is clear enough. Still, something in me halts at the sight of the foliage, like something could jump out at any moment.

“I know that they’re dangerous,” I say. I see Aurelius writing something down before nodding at me to go to the next image.

“This is a school. I went to school. I was good at school. I think. I know I learned how to read and write and how to do multiplications. My father-“ My breath hitches as a memory surfaces of him. “He told me to practice a lot so I could help out in- in the bakery.” I close my eyes and see flashes of it; dusty tables, tiled floors. The shift of sunlight through the windows. I almost toss the device out of my hands, but Dr. Aurelius tells me I have to go on.

“This is… this is me, before. I don’t look like that now,” I say. I see myself in a white collared shirt, my hair curly on my forehead. I know with absolute certainty that this happened. Somehow, the image shifts something in my brain, setting something loose that was stuck before. It was warm that day. The day of the Reaping. I was reaped. The Hunger Games exist. I was in the Hunger Games. Suddenly the forest from earlier conjures a clear image after all.

“There are tracker jackers, and swords, and girls in the night who I kill, I- oh” I vomit over the side of the bed, dry heave until nothing can come out anymore. Somewhere during the vomiting I started crying. The doctors call someone in to clean and I sob into my hands at the assault of memories. She looked me in the eyes as I plunged a knife into her heart. I cry and cry, get paper from the doctors to clean my face, hear their empty, reassuring words. I hadn’t expected anything to come back like this. I hadn’t even realized I’d lost these memories until now. Now I have to live them all over again. Will it be like this from now on? I get sick at the thought of meeting who I once was.

“We’re sorry, but we need to go on,” they say gently. I nod, empty and sore from the crying. My midriff feels bruised. I take the device back, try to ignore the shake of my hands. The doctors pretend they don’t notice, but Aurelius is writing again.

“This is the last one, I promise,” he says. When I take the device back, I’m almost sure they’re taunting me.

“Why are you showing me her?” I say, tossing the screen away from me. The device clatters to the floor with a hollow bang; one of the doctors winces at the contact. There is Katniss in the forest, me behind her. We were gathering berries there. I know because my hands are stained red. Nightlock. That’s what they’re called. They’re lethal; they’re the berries Foxface ate. They’re the berries Katniss made me eat so she could win by herself.

“Stop it! Stop! You keep trying to talk about her but she’s dangerous! Why are you doing this?” I scream, thrashing in the bed, trying to make them see what they’re blind to. I will them to talk to me, but instead, they leave the room as I feel more morphling drip into my arm. Angry and alone, I give in to its blankness.

When I come to, no one else is there. Alone once again. My hands fidget restlessly with the bedsheet, trying to distract myself from the pull of the restraints. They seem tighter now.

The door opens and in walks Dr. Selene. She’s not smiling now. She takes a chair and sits beside my bed, holding the device they used earlier. I eye her warily.

“What are you doing here?” I say, but this doesn’t faze her.

“Do you know what a psychologist is, Peeta?” she asks. I shake my head.

“We study emotions. Thoughts. Brains, in a way. We talk about how you feel and think,” she explains. “The reason I’m saying this is because I am a psychologist, and I want to talk about you, if that’s alright.” I don’t respond as she pulls something up on the device.

“I’m sorry we subjected you to that test earlier. I really am. But we needed to check something. Make sure that what we suspected was indeed correct. And we were,” she says.

“Those questions we asked, the images we showed you, were all trying to get some sense of what happened to you in the Capitol. It’s something rarely seen, but not unheard of.” Do I hear some sadness in her voice?

“Would it be ok if I explained?” she asks. I don’t see that I have much of a choice. Knowing or not knowing doesn’t matter when the outcome stays the same.

She explains what happened to me.

“We call it ‘hijacking’. It’s not an official word, but we made it up because, well, things are supposed to have names, right? We believe that you have been hijacked while you were in the Capitol.”

Dr. Selene takes some time to clarify. Apparently, hijacking is a form of fear conditioning. They make you watch or remember something and then inject tracker jacker venom. Not a lot, but just enough to make you enter a state of extreme fear. And you attach that fear to the memory you just pulled up. The memory that you actually remember afterwards is false, bent out of shape because of the venom. That’s what they did to me in the Capitol. That’s why, Dr. Selene says, I’m afraid of Katniss.

I almost laugh in her face when she finishes talking.

“Do you really think I believe that?” I say incredulously, shaking my head. It’s truly incredible how Katniss has manipulated all of them. Even the people who are supposed to help me get better.

“Why would I lie to you?” Dr. Selene asks.

“Because you have let Katniss talk you into it. Face it: I’m only here because she wants to mess with me,” I say. My temper is rising. “That’s why she wants me to believe it’s my fault. Can’t you see? If I’m the crazy one, made to believe something false, then anything I say is automatically wrong!”

“Peeta, no one is calling you crazy. You were subjected to unimaginable pain,” the doctor says, “and we truly want to help you. We want you to relearn who you are. The Capitol took something from you and we want to help you get it back.”

Suddenly, I feel tears sting my eyes. This person in front of me is very convincing, I’ll give her that. The concern in her face almost makes me want to relent. But I won’t. I can’t. Katniss won’t win this game she’s playing.

“I’d like to be alone now,” I say, turning back from her. She doesn’t make a sound as she leaves the room, the door sliding shut behind her.

I spend days like this. Multiple doctors come in to talk to me about what happened, but no matter how many they keep sending, I don’t comply. I start to feel like I’ll rot here in this hospital room, trying to convince people of what’s true and what isn’t. The thought doesn’t alarm me as much as it should; a small part of me recoils at the thought of dying here, alone, left to fend for myself. But a bigger part of me simply is too tired to give it much thought.

This is why, when all of my doctors enter the room at once, I know something is going to change.

They’re armed with clipboards and pens. No devices like before, I notice. I recognize all of them: some have told me they’re psychologists, like Dr. Selene, other doctors are experts in prosthetics, internal health, or even skin. The room feels like it’s over capacity and I start to feel nervous. What’s worse: they decided to restrain me again. I don’t fight them as they attach my ankle and wrists to the bed with the leather straps, but my fingers won’t stop rubbing the fabric of the bed cover or the strap itself. My palms itch with sweat.

A weird, terse silence descends over the room.

Then someone else enters.

At first I fear it’s her again, but I quickly realize it isn’t. The girl in the doorway has blond hair, not brown. It’s pulled away from her face in a braid down her back. She’s in a gray jumpsuit, her face unreadable as I try to make sense of who she is. She crosses the room slowly, eyeing me and the doctors, who just nod a little. I tense as she comes closer. Suddenly she’s at my bedside, her face breaking open into a brilliant smile.

“Peeta?” she says, still blinding me with her cheerfulness. “It’s Delly. From home.”

Delly.

From home?

Her face, together with her name, come back to me at once.

“Delly? Delly. It’s you.” I say, dumbfounded. Delly Cartwright. My friend. From home.

“Yes!” she says, almost bursting with happiness. “How do you feel?”

“Awful. Where are we? What’s happened?” I ask. I hope that she’s still on my side.

“Well… we’re in District Thirteen. We live here now,” Delly says.

“That’s what those people have been saying. But it makes no sense. Why aren’t we home?” I ask. This puts her off, I can tell. She bites her lip before answering.

“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?” she says brightly.

I do remember. I see her in my head, younger, holding a piece of bright orange chalk.

“Yeah. Pigs and cats and things,” I say. But something is not adding up. “You said… about an accident?”

She didn’t expect me to have remembered that part, obviously. I see her try to come up with an answer.

“It was bad. No one… could stay. But I know you’re going to like it here, Peeta,” she says quickly. “The people have been really nice to us. There’s always food and clean clothes, and school’s much more interesting.”

“Why hasn’t my family come to see me?” I ask. With the memory of her comes the memory of brothers, a father, a mother. I think back to my reaction of doing math, my father talking about the bakery. Why did it upset me?

“They can’t,” Delly says haltingly. Tears wet her eyes as she looks at me. “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?”

A lot of people didn’t get out of Twelve.

My family. They’re dead.

Suddenly, something else comes back to me.

“There was a fire,” I say. I look at her face to see what she’ll do, but her reply comes immediately.

“Yes,” she whispers.

“Twelve burned down, didn’t it? Because of her,” I spit. “Because of Katniss!” The restraints are pulling on my arms until I realize it’s me pulling on them, trying to get away.

“Oh, no, Peeta. It wasn’t her fault,” Delly says.

“Did she tell you that?” I hiss, focused in on Delly. I can’t believe I almost thought she was on my side.

“She didn’t have to. I was-“

“Because she’s lying! She’s a liar! You can’t believe anything she says! She’s come kind of mutt the Capitol created to use against the rest of us!” I rage, not caring about the restraints cutting into my skin now.

“No, Peeta. She’s not a-“

“Don’t trust her, Delly,” I say frantically, willing her to see the truth. “I did, and she tried to kill me. She killed my friends. My family. Don’t even go near her! She’s a mutt!” I’m screaming now.

Suddenly the door to the room is open and Delly is pulled out, leaving me with the traitor doctors. I don’t stop.

“A mutt! She’s a stinking mutt!”

Delly is gone, but she has to hear me. I continue screaming, crying, bruising myself on the leather straps. I barely notice when the doctors leave the room.

They let me rage until my voice is gone; I’ve soaked the pillow in sweat and tears. No one believes me. They all think I’m lying.

But I can’t be safe until Katniss is gone.

Chapter Text

The doctors don’t return immediately. I think they want to punish me for what I said to Delly by giving me the silent treatment.

Well, I won’t apologize.

Instead, I try to recount all that I’m certain of right now.

Katniss is a liar. District 13 is not safe. Delly is confusing me. My family- my family is dead.

I close my eyes as I recall Delly’s words, the images of the burning bakery. I can’t remember where I saw them but they’re unmistakable. The old oven was the only thing still standing in the smoking remains of my home. I see it now, clearly, as if I’m there. The acrid scent of the ashes and coal dust sits heavy in my lungs as I struggle to breathe. There’s no way I can find them here. I only hope they made it out of the house before it collapsed. The idea that they might be nearby makes my head spin, my heart pounding painfully as a throbbing in my temples starts.

As I choke on my own sobs, my family comes back. First I see my mother; she hovers a few meters away from me. I know it’s her because I can feel it. She speaks, but her voice is warped, like she’s under water. All I can make out is her saying “-rned the bread”. Then she’s replaced by my brothers. Taller than me, equally athletic. I know we used to wrestle. It comes back to me once they start saying my name, urging me to follow them. But I can’t. I’m stuck here. They disappear and make place for my father. His face is so achingly familiar. The set of his brows, the slightly downturned corners of his mouth. He doesn’t speak. Instead, I see how he reaches out his hand as if he wants me to take it. But my wrists are fastened together. He seems to realize this too late. A sad smile marks his face. I don’t have a chance to call after him before he, too, vanishes.

I wake up gasping, my face wet with tears.

I’m not sure if I had a dream or a nightmare. My body feels heavy, as if I haven’t slept at all. As if I spent the entire time running. The face of my father is burned into my mind. They should have been here. I was the one who wasn’t supposed to make it.

Dr. Aurelius enters the room, interrupting my thoughts so severely that I almost jump. He’s frowning.

“Good morning,” he says. I don’t know if it’s tact, unease, or general disinterest that makes him ignore how wet my face and pillow are. I snort loudly.

“Is it?” I reply, feeling petty. Aurelius doesn’t dignify my question with a response.

“How do you feel?” he asks. I lie back on the bed. Check in with myself. My chest is tight, the leather straps are eating away at my wrists, and I’m getting extremely uncomfortable in this bed. Not to mention the images of my deceased family that will now occupy my waking moments.

“Horrible,” I say. He nods.

“Let’s not discuss what happened with Miss Cartwright yesterday. I think we should focus on more pressing matters.” He explains that since I’m not holding food down, they’ll insert a tube right into me to feed me. I won’t have to do anything since the doctors will provide the bags of liquidized food to me on a pole. I’ll only be able to drink sips of water if my mouth feels dry. On top of that, it means that I will be more confined to my bed than ever. Aurelius claims it’s an effort to bring up my strength. Something in me tells me that doesn’t sound right.

“So, what? I’ll be decaying here but I won’t starve?” I say. I can’t stop the color rising in my cheeks.

“You have to understand that your physical health shouldn’t be ignored. Once you’re fit to do so, we can consider options for you to have more freedom,” he says. I scoff. I won’t be so naïve as to think these people will ever let me out of this room. Why should they? In their eyes, I’m a volatile liability. I don’t know why they bother. But it’s not like I really have much to say in the matter anyway.

“Fine. Do what you think you have to do. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

I end up with more tubes everywhere, more doctors surrounding me. Utterly incapacitated. Since my outburst with Delly, they won’t even allow me to have the restraints off for a few minutes. I have to go to the bathroom with them on while also dragging a pole with bags hanging off of it beside me. To make sure my muscles don’t waste away completely, I get to pace my room, supervised, for a few minutes every few hours. The knocking of the pole’s wheels against my ankle nearly drives me crazy. I try not to let it show how winded I am whenever I’m allowed to sit down again.

And while the doctors concern themselves with my body, I find that I’m the only one left to fend off my mind.

Nightmares upon nightmares overwhelm me the moment I drift off to sleep. Nightmares of mutts stealing bread from pigs, the charred loaves crisp in their maws. Of blood everywhere, dripping down screaming bodies, unrecognizable except for the fiery red of the hair. Followed by images of fog, oppressing, deathly quiet, casting its tendrils out, burning. Burning. Always burning. People burning and being helpless to do anything about it but waste away from a distance.

I wake up crying more than once. Gasping for breath, I wail until I realize I’m awake. Then wail once that reality sinks in. The nightmares tip each other off, building. Each night, it seems like a story that continues; a clear line of horror upon horror.

I stop sleeping.

Will myself to stay awake by banging my head against anything hard enough, scream until my voice gives out. A desperate attempt to keep out the pain my brain is relentlessly putting me through.

Eventually, they decide to hook me up to a steady drip of morphling again. The soothing, weighty feeling of the drug pulls me under in dreamless sleep.

Then, I can’t stop sleeping.

Staying awake becomes so heavy that I barely manage to get up to relieve myself. I forget my own name multiple times. Drool all over myself, the bed, and the floor. This, apparently, is also not a good thing. But I’m too out of it to give anything much thought, let alone register my doctors’ hushed whispers. All I care about is the absence of feeling. The floating sensation that comes with an utter lack of consciousness. Empty. Hollow. Safe.

They wean me off the morphling little by little, trying to find a balance. After a week, I manage to stay awake long enough to speak with Aurelius again.

“From scans we’ve performed, we can see that your internal damage has healed significantly. The bloodwork shows promising signs of progress. That is to say,” he adds, “physically.” I’m drowsy, having just hit the morphling button for a new dose. The doctor’s edges blur.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“We want to try and remove the feeding tube. You can learn how to eat again,” he says. Anything goes, really. The doctor leaves after I nod my assent. I’m too lethargic to give it much thought, happy to be in a cocoon forged by the medicine.

The first time I’m snapped back into true consciousness is when they remove the tube out of my nose and I gag, the rancid taste of bile sitting in the back of my throat. I gulp down water, trying in vain to wash the taste away. The doctors tell me that eating something will help.

My first meal after two weeks of eating through a tube is a cup of pudding. It looks to be vanilla, judging from the color. I used to like vanilla. Do I now?

Holding the spoon is a chore in itself. Dr. Cassius loosened my restraints enough for me to bring the spoon to my mouth. With a shaky hand, I feed myself a bite, nearly missing my mouth.

I can’t believe I’d already forgotten what eating feels like. I take a while, eating the pudding. I still like vanilla. Another push on the morphling drip tips me over the threshold to finish my meal. Afterwards, I am watched anxiously. Nothing comes up. I’m congratulated as if I’ve done something mesmerizing.

They put me on a diet of light, solid meals. I find my strength returning a bit as I hold down plates of eggs, chicken and rice, a broth with chunks of vegetables. They try to give me a bowl filled with a mixture of oats and milk. I take one bite and gag on the mushy, heavy texture.

All at once I’m being gripped by the throat, the air sucked out of my lungs, choking on some invisible obstacle. The bowl crashes to the floor, splattering its contents in an arc around the bed. I wheeze, closing my eyes and meeting an onslaught of memories. Blood spreading on tile, the gurgling screams of someone in agony, the leaden dread of knowing you’re next.

By the time the doctors realize what’s going on, I’ve retreated into myself, not having the language to convey anything anymore. My hands shake. I sniff continuously, try to contain the snot pouring from my nose. It feels like ants are under my skin, but the restraints are too tight to have any means to scratch at them.

Instead of giving me another dose of morphling, they choose to let me tire myself out. Why, I’m not sure. All I know at that point is how utterly, miserably alone I am. The grief of carrying those memories is mine to bear. Vaguely, I wonder where Johanna is.

As I feel the onset of fatigue that follows my panic, it becomes increasingly difficult to think about progress. It feels like with every step I take towards getting better, something is there to trip me up. I taste the iron tang of blood; I’ve bitten my tongue. I fall asleep silently weeping into the pillow, unsure if it’s worth it to keep trying.

It seems like the doctors have caught on, too.

They enter my room with a renewed sort of vigor. I speak with two, four, seven doctors. All of them attempt to get me to talk. Can you tell us anything about your time in the Capitol? Was there anyone whose name you remember? Yes, Johanna and Annie. Anyone else? What happened to you?

What happened?

“I don’t know! There’s nothing I remember! Just stop, okay?” I whine, twisting my fists in the bedsheets. The last doctor writes something on a piece of paper and leaves with a nod, telling me to take it slow the next couple of hours. What else am I supposed to do?

After waking up from a particularly vicious nightmare, I slam on the morphling pump so hard it almost breaks. Panting, I recall the ashes, Katniss among them brandishing her bow, a snarl on her lips. Wild, unhinged. It takes me several minutes to come back to myself and stop looking around waiting for her to pop up.

I’m released from the bed to relieve and wash myself once the morphling has done its job. Someone holds my arm as I shuffle toward the bathroom. Putting on the prosthetic still requires help from the doctor who helped me fit it. Once I’m done, Dr. Aurelius is waiting for me.

They want me to speak to Delly again, he says.

“You have to remember that she is in no way at fault here,” he warns, “and that your outburst at her does not make anything better.”

“So what do you want me to do? Bite my tongue? Sure,” I scoff.

“No, Peeta. Talk to her. Talk about things you remember. I know it doesn’t work when you talk to us because you have no prior memory of Thirteen. But you do of Twelve. Anything that can help you access your memories is progress.”

In the end, I agree. I’m not sure how much the morphling had to do with it and I don’t dwell.

They bring in Delly, but she’s not alone. Dr. Selene and someone else are there with her. They stay back toward the door as Delly comes closer. Her smile falters only a little when we make eye contact. She clearly hasn’t forgotten our last talk. Maybe, I decide, I should try harder.

She sits down on a chair near my bed, close enough for me to see the darkness under her eyes. I’m not the only one having trouble finding rest, it seems.

“How are you?” Delly ventures. I sit back and really contemplate how to answer. How am I? Well, I'm clean. Fed. I only had one nightmare last night. Granted, it involved a horde of tracker jackers boring into my eyes by the end of it. But in the spirit of trying to be a decent conversationalist, I decide to be positive.

“Better. You?” She seems to perk up at this. A semblance of a regular conversation.

“I'm good! I… wasn't sure how you felt about me coming back, but I'm sure now.”

“I'm sorry I yelled at you,” I say earnestly, “Just… don't bring up…” I say. She catches on. Then makes the mistake of looking at Dr. Selene.

“Well, Peeta, I'm sorry to do this but-”

“What? What could you possibly have to say about her that would sway my mind?” My tone is clipped. I'm trying very, very hard not to shout.

“We left on a bad note, is all. Katniss, she- she wasn't responsible for what happened to District Twelve,” she says. “It was President Snow who ordered the bombing.”

President Snow. I hadn’t thought about him at all. Why?

“It doesn’t matter-“

“No, it does,” she cuts me off, “because it changes things. Katniss didn’t know about it. She was taken here right after what happened in the arena.”

She lets out a puff of air, visibly deflating after speaking to me so sternly. Delly isn’t someone who loves confrontation. Something in me tells me I know that.

“Fine, let’s not talk about it,” I say, trying to stamp down my annoyance. She nods. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, she starts talking about school. Her entire body comes alive with motion as she talks with her hands, animating every word. She talks about the friend group we used to have. The wrestling. How, whenever someone would be mean to her when we were kids, I would defend her by asking the person what was so funny about calling someone else names. I smile, thinking back on it. Then it sours once I think about all of the people she’s mentioning.

“They’re gone, too?” I whisper. She catches my eye and nods slowly.

“Most of them didn’t get out,” she says. I close my eyes. Breathe in deep, as deep as I can, and try not to think of Katniss. If it was Snow, as Delly claims, then Katniss has nothing to do with it. But I can’t just accept that she’s harmless in all of this. I open my eyes again.

“Dr. Selene, I want to be alone, now,” I say, not looking at anyone. Delly stands up quickly, I think I hear her say ‘bye’. Once everyone has left the room, I start pulling on the restraints. I pull and pull, allowing the leather to bite into my wrists, see the skin turn white and then an angry, welted red. Damn the morphling. I don’t need it. I need to feel with absolute certainty that I will never be fine again. Or at peace. Or happy, for that matter. My family, my friends, my life. All of it burned up. Blisters start to form on my wrists as I tear myself up and away from this damn bed, wishing they’d leave me to rot until nothing is left of me, either.

Chapter Text

Afterwards, the doctors wisely choose to sedate me. I kept banging my head into the pillow to no avail. Once the comforting drip of the morphling soothes me, I welcome the darkness of sleep.

Unfortunately, the brief respite after Delly’s visit ends too soon. The door to my room opens. At first I think they’ll send her in again. But instead I find Dr. Selene at the foot of my bed, flanked by about half of the team. She looks grave, but manages a smile once she sees I’m awake.

“Good morning, Peeta,” she says, looking at her clipboard.

“Hello,” I say warily. The doctors behind her are passive, almost like statues. Like something bad is about to happen. I eye their hands; empty.

“We know you’ve been making progress in the past few weeks,” she says. I nod slowly. If you call eating with a spoon progress, I guess I won’t point it out. She clearly doesn’t want to mention the drooling part of the morphling trial.

But I’d been wondering when they would come in to talk about treatment again.

“We want to propose moving on to something else we would like to work on with you. Do you remember our conversation about hijacking?” she says. I try to stop myself from rolling my eyes.

“That’s what you say the Capitol did to me,” I reply. She nods, looking happy I seem to recall. As if she was dreading having to explain again.

“We want to find a way to undo it,” she begins, “but we need your cooperation. Otherwise it won’t be helpful.” I size up my team of doctors. So far, their methods of helping me have fallen short of the most obvious: my distrust of Katniss. It’s like they’ve been trying to make me forget about it.

“What would you do?” I ask.

“We would try to counteract the effects. Reverse hijacking, we’re calling it. Undoing the damage that was done to your brain,” she explains quickly.

“Why do you think that would work? Wouldn’t it just be you trying to manipulate me, too? Did-“, my breathing halts, “did Katniss put you up to this? Huh?” I say, looking at each of them. Dr. Selene loses her composure for a split second.

“No, Peeta, Katniss is not even in District Thirteen right now. She doesn’t know the details of your treatment.” Somehow this does little to placate me.

“What would be the goal here?” I ask, wincing as I remember how sore my wrists are.

“Like I said, we would undo the conditioning.”

“Yes, but what would it matter?” I ask.

This seems to take her by surprise. She blinks a few times, rapidly.

“It matters because you would learn about who you are.”

Who I am? I can tell her who I am.

“I’m sure you would all love to pat yourselves on the back for fixing me,” I spit. She doesn’t reply. An awkward silence descends over the room, broken only by the sound of a fan spinning somewhere.

“Look,” another doctor steps up, “let’s just try it. As you said: we haven’t been successful so far. No patting ourselves on the back just yet. But would you really want to live the rest of your life like this?”

I take a good, long look at this doctor. Consider his words. He has the decency to hold my gaze.

“If you want to stay in this room, unsure of what happened to you, then so be it. It’s your choice. But I think you deserve better than that.”

The words aren’t delivered with malice or contempt. Instead, I almost think they’re meant as kindness. Somehow, that hurts more than if he had yelled something at me. I curse myself in my head for the tears that well in my eyes. I hadn’t thought about what I deserve. All this time, it felt like everything – every aspect of my life – was being decided for me. Who I am. How I feel. What I know. Along the way it became synonymous with what I thought I deserved to be, feel, know. A pawn. Whatever someone else needed me to be. And definitely not someone deserving.

Maybe it’s worth trying. Maybe, in the end, it might be worth it.

I look at the doctor’s face when I tell them I agree.

Dr. Aurelius explains the procedure again when he comes in a few hours later. They will have me lying down on the bed. My arms will be restrained so I don’t hurt myself. They take care to tighten the straps on my upper arms, giving my blistered wrists a break. The bandages on them are soft and slick, coated in an ointment to help the blisters heal. A screen will be installed in front of the bed. They will inject morphling in my arm that should calm me down if I need to. I try not to think about the tube that stays in my arm once they remove the syringe. I don’t feel it when I move, but the idea of it sitting there, ready to inject something at a moment’s notice, makes my hands shake. Even though I’ve had the morphling drip before, this feels different. Less like help and more like punishment. Altogether the experience is pulling at a chasm in my chest, that unreachable place where I only sense fear.

“Are you ready?” Dr. Selene asks. I push down my nerves and nod.

The footage they decide to show on the screen is confusing. They pull up videos of myself but I only vaguely recall being there until one memory slowly starts triggering the next.

The Reaping. My name being called. Then me again at the train station, crying. My parents came to say goodbye.

Then the chariot rides into the Capitol. The black outfit, blazing in the setting sun. Portia and Cinna created those flames.

“Portia…” I say, staring at the flames on my costume. Then the screen cuts to a shot of Katniss and I in the chariot together. We hold hands. We were supposed to be a team. The sight of her makes me grind my teeth, and I want to look away. I find that I can move my head freely. Why did I think I couldn’t? So I do. I pointedly look away. This confuses the doctors, it seems. They cut to a different clip.

Caesar Flickerman and I in chairs. I have on a suit and I’m talking about roses. Then, I tell him that the one girl I have crush on came here with me. It’s all unnerving: seeing Caesar, the mention of the roses, the fact that it was Katniss I was talking about. What would have compelled me to do so? Caesar’s face on the screen is tugging at something I did. Something that has to do with him. I see a flash of his face, but his hair is a different color than it is in this clip. Where did I see him, then? Bug-like cameras. White roses. But nothing more comes.

So far I have no clue what they’re trying to do here. They show more things, like the tracker jackers and my time in the mud. The clips are bringing back fragments, but they’re only solidifying how much I don’t want to see Katniss. Still annoyed but calm, I nod for the doctors to show me more.

I instantly regret it.

Katniss and I are in a cave.

No.

I’m lying down on the ground, my hair plastered to my forehead. I remember this too well. Where the other memories took a while to form themselves in my mind again, this one comes back without a hitch. As if it just needed one small push to present itself to me. Katniss and I sleeping, eating, talking. Kissing. The sight of my flushed cheeks when she kisses me makes me feel something close to embarrassment. She tells me a story. About her sister, Prim, and her goat. I seem so enthralled by what she has to say. Then the feast gets announced. She gives me the berry mixture. Spots appear at the far end of my vision once I see myself eat spoonful after spoonful, oblivious to the fact that I was being poisoned. My hands get clammy and I start to rub them on the sheets of my bed, faster and faster, trying to clean myself of this memory. Once I pass out in the video, the tears come. Because Katniss came back after that. Look at where it got me. Katniss who deceived me, left me to die in that cave if she couldn’t make it back, who pointed her arrow at my heart once the stakes became too high. I close my eyes against the screen and there she is again, shimmering in my memory, a mutt waiting to kill her prey. Her features transform into something monstrous, torturous. I think I hear someone screaming.

From a great distance, I hear the commotion in the room.

A dense, weighted warmth moves into my arm.

The sedative works its way into my veins, working at silencing the parts of me that panic. But instead of calmness, the memories they’re trying to detain are transformed once again, suppressed just enough by the drug to turn them into a kind of lucid dream.

I’m in the cave, Katniss has just come back. She’s covered in blood, snarling in pain, her weapons discarded in a gory heap. She must have picked off tributes left and right. She plunges a needle into my leg and I cry out as if it were happening right now, the searing pain of the medication working its way into my fevered body. I try to get away from her but she’s changed again, calmer now, a smile on her face. The crease in her brow tells me she’s thinking. All of a sudden she’s talking about the goat again.

By the time I snap out of the memory, I’ve seen many versions of her. But still the snarling mutt is branded inside my brain, leaving no space for anything else. Her feral eyes stick out in my mind as I shake my head, trying to get away from them.

The sedative is making my limbs feel heavy. It’s like a weight is being pressed into my entire body, stopping me from taking a deep breath. They start coming in short gasps, faster and faster until my head spins. I pull against the restraints, panting as if I’m trying to run away from myself.

Dr. Aurelius tries to say something but it’s like he’s behind glass. I see his worried expression, the movement of his lips, but all I can hear is the thunderous beat of my heart. Every time I close my eyes, I see her standing before me. At once she is a monster, then a girl again. The images start swirling as if they’re submerged, making me so nauseous I start to heave.

Suddenly an arm touches me and I yelp, pulling all the way back. The restraints are the only thing stopping me from pummeling myself off the bed as I scream and scream. The tears keep coming no matter what I do, so I let them roll over my cheeks like a helpless child.

They don’t touch me again after that.

I feel the warmth of the sedative again but it’s no use, no use at all. The panic that envelopes me is absolute, incapacitating. My name is Peeta Mellark. I’m- I’m-

I vomit over the side of the bed.

I don’t speak after that. I can’t. The doctors try to coax the words out of me, keep asking me to tell them how I feel. But the connection between my brain and my mouth has been severed. I can only manage to stare into the middle distance, see the doctors move like ghosts around the room, oblivious to the turmoil going on inside of me. They’ve given me more sedative, causing me to feel like I’m floating.

Eventually, my mind starts to clear again. It’s been several hours. I’m no longer bombarded by her, by the memories that are now more terrifying than ever, because I can no longer tell which ones are mine and which ones the sedative changed. And, if Dr. Selene is to be believed, I wouldn’t be able to tell which ones are my own, anyway. My head feels like a garbled mess.

The one thing I keep looping back to is not Katniss, though she is always there, biding her time in the back of my mind. It’s the story of Prim’s goat. The doctors scramble when I open my mouth, then look at me in confusion when all I say is: “The goat. What happened to the goat?”

No one replies until Dr. Aurelius says that she probably perished in the fire. This sets me off once again, but I’m so sore from the crying that I only manage halfhearted sobs.

“I’m sure she didn’t have to suffer,” Dr. Cassius says. I’m not sure it helps, but at least I can imagine it now: fire raining down, quickly ending Lady’s life. She’s probably still out there, open to the elements. My lip trembles at the thought of her small bones lying in the dust.

It takes me another thirty minutes before the doctors dare to suggest moving on with another clip. They have to rebandage my wrists. I’ve rubbed open all of the welts, making a mess of the sheets and my own torn skin as the original bandages rubbed off in my panic.

Because of this, the doctors choose not to restrain me again. Instead, I’m flanked by two guards who will be at my side in a split second if I lash out. They don’t put in a tube for medicine, telling me this video will be different. I’m wary to believe them, but I have little choice in the matter. I take a few deep breaths per Dr. Selene’s instructions and brace myself.

Katniss is standing in some kind of forest, surrounded by a lake. Is this recent? She’s leaning against one of the trees, looking around at her surroundings, as if she’s trying to find something in particular.

I don’t remember this. As such, my reaction isn’t as visceral as I had braced myself for. But that confuses me, too. This is her. I sit back and watch on, try to find something in her face that confirms to me that I’m right. All I really manage to make out is that she is wary, looking into the distance. She looks like a young woman. No matter how hard I try, I don’t find anything monstrous about this image. Is this another trick?

At first I think she will speak, but when she opens her mouth a melody comes out, the words floating around her. The forest, like everyone in the room with me, falls silent.

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

She sings the entire song, waits for the mockingjays in the trees to pick up on her singing once she finishes the final stanza. Her face is soft as she listens to the birds. I only seem able to form words once she’s done, too.

“I know this song,” I breathe, staring hard at the screen in front of me. “From- from home.”

I forgot about the other people in the room because I start when Dr. Selene speaks up.

“Where do you know it from?” she asks gently.

Still staring ahead of me, I see the scene play out before me as if it were happening right now.

“The bakery. Her father,” I trail off. I remember it well. “He was at the bakery. I was six or seven. He was trading with my father. As he was waiting for my dad to fetch the trade, he was singing this to himself.”

I close my eyes. See myself looking up at Mr. Everdeen. I’m not sure he noticed me because I was standing back, hidden behind the corner. I remember the worn look of his hunting jacket.

“I was waiting to hear if the birds would stop singing.” My voice is small. I’m there again, a child, awestruck. Taking a deep breath, I recall how he stopped singing once my father came back. The birds took a while to muster up the courage to sing again.

When I open my eyes, I see how my medical team is silent. Are they still thinking about the song? I look around and catch Dr. Selene’s eyes. Her smile is genuine.

“Thank you, Peeta,” she says, “for that wonderful story.” I nod in acknowledgement, not entirely sure what this is about. They leave me be after that, and for the first time since they’ve tried to therapize me, I feel good when they leave. The morphling drip hangs unused next to me.

Though I feel heavy with remembrance, the pull of my childhood that will never return, I don’t mind it.

What pulls me back to reality is the feeling of the bandages moving against my wrists, stinging the broken skin underneath. How odd it feels that just an hour ago, I was thrashing around because the memories were too much. How now, I sit back and welcome them. The doctors were right about one thing: they’ve returned something to me, something I thought I had lost. Not all memories are equal in importance or comfort, but the knowledge that I’ve retrieved a fraction is almost unbelievable. Except not all of them are mine, that much has been explained to me. Perhaps what I’ve remembered now was not mine, either. But I doubt it. The feeling of standing there behind that corner brings up the smell of the bakery and the sounds of the thoroughfare outside. Unmistakable. Perhaps I should give Dr. Selene more credit.

As I get up from the bed to use the bathroom, I feel dizzy. Not with exhaustion or hunger, not even the side effects of morphling.

Instead, as I hobble around in the small space that has become the only place I know, I feel something that makes me tear up for entirely different reasons than before.

For the first time in a long time, I feel a hesitant flickering of hope.

Chapter Text

They decide to take me off of the morphling.

The doctors believe my progress is good enough to warrant it, but have advised me to honor my feelings and let them know how I’m doing. They tell me withdrawal can be dangerous if unsupervised.

Since I’m no longer hauling a pole with a bag of medicine around whenever I go to the bathroom, I feel lighter. Even the new prosthetic starts feeling more like an adaptation instead of a hurdle. I’m using it more and more, taking the time to put it on and take it off by myself. Once the doctor clears me for it, I find myself walking any time my thoughts get too loud.

Without the morphling, though, I’m forced to reckon with the full extent of my nightmares. The doctors claim that it is better for me to work through them than around them. After the second night of mutts that all look like different versions of Katniss, I start to disagree. But I know begging won’t help a thing.

I start to get more food down. The utensils shake in my hands at times, but I tell myself it doesn’t matter how long it takes. Three meals a day are presented to me, some of which I pick at until the tray is removed. But sometimes I manage to finish something. A bowl of soup or a plate of mashed vegetables. Anything except for the drab oats. I turn up my nose at those no matter how much I try.

In unguarded moments, I try to analyze my memories. It’s something Dr. Aurelius suggested me to do. The ordeal is a minefield of emotions, but on good days they can help me feel like I won’t stay this recluse of a person forever. One of the memories I keep coming back to is the vision of myself in the chariot. The flames that looked so real but never hurt or singed. Synthetic flames, I recall. But the voice in my head is not my own. I wrack my brain trying to conjure a face to match the voice, searching the murky depths of my memory. When I finally find her, the relief of her memory makes me relax. Because these words were said by the person who, I remember, was one of the only Capitol citizens to grant me true kindness.

Her name is Portia.

She comes back in flashes. The color of her hair. The eyelashes that extend past her temples. The warmth in her eyes when she hands me a cup of hot chocolate. She’s flanked by colorful people, so unlike her. Their names are harder to come back to. Their faces blur, as if they’re a smudged painting. When I see my doctors next, I resolve to ask about them.

“Where is Portia?” I ask Dr. Aurelius. He’s taking my vitals to fill in my chart, as he does every day. I try to hold my hand still enough for him to take my pulse. My question hangs in the air between us until I think he may not have heard me. I take a breath to ask again when he replies.

“We wanted to tell you this later,” he starts, “but I see no point in lying to you.”

He sits down on a chair by my bed. I start to feel warm.

“What happened to her?” I ask. Though I dread the answer, something in me tells me that I need to hear it.

“President Snow ordered her execution on the night you were rescued from the Capitol. Along with your prep team,” the doctor says. “I’m sorry to tell you this.”

“She’s dead? Because of me?” I say, catching my breath on the last word. Portia. I remember her so vividly now. That kind smile. And he mentioned the words ‘prep team’. The colorful people take shape as I imagine them standing behind me in front of a mirror. Only I look horrible. Gaunt and deathly pale. Dead, or close to it. Nothing else becomes clear after that. I scream at Dr. Aurelius to leave me alone and he does.

It takes me hours to work through the worst of it. The sickening punch of guilt that bruises me. I feel responsible for them. Their crime was to be close to me. And Snow ordered their deaths. This is the second time someone mentions him: first Delly, now Aurelius. Both times in the context of death and carnage. My head starts to hurt as I try to think about why that fact should matter to me.

I order everyone to stay away for the rest of the day as I pace laps around my room, trying to outrun my own thoughts. I tell them sorry over and over again in the quiet of the space, knowing that anything I say is a measure for nothing. But I say it all the same. The anguish within me is almost enough to ignore the unrelenting need for morphling. Almost.

It’s a new day when Dr. Selene walks in with a large, metal box in her hands. I’m still wary, having dreamt about Portia and the others’ deaths all night, but I decide not to mention it. If anything, it might make Selene change her mind about whatever it is she wants to talk to me about.

She simply sets the box down on my bed and tells me she consulted with Delly about this. I frown, unsure of what Delly has to do with anything. I say as much.

“Well, I’ve been trying to think of a way for you to connect with your past safely, in a way that feels natural to you. Something that doesn’t feel like us picking your brain,” she says. “And Delly knows you, so she knew just the thing that might help. See for yourself and tell me if she was wrong.”

She beckons for me to open the box. I take it and put it next to me on the bed. Inside, I feel the contents shifting. I open the metal clasps to lift the lid and gasp when I see what’s inside.

Thick paper. An array of pencils, ranging in color from darkest green to brightest orange. A piece of rubber to erase mistakes. The small, familiar shape of a sharpener.

Drawing supplies.

My hands continue to shake as I blink away tears. My conversation with Delly comes back to me. I used to be good at this. Who says I still am?

“I won’t ask you to draw specific things, or even explain what it is you’re making. This is for you and you alone. If there’s anything you want to share, I would be more than happy to listen,” she says. Something just for me. Something I get to keep close without having to share with anyone. Unwittingly, Dr. Selene has given me my sense of freedom back.

She leaves my room when she’s made sure I won’t have some kind of meltdown over her gift. It takes me a while to get started; at first I clear the table at the end of the room to lay out everything as neatly as possible. Stalling the inevitable moment when I need to prove to myself that I can still create something. When I finally manage to pick up a gray pencil and make the first line, I find that none of it really matters.

I lose myself in drawing; make the most of the paper I got. Apparently it was a hassle to secure paper and pencils, since District 13 is bent on being as efficient with materials as possible. But somehow, someone lobbied that it was necessary for me to have access to them. Dr. Selene says “the improvement of my mental health should be above saving a piece of paper”. So even though the doctors are still giving me headaches, and even though I’m still mostly confined to the walls of my hospital room, I don’t have to be on paper.

I can be wherever I want.

I keep coming back to the image of a grassy field; bright yellows and hushed oranges dot the ground, shaded by trees. Blue, cloudless skies. I don’t think I’ve ever been to this place, but I draw it over and over, from different angles, in different seasons. The one constant in every drawing is the mockingjays. No drawing feels complete without them. I go through my greens and blues so quickly that Dr. Selene asks, with a hint of concern, what I’ve been doing with them. She seems comforted when I show the ream of pages filled with color.

I get more.

Days pass, filled with the scratching sounds of the pencils. My fingers cramp but it’s the first pain I’ve experienced here that isn’t debilitating. My wrists finally heal now that they’re not rubbing against anything all the time. Instead, this new pain makes me feel like I’m almost human. The hankering for morphling is subdued until I can go a few hours without thinking about it at all. Even the shake of my hands doesn’t stop me as I shade and outline. I manage to make an uneven line work for the drawing, turning my shame into something else. Something new.

There are other drawings, too. These are the ones where I draw what my mind won’t let me forget. The faces of people long gone, or the bloodlust in my enemies’ eyes. Whenever I finish one of those, I tuck it underneath the mattress, safe in the knowledge that it’s out of my head and onto the page. I find it helps with the nightmares. I have to stop myself when I realize I’m drawing Katniss. Ball the paper up and throw it in the sink, letting the water ruin the texture, reducing it to mush. The thought of her face tucked beneath where I sleep is too unsettling.

I use the tape for my bandages to hang up the other drawings.

When I next get a visitor, I’m surprised to see Delly once again. I haven’t forgotten our last conversation. She enthusiastically talks about my drawings, reminiscing about our lives as children in 12.

“One time, your mother had taken the chalk away because we’d made such a mess of the cobblestones in front of the bakery. She only gave it back because she’d heard from the customers that they liked the art in front of the shop.” I smile, thinking back to that day. The box of chalk sat on the cupboard as if it had never been taken away. She never talked about it again.

“Did you come here to talk about our childhoods?” I say, catching her off guard. Her smile only wavers for a second. To Delly’s credit, she speaks up without hesitation.

“No, not really. I have a question for you,” she says.

“Well, let’s hear it, then,” I reply.

“You know how you used to decorate the cakes back home? The pretty ones?” I nod.

“Well, some people have asked if you would be willing to do that. Here.”

I sit back and mull it over. My hands have gotten steadier in the past weeks, but there is no guarantee that I’ll be able to make something presentable. As my fingers play with the pencil in my hand, I wonder if this is another trick. To remind me how different I am now. I shake my head, shoo away the voice that tells me I’m not good enough anymore. At least it would get me out of this room.

“Who’s asking?” I say at last, looking at Delly. Her eyes flicker to the glass panel in the side of the wall for only a split second, but I’ve noticed it. So it’s complicated, then.

“Well, there is a couple about to be married in a week’s time. They would like for you to bake them a wedding cake,” she explains. If it’s a couple in District 13, then I won’t know who they are. But something in me tells me the people here aren’t accustomed to having fancy cakes. Fancy anything, really. So it has to be people I know.

“Just tell me their names, Delly. I’ll find out anyway,” I say, suddenly tired of the secrecy.

“Finnick Odair and Annie Cresta,” she says quietly. Finnick and Annie. Annie, who was in the Capitol with me? All I see is her haunted face, the glassiness of her eyes. Finnick comes back, too. Parts of him. I never knew she and Finnick… they must have been together since before the Quarter Quell.

Blood, waves crashing, a woman throwing herself in front of monkeys. I shake away the images as they assault me, dropping the pencil as I grab my head. That mutt and I on the beach, kissing-

“Hey! Hey, Peeta, look at me, breathe,” Delly’s saying from far away, too far to reach. I almost toss myself out of bed as I thrash against the memories. The images show up as real as if it were happening to me in the moment.

Delly starts counting and I anchor myself to her voice, the steady rise and fall of numbers. My head spins when I open my eyes again, breaths coming in short gasps. Delly’s concern is genuine.

“You’re safe. It’s only me,” she says, a small smile on her face. She starts picking up the drawing materials that have landed like droppings around my bed. She doesn’t mention it when I go to the bathroom and run cold water over my hands, nor when I start quietly crying at the memories. I can hear her walk around the room, organizing my pencils by the sounds I hear from the enclosed space. Once I’m steady enough to speak again and emerge from the bathroom, she sits down on the chair next to me, holding my last drawing. A meadow in spring. I just have to get the shading of the trees right.

“Can I work on it by myself?” I say, clearing my throat. Delly nods, eyes my drawing.

“You would get a space in the kitchen to work. You’d have full control of the cake. Fin- the couple says you can choose.”

Baking again. The thought is daunting, not in the least because it feels like that part of me belongs in the past, attached to some other version of myself. The version of me whose hands don’t shake, whose memories aren’t filled with horrors. It won’t be like it used to. But the idea of creating something that might actually mean something, like the drawing?

Maybe I can try to be him again. If only for a little while.

Delly releases a sigh and a gasp of relief almost instantaneously as I consent to the idea, putting the drawing down on the bed and patting my hands in excitement. She pulls away when she realizes what she’s doing, but for once the notion doesn’t disturb me. I really should give her more credit.

So later that day, guarded by four nondescript guards in gray overalls and trailed by three doctors, I’m led down an elevator into the kitchen. I lose my way after the first corner we turn. They’ve shackled my hands together again, but we agreed that I would be free once I’m ready to work. I didn’t need to explain that I’d need my hands.

The kitchen is enormous. Everyone’s food is prepared here, they tell me. No one cooks but the people employed to do so. They’ve given me something of a backroom to work in. I’m not allowed to handle any of the heavy equipment; the oven, the large mixing bowls. But they figure I’m harmless with a brush and some colors. As I knot an apron in front of me and the guards position themselves outside of the door, I start out with a concept of what the cake will look like. I feared I would struggle with this, but once I let go of the idea that it has to be perfect, the design comes to me like second nature. I take a minute to process as I finalize the concept drawing. How can I lose so much of myself, yet still know how to do this? Like that old version of me is somehow still present in some way, still trying to show itself. I grab onto the edge of the table as I bend forward, breathing in deeply at the implications. Because there’s that tiny spark of hope again, stronger now, aided by the model drawing of a wedding cake.

Not all is lost, it seems.

Setting out my supplies brings back a kind of routine; the order of things, the careful combinations of dyes. I knead sugar paste, turn it into a variety of vivid colors. I mutter the amount of drops as I measure them out. One, two, three should be good for blue. One, two for green.

I start on the flowers. Water lilies, lotuses, arrowheads, marigolds. At first my trembling hands frustrate me, until I learn how to work around them. Allow my breaths to control when I shape a petal, find that on exhales, I can get the job done just a little easier. It takes me hours just to get a small selection of the sea flowers blooming over the surface of the table.

I make more.

Hundreds of them litter the table by the third day. With each bud done, I feel myself getting lighter. I forget where I am so long as I’m working on the precise tilt of a heart, the subtle shade of a leaf. I find myself talking to them.

“Just a little bit more, yes, you’re done,” I mutter, laying down the last of them. I oversee my work. I lost count somewhere in the three hundreds. Dr. Selene comes in to see how I’m faring and encourages me to continue talking if it helps guide me through the process.

The other decorations are harder to get right: seals, sailboats, different types of fish. I asked my doctors to give me access to resources while I was drawing so I would know what they really looked like. The seals turn out odd at first, until I tweak the faces and suddenly they look passable. District 4 exists only as a vague memory, but I remember the sailboats that littered the docks close to the train station. With my flowers and other attributes, the cake finally feels like it won’t be an entire disaster.

The kitchen staff get instructions for the baking process from me. Once I start naming ingredients, the others come back. Like muscle memory. Snippets of other recipes return to me as I order them to add a specific amount of something. I used to bake bread, too. I know it from the instinctive way I remember it. Something deep in my chest, tucked away.

A day later, I return to the kitchen and find large sheet cakes on cooling racks in the backroom.

The sweet smell combined with the heat from the cakes takes me back. I hadn’t considered how powerful the scent would be. Suddenly I’m nine, burning my fingers on the oven for the first, but not the last, time. Presenting my first ever cake to my parents; globs of unstirred butter present in the finished product. I’m a little older when I burn bread, too. But I did it on purpose. Why did I do that?

I grip the countertop and wave Dr. Selene away. I can do this.

The cake is cut in half horizontally to allow filling to be added. I watch as two people from the kitchen take the long, flat knife and gently lift the cake layers aside. Finnick and Annie didn’t specify what they wanted, so I ask the kitchen staff what fruit there is. Finding that they can’t spare the fresh fruit needed, I make do with a jam of some kind. The tartness will go well with the sweetness of the sugar paste.

I cover the cake in an blue and green layer of sugar paste as a solid base for the detail work. It cracks down the side as I try to smooth it out and I have to stop myself from tearing the entire thing off. It makes me nervous to make mistakes. It was going too well, wasn’t it? Progress feels tainted, like a cruel trick just to trip me up further. After Dr. Selene comes in to hear what the commotion is and I manage to breathe through it, I calm down enough to continue. I decide not to waste the sugar paste and add the other layers of cake on top of one another, creating something taller than me as it sits on the table.

Then comes the decorating. I take icing and create large, sweeping waves that cascade down all sides of the cake. The effect looks like the waves might crash at any second, suspended in time. The decorations adorn the waves in a rain of color, so vibrant I don’t know where to look first. When I finish, the entire cake is covered in them. No space left empty. Even the crack in the sugar paste has been concealed. I take a step back to make sure the cake is presentable. You’d better not dented any petals, says my mother. I shake away her voice. I didn’t. When I signal to the guards that I’m ready, even they can’t disguise their delight.

I allow myself a smile.

I give strict instructions about how to store and present the cake. I know better than to pretend I’ll see Finnick and Annie’s reactions. The thought of going somewhere, surrounded by so many people, strangers, makes me uneasy. Trapped. I’m sure they will know how to eat the cake without me.

I sleep better that night. Not sound, or easy. But better. Allowing myself to work on something during my waking hours has calmed me down. The doctors compliment me, but remind me this was a one off kind of thing. They do let me keep my drawing supplies, though.

A few days later I’m working on a new sketch when Dr. Aurelius comes in. I don’t look up from the work, trying to get a piece of detail work right. There. He waits until I’m ready to talk.

“Your cake was a success,” he says. “I’ve heard nothing but praise for your work.”

So the wedding happened, then. They all saw the cake. Finnick and Annie are- together. Forever. A sinking feeling settles in my stomach.

“Good,” I say, “that’s good.” I pick out a pencil and turn it over in my hands.

“Since you’ve made such remarkable progress, we were thinking about introducing you to someone from your old life again. Someone like Delly,” he says. I wait for the catch, but nothing comes. Aurelius sees my worried expression.

“It’s not Katniss,” he says. “That will be your decision, when you want to see her.”

It becomes clear that Aurelius won’t tell me beforehand. Maybe he doesn’t want me to go off before they even get into the room. Who knows?

In the end, I agree to his idea. A few hours later, Dr. Selene announces that they’re here.

They’d prepared me for a visitor, assured me it wouldn’t be her.

The door opens.

I’m not sure if he is any more welcome.

In walks a man with unkempt gray hair, a portly posture. Stubble on his chin. A flash of a memory places him on a train, swinging a bottle around. Lying in a pool of his own vomit.

“Haymitch,” I breathe.

He saunters in, casually, as if we’re old friends. Another memory places him before me and Katniss, telling us to ‘stay alive’. Even now, that rubs me the wrong way.

“Good to see you,” Haymitch says. He drawls each word, even when he’s sober. Which he must be, because I’ve been told about District 13’s strict rules. My trip to the kitchen showed me how meticulous they are about their stores.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. He takes a chair and plants it by my bed, taking his sweet time to answer my question. Does nothing faze him?

“I came here to see how you’re doing, is all,” he says.

“Could be worse. Then again, could be better,” I say. Neither of us speak for a little while. I eye him slowly, taking in his features. His cheek look sunken in more, like he’s lost some weight. Seeing him is making me remember. Things that don’t flatter him. My unease from before turns into annoyance.

“Is there anything you want to ask?” he says. It’s like he read my mind.

“What happened to me?” I ask him. Suddenly my voice is small. He looks up, his eyebrows bunch together.

“You were taken by the Capitol. They told you that, right?” he says.

“Yeah. They did. They rescued me from the Capitol after I somehow ended up there. How, Haymitch? How did I end up there with Johanna and Annie while you were all safely tucked away in here?” Tears start to well up in my eyes.

He has the decency to look ashamed.

“There was a plan. We meant to get all of you out of the arena once Beetee blew up the force field-“

Electric air. Searing pain. The damp, dense atmosphere of the jungle. The arena.

“The arena,” I whisper. The images come in quick succession, as they tend to do. I remember the beach, the jungle, the treacherous clock mechanism. A locket with photographs in it.

A pearl.

“You left me there! You left me there to die!” I scream at him, spit flying out of my mouth as angry tears spill down my cheeks. “You got everyone out but you left me, and Johanna!”

“It wasn’t that simple. When the Careers got wind-“

“I don’t care! Do you hear me? I don’t give a damn about what was meant to happen! All I know is where it’s gotten us.”

“We had to get Katniss out, and you still had your tracker. So did Johanna. We couldn’t risk bringing you and revealing our location,” he says. “And I’m sorry. We should have told you, but we didn’t want to endanger you.” I scoff.

“Yeah, I was safe and sound, all right.” I close my eyes and think about Johanna, who knew. My eyes open and I remember that now. She told me. Her breathing rattles in my memory.

“Johanna knew. They hurt her worse for it,” I say.

“Yeah,” Haymitch says. “They did.”

“And look at where your plan got you. Does Katniss enjoy her fame here?” I say, my tone dripping with venom.

“She needed some convincing to be the mockingjay. Some of that convincing was because of you.” His tone is getting clipped, as if he’s losing patience. I ignore his mention of her being the mockingjay.

“Well, isn’t that considerate of her,” I say.

“She’s surviving, like the rest of us,” he tries to argue. His hand drags over his face, like he’s getting tired.

“If you want to call it that,” I scoff.

“Look, I’m not here to change your mind. I’m here because I owed you an explanation,” he concedes.

“And you gave it. Thanks for the reminder.”

“Of what?”

“Of my place,” I say. Confirmation of my unimportance.

“Your place is here, safe, getting better. That’s what all of us want. Katniss, too.”

“I’m sure I would have believed you in the past,” I say, though I doubt my own words.

“Maybe you should believe what the people who care about you tell you now,” he says.

“Who? You? Delly? Who else is there?”

“K-“ he starts to say.

“Don’t say her name again.”

“You know, there was a time when her name meant a great deal to you, as did she,” he says. As if he’s trying to trick me into confessing something.

“I seem to have lost that while they tortured me in the Capitol,” I spit at him. I hate how my voices catches on the word ‘torture’. I turn away from him.

“Do you know what you said to me? When we talked before the 74^th Games? You told me you would give your life so she could go home, to her family,” he says.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you loved her. You wanted to help.” Help. Help her? When did I ever want to help her? The way Haymitch says it, it’s like I didn’t think twice. Like it was natural to help that stinking mutt. Was there ever a time where my first thought of her wasn’t immediate anger? I wrack my brain for anything, the slip of a memory. Because the way he said it makes me wonder.

Help.

I push back from the pillows.

I helped her once. The knowledge of it slices through me like a knife.

“I want to see her,” I say, gritting my teeth. After everything Haymitch has said about her, my confusion only grows. I need to see for myself and decide what she is.

It’s the only way I can know for sure.

Chapter Text

It’s past midnight when the doctors announce that she’s about to arrive. They explained that they would restrain me, hook me up to morphling again in case things go wrong. In case I act wrong. Three straps bind each of my arms to the bed. They’re loose enough to allow for blood to flow to my fingers, but tight enough to make me remember why they’re there. The doctors are behind a window. I can’t see them, but they’ve been very honest about wanting to observe me. What other choice do I have? The notion that I asked to see Katniss is enough to leave everyone on edge.

The whir of the ventilation is the only noise in the room. I hold my breath, release it all in one go to steady myself. I asked for this. I should see it through. I know she’s probably on the other side of the door, waiting to come in. Sweat breaks out, already dampening the pillow where my neck rests against it. The restrains start to feel slick.

Minutes pass, it seems, without movement. I almost want to ask what the delay is about when finally, the door opens. She must be unsure, because the door opens so slowly that at first I think I must be imagining it.

My eyes are glued to her the second she enters. Her face looks tired, a little puffy. Dark under eyes. Her hair is dull. It’s braided back, like how I remember it. It used to be shinier. As she makes her way over to me, my hands clench into fists in the sheets. The doctors told me this is to be expected, that I shouldn’t try to suppress what I feel. But I try my hardest not to show my distress, not wanting this creature to sense my panic. I keep trying to find something in her face; the upturned corner of a snarl or the gleam of bloodshed in her eye. For now, I seem only to register that she looks worn out.

She stops walking a small distance away from my bed. I sit still as I continue to assess her; she certainly knows how to act innocent. She stands there with her arms crossed over her ribs. Silence fills the space.

“Hey,” she says finally.

“Hey,” I reply. She sounds like a person. Is she tricking me?

“Haymitch said you wanted to talk to me,” she says.

“Look at you, for starters,” I retort. So far, I find myself confused. For a mutt, she appears small and not very strong. In my memory she hulks over me, poised to attack. Or she lures unsuspecting victims in with the shimmer in her eye. Neither of those traits are apparent to me now. The darkness underneath her eyes doesn’t suggest a creature that is gearing up to try anything. She looks behind her to the doctors, no doubt wishing to be anywhere else. I snap her back to reality when I say:

“You’re not very big, are you? Or particularly pretty?”

“Well, you’ve looked better.” Her tone is defensive. I can’t help but laugh. The audacity!

“And not even remotely nice. To say that to me after all I’ve been through.”

“Yeah. We’ve all been through a lot. And you’re the one who was known for being nice. Not me.” Was I? Her remark pulls me back into myself. Unbidden, her words nudge at something hidden, something from a past that feels like someone else’s. I close my eyes to allow the moment to pass, but it won’t. A feeling in my chest that demands to stay. My fists tangle deeper into the sheets so she won’t see that they’re shaking. I open my eyes again.

I look at her and then I see her, clear as day, younger than she is now.

It was raining that day.

"Look, I don't feel so well. Maybe I'll drop by tomorrow," she says. She uncrosses her arms and turns away from me. She’s almost at the door when I find my voice again.

"Katniss,” I say, “I remember about the bread." She turns around. Her face is unreadable.

"They showed you the tape of me talking about it," she says. What?

"No. Is there a tape of you talking about it? Why didn't the Capitol use it against me?" I ask.

"I made it the day you were rescued," she replies. "So what do you remember?"

"You. In the rain," I say, recalling the minute details. "Digging in our trash bins. Burning the bread. My mother hitting me. Taking the bread out for the pig but then giving it to you instead." It stands out in my mind, clear as glass. The Capitol wasn’t able to use this memory to confuse me. I hold that thought close. This is not trickery or manipulation. This is mine.

"That's it. That's what happened," she says. "The next day, after school, I wanted to thank you. But I didn't know how."

"We were outside at the end of the day. I tried to catch your eye. You looked away. And then... for some reason, I think you picked a dandelion," I say. I can see her picking the yellow bud from the patch of grass in the school yard, holding it to her. An overwhelming sense of warmth envelopes me. No sweating this time.

How different it was back then. How different I am now. But the truth is undeniable. My next sentence comes out as barely more than a whisper.

"I must have loved you a lot."

"You did."

"And did you love me?" I ask. She doesn’t look at me.

"Everyone says I did. Everyone says that's why Snow had you tortured. To break me."

"That's not an answer. I don't know what to think when they show me some of the tapes. In that first arena, it looked like you tried to kill me with those tracker jackers."

"I was trying to kill all of you. You had me treed,” she replies.

"Later, there's a lot of kissing. Didn't seem very genuine on your part. Did you like kissing me?" I ask.

"Sometimes," she says. "You know people are watching us now?"

"I know.” I don’t care about the doctors. Everybody already knows everything about my life except me. If I’m grasping at straws figuring out who I was, who I am, then let them see it. Another memory surfaces. One the doctors never showed me. Because only the Capitol has that footage.

“What about Gale?” I ask.

"He's not a bad kisser either.”

"And it was okay with both of us? You kissing the other?" I ask.

"No. It wasn't okay with either of you. But I wasn't asking your permission,” she spits.

Oh, she makes me laugh. To stand there all high and mighty, all but admitting she never cared about my or Gale’s feelings at all. As if we’re just sitting around waiting for her to give us an inkling of attention.

"Well, you're a piece of work, aren't you?" I spit back. This does it. She turns on her heel and leaves the room in a rush, letting the door fall closed behind her with a bang. Of course she leaves when the going gets tough. That’s what she does: she leaves me. All alone with no way to fend for or defend myself. Tears well up in my eyes and I’m sure they give me morphling because the next thing I know, I wake up with the restraints gone and four pairs of eyes trained on me to make a report.

I’m not sure what I tried to get out of the conversation. It’s clear the doctors aren’t pleased; their frowns are so deep they’re almost comical. I’m sure it felt like a breakthrough. Me, remembering. Talking to Katniss out of my own will. They try to talk to me about what happened and ultimately decide to try therapy again. Different kinds: talking, looking at photos, drawing, more drawing. When it becomes clear that progress is slow and arduous, even with hours of conversation logged, Dr. Selene informs me that they’ll go back to what they were doing before.

They pick up the reverse hijacking with a renewed kind of fervor, trying desperately to shift something in my progress.

We go through a selection of tapes from my life involving Katniss. They show me scenes I’ve seen before, hoping to get something else out of me. The Quarter Quell features prominently as I see all of the tributes killed off one by one, see how Finnick revives me as Katniss sobs. She truly looked devastated at the thought of my death. This prompts a panic attack severe enough for the doctors to leave me alone for a full two days after.

They resume once they assess that I’m not going to break down in an instant. More footage of Katniss and I in the Quell. It brings on an onslaught of memories of that arena, triggering one after the other. When they show the footage from the beach, where Katniss and I kissed after I showed her the locket, something in me snaps. Because seeing it brings back the memory of nights on a train, too. Blurred, only the faint feeling of warmth registering. I held Katniss as we slept, I’m sure. What happened then? Being so close to her, even in memories, confuses me. So far, all it’s doing is growing my desperation to get away.

More morphling is involved, and I find I’m not panicking as acutely as I was before. Fear and anger are replaced by a morbid feeling of curiosity whenever a new tape is played. Now that I’m not vomiting or losing time whenever I watch them, the act of being confused becomes a new normal. Instead of panicking, my trembling hands start to twitch and contort, almost as if they’re trying to fight an invisible enemy. When I see a particularly brutal scene – the tracker jacker nest in my first Games, for example – I feel like I’ve lost all control over my limbs once the sedative is injected. It takes me a while to surrender to this, since that’s all I can really do when it happens. Surrender. Helpless as a child.

The memory from before is the only one that comes back to me again and again in the hours after the doctors leave. I decide to draw it out, put the jumble of emotions into colors on a page. The pencils scratch deep grooves into the paper as I block out the voice that tells me I’m letting her win. That she’s getting to me. The paper rips as I color in the shade of her hair. I throw the page against the wall, knock a drawing of one of my forests down. I hobble over to it, not willing to put my leg on, and pick up the fallen drawing. As I gingerly hang it up again, my eyes drift to the yellows. I stand back and see them.

Dandelions. Everywhere.

Katniss.

She’s in every single one.

I turn back from the wall and make it to the bathroom just in time to retch, hands shaking against the rim of the toilet.

I stop drawing. Instead, I scrutinize every drawing I’ve made until my eyes hurt from the strain. She’s there in the flowers and in the mockingjays. How was I so blind to that? It angers me that even in my own world, where I thought I was safe to just exist, she’s somehow wormed her way into the narrative. The only thing stopping me from tearing down the drawings altogether is that I refuse to let her take this away from me, too. I have lost too much.

When I pick up a pencil again, I make sure to bury the yellow all the way into the bottom of the box.

I see my doctors but don’t explain my behavior when they try to ask what’s keeping me from drawing like I did before. I focus on the uncontrolled spasming of my hands and that sends them into doctor mode, distracting them from the real issue. Only Dr. Selene seems unconvinced. When she comes to see me alone, I set down the paper I had in my lap and turn it over.

“Don’t feel obligated to talk,” she says, “I’m just here to sit with you.”

So we sit. It’s not an uncomfortable silence by any means. She has a clipboard with her and is making some notes. She seems intent on showing me that she will not ask me anything unless I want to talk. The truth is that I don’t want to talk. I want to exist, peacefully, feel time like a blanket around me. Sometimes, I can feel it trickle like an incessant rain, feel it pass me by while I sit and breathe and continue to live for no apparent reason. But now I want it to embrace me.

She makes good on her promise and doesn’t press me.

“Do you think it’ll ever be like… before?” I end up asking. My voice breaks the silence in the room but she doesn’t start. She sets down the clipboard and looks at me.

“Do you mean if you will be like before?”

“I… yes. It’s confusing. Part of me feels like this is who I’ve always been. But then I remember something new and question if that was right. Is it bad that I don’t want to be like before?”

She sits with that for a minute, then speaks.

“I think that should be for you to decide. As a doctor, I should tell you that I strive to get you back to your former self. But that’s because it’s my job. But who you are now is not broken or incomplete. It’s your choice how much of yourself you want to meet again,” she says. I nod.

“It feels odd to have lost so much,” I say quietly.

“I understand. Is that why you’re reluctant to work on getting better?” she asks. I’m supposed to bristle at this, but I don’t.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s easier to pretend I died in the Capitol,” I whisper. “And then who I am now… is just someone else.”

“I know we’ve challenged you in these past weeks. I know how anguished you’ve been about the memories you’re retrieving. The memories you have to question. It must be exhausting.”

I nod, looking down at the pencil in my hands. My head grows too heavy for my neck and I let it hang forward.

“I’m so tired,” I say. She touches my shoulder softly and I look at her hand.

“Then rest,” she says, “and see if tomorrow brings anything new.”

I dream of a meadow that night. I wake up crying once the mockingjays start turning into vicious killers.

Delly makes an appearance again. I’m not sure if this is Selene’s doing. She tells me that she’s going to try and see me every day, just to talk. I find it hard to say so, but I appreciate her unwillingness to give up on me. Even if I’m snide or angry, she finds a way to turn me around. She’s truly a good person. Even when we were children, she managed to find the good in people. It makes me wonder if I ever was capable of that, too. Or if I ever will be.

Sometimes, though, seeing Delly is a whole lot more frustrating than it should be. She would make an innocent enough remark on something that happened that day, outside. She would mention someone she was with. I learn quickly that if it’s Katniss, she won’s say their name.

“You seem friendly with each other,” I bite.

“We are! It’s been nice to have someone from home,” she says, ignoring the tone of my voice.

“Don’t think for a second that she actually cares about you,” I say. This time I can see how it cuts. I feel bad for a second until Delly’s face contorts.

“She does care! She does! Peeta, do you know how despondent she was when you were… away?” I scoff.

“Oh yeah. That’s why she’s been so eager to visit,” I bite back.

“Because you push her away every time,” she says. She takes a deep breath and says, gentler: “Look, I don’t know exactly what they did to you in the Capitol, but let me tell you one thing: they’re the liars. They have much more to lose than we do. It stands to reason that they would want you to think these things.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that she despises me just as much as I despise her,” I say.

“It does, actually. It changes everything.”

She leaves me with that thought and I bury my head under the blanket.

My next conversations with Delly go much the same way: I say something about Katniss, she reminds me that the Capitol lied to me. I retort, she reminds me that what I’m saying makes no logical sense. She angers me and I anger her.

But still she visits.

She’s truly good, as I remember her to be.

One day, I think Delly will come in when in reality it’s Dr. Aurelius who crosses the threshold. It’s been a couple of days since the last time I saw him. I expect he has a treatment plan for my hands, but no such luck.

“We believe it’s time for you to get reacquainted with day to day life. You’ve been in this room for so long that it could be good to get used to other people again,” Dr. Aurelius explains.

“What, you’d let me leave this room, just like that?” I ask, knowing there’s a catch. Aurelius sighs.

“We can’t let you go out alone, which I’m sure you’ll understand. You’re still too…” Weak? Confused? Possibly dangerous? “… sensitive.”

I smirk.

“Of course. So you’ll chain me up?” I ask. I at least expect him to tell me off for my choice of words, but instead he nods.

“We’ll have two guards by your side at all times, as well as manacles on your wrists,” he says. “Just to be safe.”

“What is the goal here? To make friends?” He chooses to ignore the sarcasm.

“We only want to see how you feel around others. It could be good to get out of here for a change. Don’t you want that?” he asks. I think about it. Did Dr. Selene set this up? Is this some kind of test? In the end, I don’t see how this would change much. I’ll still be me and I imagine other people will not want to be around me anyway. They’ll know their experiment fails within the hour.

“I guess I’m learning how to be around people again,” I concede.

They have me dress in gray pants and a T-shirt tucked into the waistband. I’ve seen Delly, Haymitch, even Katniss wear this before. It must be District 13’s official uniform. When I ask about it, Dr. Aurelius informs me that this is the easiest way to handle the sheer volume of clothing being used every day. This way, the clothing people wear is interchangeable, save for the size. They could have used a nicer color, I think. The prosthetic now sits snug. The shoes they give me have ridges on the soles so I have better grip. I grab onto the back rail of my bed as a memory reminds me of a large, empty house, where I used to wear shoes like this so I wouldn’t trip. I shake my head and push my hands deep into my pants pockets to stop them from shaking. Dr. Aurelius looks concerned but only tells me to breathe and accept the memory. After about ten minutes, I’ve worked out that the house was my home in District 12 after my first Games. I store the memory away for another time, when I feel up to examine it.

The doctors suggest visiting an open space first, like the central hall. But the movement of so many people, even the thought of it, makes me uneasy. I settle on the dining hall. People, but seated. They tell me there is a set schedule for when people can eat in District 13. Every morning, each functioning member of their society gets a tattoo stamped on their arm, telling them where they need to be and when. I don’t get that just yet, for obvious reasons. I’m told that most people eat lunch together, though. It seems like a good place to start. If I have to face others, there’s no point in hiding that I can’t walk around without guards and restraints. Let them judge.

The guards put the manacles around my wrists in silence.

Chapter Text

Dr. Aurelius opens the door to my room and I step out for the first time since going to the kitchen. He holds out his arm, urging me on. The manacles on my wrists clink softly, filling the hallway of the hospital wing. They’re unpadded, which means I’ll have to take care not to hurt myself on the steel. But as I turn my wrists, the pain reminds me of where I am. I decide that it’ll be a safety measure, to ground myself. The quiet shuffling of my doctors’ shoes is overshadowed by the heavy falls of mine. I cringe, then recover, try to keep my face neutral. If they sense that I’m on edge they might pull me back into my room without ceremony.

I pass doctors and nurses who nod at me, as if they know what today means. How strange to think that they’ve been outside of my door all this time, and I’ve never seen them. Or I must have, but I was too out of it the first time to have registered any of their faces. No matter. Dr. Selene gives me an encouraging smile. She won’t accompany me further than this point. We leave the hospital wing and turn into a large elevator that is operated manually. Nothing like the Capitol elevators, which moved along so smoothly it hardly felt like movement at all. I pull on the manacles as I start to see splashes of black at the corner of my eyes, trying to look calm so as not to upset the guards. They can’t know I can hardly take the elevator without having issues. We land at the cafeteria level with a loud clang and one of the guards pulls up the metal grate, allowing me to pass through. The space is enormous, yet closed in; the hallway leading to the dining hall is wide to allow the passage of people, but the low ceilings make me feel trapped. I suppose we are trapped here, underground, with no daylight. I try not to think about being buried alive as my guards show me the way forward.

The sounds of the dining hall are the first thing I notice, even before we get close. The doors are open but I can see the deadbolts on them, ready to seal the room shut if they have to. I hesitate when I go in, leave my guards hovering behind me. Dr. Selene told me to breathe in and repeat the sentences I came up with weeks ago. My name is Peeta Mellark. I’m in District 13. I should be able to get lunch.

The guards clearly eat here as well, because they steer me toward the food line in seconds. I get in line and am handed a tray by one of them. I hold it on the tips of my fingers, since the manacles don’t allow enough space between my hands to hold the tray otherwise. Since I’ve arrived later, not as many people turn to gawk at the strange boy getting in line. Still, I feel the glances as the manacles shuffle and clang. When it’s my turn, I have to clear my throat a few times before I can ask for food. Turns out everyone is served the same meal. Today, I’m given a bowl containing a kind of stew. I see pieces of meat, as well as potatoes and vegetables floating around in the simple bowl, bubbles of fat marking the surface. The gravy sloshes gently as I try to negotiate the tray on my fingers, trying my hardest not to spill anything over the side. The small bread roll on the side teeters on the edge and I bring it back before it can fall onto the floor. Once my food is settled, I finally allow myself a look around at the people who are eating already.

It takes me all of two seconds to spot her, hunched over her tray. She’s sitting with other people, and with a start I recognize them. Delly is the obvious one. But then Annie, and Finnick. Johanna. My breath catches at the sight of her. She’s looking lively, which is a relief. Her posture is relaxed. I close my eyes and push away a memory of her screams, the gurgling breaths that kept me up at all hours, terrified for her death. She’s not dead, I tell myself. And you should probably talk to her. Without giving it too much thought, I walk over to them. My eyes go from Johanna to Katniss, who is shoveling stew into her mouth, laughing at something someone said.

Her face freezes in shock when she spots me standing across from her. She chokes on some of the food, it seems, because she starts coughing loudly and getting red in the face. This alerts the others to my presence. I see the turn of heads, eyes widening in all of them.

“Peeta!” Delly says cheerfully. "It's so nice to see you out...and about." I see how she eyes my guards. They remain standing while the group gets used to me.

"What's with the fancy bracelets?" Johanna asks. It’s the first time I’m hearing her voice since we were captured and it’s now that I realize how much I’ve missed her. But this is no time for overly emotional reunions. The temperature within the group has dropped since I got there, I can tell.

"I'm not quite trustworthy yet," I reply. "I can't even sit here without your permission." Dr. Aurelius was adamant about this. I nod my head to the guards for good measure. I know they would manhandle me all the way back to my room if I step even a toe out of line.

Johanna doesn’t let the decision take too long.

"Sure he can sit here. We're old friends," she says. She pats the seat beside her, the only empty one at the table. My guards nod and I lay the tray down on the table before taking a seat, almost losing the bread roll once again as I awkwardly maneuver around. I drop into the seat with a huff, try to disguise how tiring it was to simply walk here.

"Peeta and I had adjoining cells in the Capitol. We're very familiar with each other's screams,” Johanna says. We are. I look at her and see how her cheeks have filled out slightly, her hair is a little longer than the shorn head she had in the Capitol. She doesn’t look healthy, but she looks more animated than I remember. That’s something. I briefly wonder if Dr. Aurelius is treating her, too.

Annie, on the other hand, looks just as I remember. Fiery red hair, a harrowed expression on her face. It seems Johanna’s remark has upset her, because she covers her ears and starts humming to herself, trying to drown out conversation. Finnick, whom I haven’t seen in the flesh since the second arena, protectively embraces Annie with his arm. Right. They got married. He looks the picture of a doting husband as he devotes all of his attention to her.

"What? My head doctor says I'm not supposed to censor my thoughts. It's part of my therapy," Johanna says matter-of-factly. But it’s clear the mood at the table is different now that I’m here. There’s no laughing to be heard. In fact, it seems the entire dining hall has gotten wind of what is going on. Finnick is murmuring things in Annie’s ear, trying to calm her down again. He looks worried; gaunt in a way. Gone is the strapping, carefree man who charmed everyone into sponsoring him. He seems to be entirely immersed in Annie’s world. The others sit and eat, pretending not to notice.

“Annie, did you know it was Peeta who decorated your wedding cake? Back home, his family ran the bakery and he did all the icing,” Delly says, trying to steer the conversation into safer subjects. Did Annie not know? Delly told me at the time that the couple requested it themselves. Maybe only Finnick did, trying to spare Annie from having to think about me. Deciding what’s best for her. Suddenly, his doting starts to revolt me.

Annie looks over Johanna and catches my eye.

"Thank you, Peeta. It was beautiful,” she says. Her voice is so soft I have to strain to hear it over the din of the dining hall, but the sentiment is all too clear.

"My pleasure, Annie," I say, and I mean it. As I look at Annie, I see the gentleness has not left her. If a cake with flowers keeps her that way, at least I could do something to help.

"If we're going to fit in that walk, we better go," Finnick says. He starts to put her tray on his, stacking the bowls and cups so he can hold Annie’s hand while carrying the trays one-handed. She clings to him as they stand up, tethered to each other in any way they can. They look inseparable.

"Good seeing you, Peeta,” Finnick says.

"You be nice to her, Finnick. Or I might try and take her away from you,” I say. My words cut through the group like the crack of a whip. I’m not sorry I spoke them. Seeing Finnick and Annie together like this has made me feel hot with something ugly, something that reels at the sight of their easy affection.

"Oh, Peeta," Finnick says. "Don't make me sorry I restarted your heart." His tone betrays no annoyance or anger, just pure exasperation. I struck a nerve, then. Finnick leads Annie out of the dining hall, shooting Katniss a look before turning away. Delly huffs beside me as I try to hold on to my spoon in a less than convincing attempt to eat. Finnick restarted my heart. Why did I only remember that now?

"He did save your life, Peeta. More than once." The conviction in Delly’s voice is palpable. But if Finnick really saved me more than once, I know it wasn’t because he cared for me that much.

"For her,” I say, trying to sound vindicated, not petulant. "For the rebellion. Not for me. I don't owe him anything.”

"Maybe not,” Katniss spits. “But Mags is dead and you're still here. That should count for something.” Mags. The kind, old lady who stood no chance in that arena. How dare she bring her up. How dare she use her memory to make me feel like I’m in the wrong.

"Yeah, a lot of things should count for something that don't seem to, Katniss. I've got some memories I can't make sense of, and I don't think the Capitol touched them. A lot of nights on the train, for instance," I say. Here they come, those hazy nights between sleep and waking, Katniss in my arms as we battled nightmares. That is where those memories stop. But I’ve learned not to trust them completely. Was she using me there, too? Holding off on the terrors as I dreamt of her? I feel sick at the implication.

I hear a huff and suddenly notice Gale. Was he here this whole time? He looks as I remember him, brown hair and gray eyes. I remember the Capitol telling Panem that they’re cousins, him and Katniss. Sitting next to each other, with almost identical frowns carved into their faces, I can almost see it.

But, of course, they’re not.

Seeing him brings on a fresh wave of resentment. The cuffs cut into my wrists as I take my spoon and use it to point between them.

"So, are you two officially a couple now, or are they still dragging out the star-crossed lover thing?" I ask. After what Katniss told me about kissing Gale, it stands to reason that they saw no problem in going ahead and being together. It’s not like I was there, anyway. Far enough away to forget about completely.

"Still dragging," Johanna says. They’re still parading us around as a pair? After all that has happened? My hands start to spasm once again as I try to contend with the meaning of it. Katniss and I, a happy couple. How cruel, how sick, how deceitful. I drop the spoon in the stew with a splash as my hands shake, causing the manacles to clink together loudly. I close my eyes.

My name is Peeta Mellark. I’m-

"I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself," Gale interrupts.

"What's that?" I ask.

"You," Gale says.

"You'll have to be a little more specific. What about me?" I ask. Gale regards me with disdain.

"That they've replaced you with the evil-mutt version of yourself," Johanna says. Gale finishes his drink without adding anything. Johanna summed it up nicely, it seems. My eyes don’t leave his face as he observes our table. Let this nobody think I’m a mutt. I know better than to let Gale Hawthorne get a rise out of me.

"You done?" he asks Katniss. Together, they stand up from their seats and drop their trays on a kind of conveyor belt that goes into the kitchen. They look so alike in posture and appearance that I have to turn away as they leave the room.

“You can’t treat people like that, Peeta!” Delly says suddenly. Her voice rises and rises as she says: “Katniss, she’s trying her best, you don’t have to be so callous toward her. She didn’t do anything wrong. What have I been telling you these past weeks?”

“Delly, stop-“

“No, you stop! Try to put yourself in her shoes! How would you feel if the person you fought so hard for treated you like this?”

I try to cover my ears with my hands but the damned handcuffs prevent me from reaching far enough. Instead, I have to endure Delly’s high-pitched reprimand as if I’m a child being scolded by its mother. I half expect her to hit me but she doesn’t, only continues going off on me.

“And Finnick! What’s he done to deserve that? He’s trying to make sure Annie is safe, protected. Cared for. After what Snow put him through, he deserves to have peace. The fact that you’re in pain doesn’t excuse you from inflicting it on others! Mental or physical!” she screeches now. My voice gives out as I try to tell her to stop, I get it, she doesn’t have to remind me.

But as I try to find reason in what she’s saying, another voice seems to speak right into my ear. Don’t believe her. She’s in league with Katniss, don’t you see?

I shake my head to stop from hearing, from having to endure more confusing advice.

“S-stop, she’s lying,” I say, to whom I don’t know. I try to drown out the voice again but my mouth betrays me. “Think for yourself, you know better,” I mutter, pushing my nails into the palms of my hands to tether me to the present, but it’s useless. Delly’s voice drops as mine rises. My surroundings fade into nothing and there is only the voice and me, my eyes unfocused.

“She’s l-lying, she’s lying, a mutt,” I say, unsure of where I am anymore. I vaguely register the sway of my  body, back and forth as I argue with the voice that keeps trying to throw me off. My vision blurs, ears ringing. Suddenly it feels like I’m all alone and no one is coming, no one c-

The guards snap me back to the present, their fists underneath my armpits hard to ignore. My neck cracks painfully as I swivel my head around wildly, trying to make sense of what is happening. I’m lifted into the air, over the bench, where my knees buckle as they try to set me on the floor again. I’m far away again as they drag me out of the room, scuffling as they try to make me round the corner. My left foot drags but I feel no pain, only the steady, incessant chatter I’m only half aware is coming out of my own mouth.

By the time they drop me off in my hospital bed, I’m relieved to see Dr. Aurelius rush in with a needle that is sure to bring me some peace. Without ceremony, I feel him inject the medicine, this balm to my own mind. I welcome the emptiness that accompanies the morphling and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

My stomach is growling by the time I come to. Did I not eat? The images of the dining hall return to me painfully, like a sharp tap to the forehead. When I remember, my hunger goes away. I chastise myself by pacing around my room, ignoring the food they inevitably bring around. Some soup again. I try to go over what happened, but pull a blank when Katniss leaves the room. Delly tried to talk to me about what I said and I – I – the next thing I remember is waking up alone again. And here the doctors thought I was ready to be a part of society again. How foolish. They won’t even let me look out of the door after the stunt I pulled. I’m tempted to break something just to release some pressure when the door to my room opens.

In the doorway stands Finnick. His hands are in his pockets, posture rigid. Unsure whether to be informal or on guard. I find myself wondering the same. Because I remember what I said to him. Convenient that my mind won’t let me forget that.

“Finnick,” I say, standing in the middle of the room. I don’t know what to do with my arms, feeling unsteady at the sight of him. He gives me a nod and makes a gesture as if asking me if he could enter. I nod back. He takes up a chair and puts it by my table of art supplies. Neither of us speaks. I decide to cross my arms for now as I walk back to my bed, putting a normal amount of distance between us.

As I sit down, I realize that Annie’s not with him. I suppose he’s able to go somewhere without her after all.

“I think we should talk, don’t you?” Finnick prompts, inviting me to take him up on it.

“About what?” I say. I watch as his hands remain in his pockets, though they seem restless there, too.

“Peeta, we both know that a lot has happened since we left the arena. I can never know what you went through exactly, but I think it’s no use treating each other like we’re some kind of enemies. When I see what they did to Annie…” he trails off, looking so grief stricken I can’t help but feel remorse for how I treated him already.

“What do you suggest?” I say quietly, standing up again. I sit down across from him now. I clear away the pencils and crayons, stack some sketches haphazardly. He doesn’t mention them.

“My doctor suggested reminding myself of things I know. Which is why I carry these around.” He pulls pieces of rope out of his pocket. The ends are slightly frayed but the rope looks sturdy. The pieces are no longer than the length of his hand.

“I was always good at knots. I don’t really have to think about how to do them. My hands just… move.” I watch as he deftly tangles and untangles the rope into different variations of knots; some come loose at the pull on an end, others require a more measured approach. Still, none of them look too complicated for him. When he unties the knots for the final time, he hands a piece of rope to me.

“I know you’re good with colors. But maybe you’re good with these, too,” he says. I wait a moment to take him up on the offer, unsure of what is happening. Did I ever mention this before? I can’t trust my own memory, so I have to ask him. He laughs.

“No, you never did so. Which is why you should consider this a challenge. You know, to learn something new about yourself.”

He ends up showing me three simple knots, doable even with shaking hands. Once I master the third, I earn a nod of approval. He looks untroubled now. Calm. The guilt rests heavily in my stomach.

“I didn’t mean it,” I say, letting the rope fall into my lap. He doesn’t speak for a second.

“What part?” he asks.

“All of it.”

He nods.

“And the part about you restarting my heart…”

“I don’t regret it,” he says. I look up at him, try to measure the sincerity in his eyes. “And, while I had my reasons at the time for doing it, I also want you to know that I did it because you are a deeply decent person. And I would do it again,” he adds.

“Finnick-“

“Peeta, I suggest we leave it at that. You’re putting yourself back together. We all are, to different extents. All that matters for now is that we are on the same side.”

“We are,” I vow. I feel like I’m being let off easy and try to push the suspicion in me down. Finnick has no reason to trick me. If anything, me being callous to him made sure he wouldn’t approach me again. But he did. And if he can set aside my stinging words with grace then maybe I should accept that he’s been getting better at a different rate than I am. Finnick is trying. He has Annie. No matter how I feel about myself, their happiness is their victory. And I suppose it’s not my place to have a say in their relationship. If I’m to believe Delly, I used to be someone who didn’t hold grudges. It might be worth reminding myself of that from time to time.

“Thank you,” I say quietly. He’s getting up to leave but stops, hands resting on the back of his chair.

“For what?” he asks, a small smirk on his face. I shrug, trying in vain to find words to describe what his kindness means.

“For the rope,” I end up saying, which gets a laugh out of him.

“Better not lose that,” he says before leaving, “it’s my best one.”

Chapter Text

After my interaction with Finnick, Dr. Selene enters my room with such a positive attitude that I wonder if she’s got something to tell me. Turns out they’re all so relieved I didn’t try to strangle him that I’m being commended for it. I hold the short length of rope in my hand and practice the first knot Finnick showed me while I talk with her. She doesn’t comment on it but I already know she was behind the glass watching me. Oddly enough, Finnick’s visit helped in another way, too. Whenever I focus on the rope, my hands don’t tremble as much. This placates my doctors even more.

They decide to try more kinds of therapy. I talk to a doctor while keeping my hands occupied either by tying the rope over and over or by mindlessly sketching. This works for easier subjects; things I can say without giving them too much thought. Then they try to get me to talk about what happened with Delly. My hands stop when they bring up the fact that I was talking to myself.

“There was a – a voice,” I stammer, the words not really coherent, mind moving through sludge, “and it was contradicting me but then not, it’s…” I drop the pencil I was holding on the bed and let my face fall into my hands. My hands shake against my skin.

“This is new,” Dr. Selene remarks gently, writing on her ever-present clipboard. I nod, sigh, feel how my breath heats my face. It pulls me back to the hospital room.

“Add it to the list of things I should make sense of,” I say, my tone coming out a lot sadder than I intended. Or maybe I did. In truth, my recovery has been so spotted with setbacks and doubt that any moment where I’m lucid enough to behave feels like a victory upon myself. Except lucidity brings a level of awareness with it that I don’t feel equipped to handle.

“Let’s not forget how far you’ve come,” she coaxes. She sets the clipboard down on the table beside her and walks over to the wall of drawings. As promised, she never once asked me about them. She doesn’t break it now. But I sense she’s giving me an opening. It takes me a while to speak. She gives me time.

“It’s her,” I say. I lift myself out of bed and slowly walk toward Selene. She doesn’t move; instead, she steps aside to allow both of us to stand in front of the wall. It only occurs to me now that we’re the same height.

She doesn’t need me to spell out what I mean. She nods, examining each drawing in turn.

“The dandelions?” she asks after a while. I stare at her, then at the side of the room, away from the vivid colors before me. Of course, she’s heard me mention them to Katniss when she was here.

“When did you realize?” she asks. I shrug, but her silence tells me she’s waiting for me to answer.

“After we talked here the last time,” I say, but it comes out as a whisper. Her hands reach out toward a particular drawing. It’s a meadow in spring, when the dandelions take over most of the field. The muscles in my wrist twitch at the memory of shading each individual stem, each bud. I almost want to swat Selene’s hand away when her fingers trace the paper. I wring my hands together instead, pretend I’m just stretching my hands.

“I can’t bring myself to throw them away,” I say.

“Why would you?” she asks. At first I feel like she’s doctoring me, but then I notice that her question is genuine.

“Because it’s her, it’s- she’s-“ I can’t finish the sentence, pace back and forth between the wall and my bed. Selene doesn’t stop me.

“Peeta, the fact that you’re drawing these doesn’t make you anything you don’t want to be,” she says.

“But I’m letting her win,” I almost whine, like a petulant child complaining about a food they don’t like. My hands twitch again; I grab onto the fabric of my pants to try and stop them.

“Win what? Pieces of paper? A few minutes of your day?” she says, turning around to face me now. I still pace, and she follows me around; turns on her heel slightly. The effect would be comical if I didn’t feel utterly exposed. How can she be so casual about this?

“Forget it, I don’t want to talk anymore,” I huff, angrily sitting down on the bed, then thinking better of it and standing back up again. Only I’ve gone too fast and now the room is spinning. Dr. Selene notices this and is at my side in a second, setting me down gently on the sheets.

“You talked to her a few days ago, right? Before you were taken away. How did that make you feel?”

“Strange. Angry. Sad.” Jealous. Vindictive. Wild. “Apparently they’re still trying to pretend we’re together,” I almost choke on the last word.

“Never mind what they’re projecting to the world. That’s politics.” She does have a point. But still, I won’t let this go. I can’t. I ask her if she can let me be by myself for a while. She nods, carefully picks up her notes on the way out. When I walk back over to the wall of drawings, I try some breathing exercises Dr. Aurelius taught me. Breathe in, build tension everywhere. Breathe out, release it. In, shoulders up, jaw locked, let myself feel the pain of what is going on. Out, shoulders drop, jaw relaxed, allow it to let me go for one second. And again. And again. I let the tears fall down my face. Turn away from the wall, from her, from doctors who mean well but don’t truly know what to do with me.

I kill the lights and go to sleep.

The next reverse hijacking session reduces me to tears. They show me clips of myself in the Capitol being interviewed by Caesar. At first I want to tell them to turn it off but I find that I can’t look away. The difference between the two interviews is a stark reminder of how much the Capitol took from me when they got their hands on me. By the time the final tape ends with me warning the rebels that there will be an attack, I flinch at the blood that splatters the floor right before the footage cuts off. My blood. My body, broken and brittle at the hands of torturers.

The doctor’s cold eyes stand out in my mind, even though his name still eludes me. I only know the pain, the sharp jab in my arm. The doctors tell me that’s exactly how they administered the venom. I remember Snow’s face, too. The pale, taut skin. We talked, but I can’t remember if it was one time or more, what we talked about in detail. I remember Delly telling me about him ordering Portia’s execution. How he killed my prep team, too. Suddenly, their bright faces come back to me. I forget I’m not alone in my room as I close my eyes and see all of these peoples’ faces mix, forming a grotesque picture of guilt, torture, suffering. My left eye starts to hurt but I don’t know if it’s my eye or my brain, because as I try to focus on it my thoughts blur even more. Something, something is trying to work its way out. A thought, an idea. I feel notions of what I’m learning weaving a net of a thought I can make sense of, but the second I feel like I can grasp at it, the pain in my eye becomes so overwhelming that I cry out.

“Out! Out!” I scream, covering my eyes, clawing at my eyebrows, my skin. I half expect a needle but it doesn’t come as the doctors leave in a scramble. I keep my eyes closed as the sobs wrack my body, hands stilling at my temples. So much of me is gone that I barely know if there’s anything worthwhile left.

Time passes like it always does. I drift in and out of sleep. I’m alone, lie down with my eyes trained on the ceiling of the hospital room. The door opens and I turn my head to see the last person I expected.

“Hi,” she says. Katniss looks like she did yesterday. The same clothes. The same hair, face, guarded facial expression. I try to sit up but fail as my arms give out and I fall back into my pillows. I don’t hear her approach but I hear her footsteps as she walks to the wall that has the drawings on it. I try to stop her. My mouth is not forming the words I want it to and all of a sudden I hear her laugh. The melody of it unsettles me as she scans the drawings one by one, finding herself in them, no doubt. She’s not stupid. Her calculating nature is sure to remark upon my morbid obsession with her. I try to call out again but something else tugs at me. I look down at my left arm and see it move off of its own accord, as if it’s tied to an invisible string.

I shoot up, come face to face with Dr. Selene. I was dreaming, she tells me. A nightmare.

After the initial shock wears off, I manage to tell her what I just saw. I stop her from asking how that makes me feel, because I can’t answer that. Why did I not recoil when I saw her? She must be getting under my skin somehow, catching me off guard when I sleep. But even there, I let her get too close.

Dr. Selene does indeed stop herself from asking questions but she can’t help but remind me that talking about it will help more than keeping it to myself. After a terse silence, she relents. Dr. Aurelius shows up beside her. Their business faces are on.

“At the end of your last session, it seemed like something was triggering your memory,” Dr. Aurelius says. I want to scoff, but the memory of the pain makes me draw a sharp breath instead. Because he’s right, of course.

“It felt like I was grasping at something, that some pieces were within my reach,” I say, then immediately feel stupid for having said it. Selene and Aurelius, to their credit, nod gravely.

“That’s good, Peeta. It means that the reverse hijacking is working,” Dr. Selene says. “Do you remember what triggered it?”

“It was something about Portia and my prep team…” I start. Trail off because that’s all I have. Dr. Selene seems to realize this after a few seconds.

“Could it be that you’re relearning? You know, replacing the memories of what the tracker jacker venom changed with the truth? Because it’s true that Snow killed them. He tried to make you pay for something he started. I know he must have tried very hard to ensure you felt contempt for his own enemies. It’s the way he’s been able to grow his own power. It’s how he’s been keeping the Victors under his control,” she explains. My temples start to feel like I’m being crushed. Her words sound from further and further away as her words hit that same mark the last session did. Snow tried to break me. I see now that he is to blame for this. He tried to break Katniss, if I am to believe that. He tried to break… the others, too. Before.

Something Delly said comes back to me.

“Did… how did Snow keep the Victors under control?” I ask, looking up at my doctors. Their faces are a careful mask of neutrality, unable to betray the slightest emotion. But then I see Dr. Aurelius’ eyebrow twitch.

“I don’t know the extent of it,” he starts to say. “Finnick told us most of what we now know, in fact.” I frown. Finnick? When would he have done that? In his own therapy sessions? I ask as much. Dr. Selene takes a few seconds to start her next sentence.

“On the night you and the others were rescued from the Capitol, Finnick featured in a broadcast that was meant to distract the population. The Capitol’s news outlets were taken over by our own, and he told us about how Snow sells the Victors.”

She goes into detail. As much detail as she can recall from the broadcast, with Aurelius joining in at intervals. It’s vile. Horrendous. It’s what they tried to do to Johanna. My head snaps up from their words as I remember the story she told of her home. Her family. Her words mingle with the doctors’, who stop talking once they see my breaths come in quicker and quicker. I ignore the pounding in my skull. Push back the covers of my bed, stand up in a frenzy. I pace and pace, trying to catch up with my mind. Snow did this. He orchestrated torture, and pain, murder. So much blood spilled. The pain in my head fractures and splits me open from my forehead all the way to the top of my spine. The next thing I register is darkness.

Despite the pain, I wake up feeling clearer than I have in weeks. The fog cloud that has been living in my brain has lifted partially, allowing me to see clearer for a while at a time. Not enough to consider myself ‘better’, because I still feel resentful toward it. But enough to make me bold. The next time I see Delly, she almost falls off her chair when I ask her about Katniss. Mentioning her still makes me shiver involuntarily, but I can quell the other feelings that she brings with her.

“She’s been doing better,” Delly says slowly, as if she’s waiting for me to explode. A stab of guilt hits me as I see her reservation. I try to lie back in the pillows to show her I’m calm. All there. She starts to explain something about combat and training schemes, adding to it that she didn’t really pay a lot of attention because she gets confused about this sort of stuff, when I feel my tether to reality waver slightly.

I clench my fists.

Delly’s voice moves to the background as another, more insistent voice starts talking. You fool. Still letting her win, are you? I try to shake my head once, twice, to stop it from continuing. Now Delly will report back to her how stupid you are, how-

A scream cuts through the air, silencing the voice. Delly comes back into view. She’s stiff as a board, eyes wide open. Then I realize it was my scream that shooed the voice away. I start to apologize to Delly for startling her, see how she’s eyeing the panel of glass that hides my doctors. Selene comes in with a syringe but I hold up my hand, trying to stop her.

“I know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it was- I heard-“ A sob comes out instead. Selene lowers her hand, Delly sits back again. Neither of them speaks until I do.

“When will it stop? That voice?” I ask no one in particular.

“I don’t know, Peeta. But you managed to stop it for now. Why don’t you get up? Walk for a bit,” Dr. Selene suggests. Delly scoots back as I stand, my legs shaking from the emotions. I find that it helps. Delly walks with me for the rest of the time that she’s in my room. We manage to make a normal conversation. When she leaves, both of us can almost forget about what happened.

Thanks to Dr. Selene’s idea, movement is now the only thing that is still able to calm my mind. I leave the pencils and the paper as I walk circles around my room, even ask hospital staff permission to walk up and down the halls. They indulge me. I walk for a while at a time, still too weak to walk for long, but long enough to make it through another memory. Instead of blacking out, it seems that this is the new way to deal with the past. Move. Sometimes I move away from it, attempt to outrun another grievous memory, but other times it helps to walk through the memory, allowing it to consume me whole as I discern what happened exactly. The last part still eludes me most of the time, but then I walk away. When it feels like the walls of this district are closing in on me, I walk until they recede. I eat more, too. I need to if I want to make it to the end of the hallway. My nightmares become bearable now that I’m asking more of my mind. It feels paradoxical, but it’s true.

Dr. Aurelius checks me over more and more. Almost as if he’s keeping a close eye on a set amount of parameters he needs to keep track of. He assures me that I’m in good physical condition, as far as that is possible, but gets quiet when I press him. A few weeks ago, this would have made me panic. Now it just makes me confused.

A few days later, I find out why.

They want to send me out for training. When I ask why they would do this, I don’t get a clear answer out of any of them. Dr. Aurelius tries to soothe me by saying it will be good to build up my physical strength after being limited for so long, but I can tell even he doesn’t fully believe the words coming out of his mouth.

“Could you treat me like an actual person?” I ask, which makes him frown. “Just tell me.”

Aurelius looks at me for a while before releasing a deep sigh. He leans in conspiratorially, closer than I’ve seen him yet.

“They want footage of you training,” he says slowly, “to put in propos. To show the Capitol that you’re on our side now.” I raise my eyebrows, then drop them once the message sinks in.

“Footage for whom?” I ask.

“Snow. They want him to know you’re alive and well enough to fight. To show him his attempt at breaking you didn’t succeed.” I scoff, turning away. His attempt succeeded. Dr. Aurelius knows that better than anyone. To suggest I’m doing well feels so ingenuine my stomach turns. It makes my progress feel trivial.

“Obviously,” he concedes, “we both know that your time here hasn’t been easy. But think about like this: you have absolutely nothing to lose from getting some activity, finding an outlet for any emotions you have. Take it out on dummies and while running. The cameras won’t even stand out.”

I take a moment to mull it over. The hours of walking up and down the hospital halls have already gotten me bored again. It would be good to get out more, especially since my last stint in the dining hall was a disaster. I didn’t expect them to give me another chance soon. Maybe this is it.

“I wouldn’t be… close to the others, right?” I ask. Aurelius nods.

“That depends. You will be training with other recruits because training time is scheduled and we can’t have you doing drills alone. But there will be guards on hand at any time in case something happens.”

“So I would be unshackled, running around in the middle of unsuspecting recruits?” I ask, getting uneasy at the thought.

“You’ll be okay, Peeta. You’ve come a long way. And you’ll be starting with the beginners,” he says. Dr. Selene comes in for a final assessment before she can sign off on me leaving the hospital wing for training, but I can tell that she feels uneasy. Whoever is pressuring them for the propos is doing a fine job of it. None of my doctors have so much as raised the idea that this could end badly.

The next day, I receive standard issue recruit clothes and find two guards outside of my room. Dr. Aurelius tells me no doctors will be present to monitor, but I hardly believe him. I’m sure one of the recruits will be making notes.

The training grounds of District 13 are underground, just like everything else. The vast hall is comprised of multiple areas, including shooting ranges, fields for running and drills, weapons and ammunitions stations. Monkey bars and weights to the side for endurance and strength training. The scale of it is dizzying.

I receive a schedule for my training, almost as if what I’ll be doing will matter. It’s printed out in a blocky script; no tattoos for me still. The head trainer leads me to a group of recruits who look no older than fifteen. I try to keep my head down, push down the thoughts that try to tell me that I’ll lose it, I’ll hurt someone, someone must be out to get me. I eye the guards that flank me a little way away. Close enough to intervene but not so close to look like outright jailors. The other recruits barely acknowledge me. It seems all of them are so eager to train and get started that having someone like me is of little consequence. It’s a relief to be ignored.

We get started with stretches. I immediately run into the first obstacle when the head trainer realizes I have to adapt the exercises for my leg. After trial and error, a lot of grunting and pain later, my body feels at once stiff and loose. I can’t remember the last time I strained my muscles in a way that wasn’t meant to inflict pain. Next up is strength training, where the true state of my body is revealed. I can barely use the lightest weight; supporting my body weight on the monkey bars proves to be unbearable. I look down at my arms and see with new eyes how thin they are. How much I’ve lost there, too. The head trainer gives me some training balls to haul around but the exercise makes me panic. I have to take fifteen minutes of lying on the ground before I can even resume my exercises. By the time we’re told to jog, I’m exhausted.

Lunch time proves to be another hurdle. Without manacles I can at least hold the tray of food without a hitch. But then my right hand starts spasming and I drop the tray on the nearest table with a clatter, scaring the recruits sitting there. I mumble an apology and one of the guards has to hold my tray as I limp toward a table near the wall, where I sit and eat the stew without tasting any of it.

In the afternoon we move on to drills. We receive dud weapons that we have to disassemble and assemble over and over again. I briefly wonder where the supposed cameras are that are making this footage. How would I look; pale, sweaty, faint, holding on to a weapon that I just realized I assembled backwards? A joke. I try to fight back the tears and start taking the gun apart again, trying to work around the shake of my hands. I have to stop myself from dropping it to the workbench and storming out, too embarrassed even for that. Once we’re cleared to move on, I wish I never agreed to this ludicrous plan. I wish my doctors would have stopped it.

We do more drills, get lectures on tactics that I can barely follow without getting a headache, and are taken to the firing range. When I get there, I’m told I’ll be a spectator. I’m so tired that I don’t even let it sting, falling instead on a bench to the side of the room as I watch the younger recruits shoot with accuracy. Some of them look so natural with a gun in their hands. As if it’s normal. As if any of this is even remotely okay. I clench my jaw and pull my fists into my lap, breathing through the confusing mixture of anger and sadness. My hands tie and untie Finnick’s rope until the pads of my fingers feel raw. My guards almost step in but I hold up my hands and try to persuade them that I’ll be fine in a few minutes.

By the time they escort me back to the hospital wing, my thoughts are filled with the sounds and images of children in a bloodbath.

Days pass like this. I present myself at 7:30 for a full day of training and drills. I never do anything besides repeat what I did the first day, even as recruits from my group are moved up to different ranks within the training scheme. Of course it means nothing. I’m just here as a token, aren’t I? I try not to look despondent but fail miserably, wishing that wars could be fought out in different ways. I never voice any of this out loud, though. No one would agree here.

News filters through the young recruits that an offensive is being planned in the Capitol and that squads of District 13’s elite soldiers are currently being deployed for it. New soldiers are going through the challenging trials as we stretch, drill, jog. I overhear some recruits talking about it during lunch and drop my fork with a clatter as I pick up a familiar name.

“Katniss is going, I heard,” I hear a girl say. She says her name almost reverently.

“She passed the trials? Good for her,” another girl replies.

I’m no longer inside of my body as the news hits me, my mouth moving without my consent.

“Katniss is going?” I ask. They almost jump; it’s the first thing I’ve said to them since I joined the group. They eye me warily. Of course they know why I would ask.

“Yes, she and some of the other Victors.”

“Okay,” I say dumbly, turning away from them again. Then stop myself to add: “Thank you.” The girls nod and let me be, clearly a little disturbed. But I can’t let that distract me. Because if Katniss is in the Capitol, it means something is shifting in the war. Something that has to do with Snow. He tried to hurt me by breaking you. That’s what she said to me. I fight the images in my mind that turn her features into monstrous proportions, shake my head until I feel dizzy. The guards have to escort me away for the day, cutting training short right before weapon drills.

As I pace my room, I try to dissect why this news bothers me and come up blank. If Katniss puts herself in danger, then it might be possible that she’s killed. Something about that idea brings relief, but something, and I don’t know why it feels more important, makes me feel dread. I ask Dr. Aurelius for a dose of morphling to knock me out just enough to fall asleep and he obliges, seeing the red around my eyes, no doubt.

When I come to, three pairs of eyes are on me. I almost jump out of bed but quickly realize it’s Dr. Aurelius, Dr. Selene and Dr. Cassius. I release a breath, but it comes out as a gasp.

“What’s happening?” I ask, looking between them.

“We’ve had some news from our president,” Dr. Aurelius says with a solemn air. You’d think he was delivering bad news.

“Who is that?” I ask. Up until now, it hadn’t occurred to me to ask who might run this district.

“President Alma Coin. She’s been monitoring your progress from afar and, well, she has something to ask of you,” Aurelius explains. I sit up.

“Sounds important,” I offer, earning me a small nod. Aurelius looks down at his hands, and for the first time I see a level of discomfort in him. One that was not caused by me, at least.

“The propo team has been filming you during training, as we discussed. Only, as President Coin puts it, they need to see more of you. Fighting for District Thirteen.”

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“It means they want to send you to the Capitol,” Dr. Aurelius says as if it pains him to say the words. He has the decency to look me in the eyes as he says it.

“No! No, they can’t make me,” I say, looking at all three doctors in rapid succession. What an idiotic idea! Putting me in battle? I can barely hold a conversation without needing to be carried out.

“You wouldn’t be put in actual combat,” Dr. Selene explains, “only being made to look like it. That way, when they film, it’ll look like you’re fighting with the rebels to take back the Capitol.”

“Have you seen me? I barely know how to hold a gun. I’ve never even been allowed to shoot one. I’m not doing it.” I cross my arms over my chest and try to calm the rampant beat of my heart by taking slow, deep breaths. Going back to that place, under any circumstances, feels like a trap. Like I’m pushing it and this final time I won’t be able to make it out alive again.

My doctors nod in sympathy and tell me they’d advised against it in a meeting with president Coin herself, but that they would try to appeal to her again. They leave me with a distant feeling of gratitude; at least they know my reasons for not wanting to go.

Turns out the doctors were only there are as a courtesy. The President had already made the order official.

Two days later, I’m sat in a hovercraft en route to the Capitol.

Chapter Text

Propos. They’re sending me away from my doctors and into the Capitol for propos. That thought dominates the hours it takes for the hovercraft to make its way to my destination. Dr. Aurelius and Dr. Selene gave me some last pieces of advice before I had to leave. Grounding, they call it. Whenever I feel like I need to, I have to look around at where I am and name one thing I can see, one thing I can touch, and one thing I can hear. It’s supposed to trick my brain into thinking about something else. I’m skeptical about this, since my brain often decides quite forcefully what I see, feel and hear. But it’s better than nothing. It became clear that no one on the medical team supports the idea of me going out there. Dr. Selene even went so far as to squeeze my shoulder before she had to wave me off. With the way she did it, it felt as close to a hug as she could give me. Our sessions with the footage feel futile against the idea that I’ll be having to fend for myself in a squad of people that don’t know what’s going on. Explaining it to them would be at once mortifying and dangerous. For all I know, they’ll shoot me before I get the chance to show how much of a liability I am. Maybe that would be better.

Before I left, I had one last conversation with Delly. Before Dr. Selene and Dr. Aurelius taught me the grounding thing. She came into my room with a bread roll in her hand, wrapped in a tissue. She took it with her from the cafeteria, snuck it into the pocket of her uniform. I informed her that I had already eaten my lunch – a lie – but that she was welcome to eat in my presence. She rolled her eyes and laughed, which only added to my confusion. She split the roll in two, handing me half.

“I hear you’re going to the Capitol,” she said through a mouthful of bread. I shrugged, held onto the food. What was there to say?

“I can imagine that you’re scared,” she said. “And I know how you always lost your appetite when you were scared. When we had to do our presentations in school about what we wanted to be when we grew up, you brought everyone a bread roll. Better than this one,” Delly smiles, chewing thoughtfully. I hadn’t touched my piece yet.

“And you talked about working in the bakery and about how that was all you wanted to do. And at the end you handed out the rolls, leaving one for yourself. You only started eating it after school was over for the day.” I turned the piece around in my hands while Delly ate the last bite of hers.

“I see that hasn’t changed,” she said, nodding down.

“What’s your point, Delly?” I asked, tired of what I couldn’t understand. Delly, as usual, was not phased.

“I guess I just wanted to sit with you before you left here and remind you that, you know, things might be different now. A lot different,” she adds. “But that you’re still you. And anyway, I’ll miss you when you’re in the Capitol. I hope we get to see each other again real soon.” She gave me a hug and left, smiling at me and ushering me to eat.

I ended up eating the bread roll the morning of my departure.

The hovercraft drops down in the outskirts of the Capitol, out of range from any trackers of the area. My guards get up first, pretending it’s protocol and not an attempt at controlling my movements. Once we’re allowed to leave, I see a train lined up at the exit of the port. It’s dusty and weathered, emblazoned with the Capitol seal. I’m told it was taken after the last District surrendered. At once the realization hits that I’m here. In the Capitol. Snow is here. The thought pulls me back to the mentions of his name. Snow had 12 bombed. Snow had Portia executed. Snow… Snow had me in his clutches when they hurt me. I shake my head, trying to stop myself from spiraling into a panic attack, breathing heavily as I’m ushered out of the hovercraft. The guards that came from 13 with me stay behind once I’m handed over. No one mentions it, but I can tell that the two burly people they sent into the train compartment with me must be some kind of new guards. I wonder if they’ll become squad members once we arrive at the rebel encampment where I’m supposed to be dropped off.

“You’re assigned to Squad 451,” one of them tells me as they take my hand to stamp the number on in large, block script. I’m given a gun. Find that it’s loaded, only the safety stopping it from becoming deadly. I check the safety three times before I decide to sling it across my back and wait out the rest of the ride in silence as we drive into the train station. I breathe through the memory of coming here the first time, almost lose my grip on consciousness as the train rolls into the station, devoid of people now. But once there were hundreds of them, eagerly awaiting our arrival. It wasn’t that long ago that I was standing at the window, waving at the beckoning crowds, hoping to secure a sponsor that way. My hands grip the piece of Finnick’s rope that I decided to bring with me.

This was a horrendous idea.

By the time I have to step out, the sun has begun to set. Streaks of sunlight are still marking the sky but evening is approaching quickly. The air feels electrified. Charged. The guards escort me to the exit of the station, then give me precise instructions on where I need to go. My squad should be right outside in the encampment; I should be able to recognize the tents and equipment. I’m given entirely too much credit for someone who hasn’t left their room in months.

Once I start the slow walk there, the gun swaying against my back, I try to look as calm as I can. It’s a relief that I’m able to find the large ‘451’ printed on a tent, just like the guards told me. If I can just make it to the first introductions, I can see how things go from there.

But I soon realize introductions will not be necessary.

I spot her before she sees me. She’s in standard issue uniform, not dressed as the Mockingjay. But her braid and the way she carries herself tell me exactly who I’m meeting in Squad 451. As I approach the group, I recognize Gale and Finnick. They look up at the sound of my footsteps. The others are strangers, but all of them have something in common: the look of sheer irritation at the sight of me. Finnick’s the only one whose face morphs into concern. I see raised eyebrows, confused expressions. Gale crosses his arms and turns away as we make eye contact.

Of course they would send me here. I spent the entire journey worrying about strangers, when I should have been worried about who I do know. I suppose President Coin has a taste for dramatics. My doctors must have been kept out of the details of her scheme, because they never mentioned me seeing Katniss. I trust them enough to have prepared me for it. Now I’m on my own. Kept in the dark, as usual.

As I’m lost in thought, a man steps forward.

“I need to see your credentials.” Shaking myself out of it, I hold up my hand with the large number stamped on in fresh ink, solidifying the situation. The man approaches me in earnest and swiftly introduces himself as Boggs.

“Hand over your gun,” Boggs says. I didn’t even get a chance to say hello. I do as I’m told and Boggs turns away with it tightly bound in his fist.

“I need to make some calls,” he says gruffly. Well, at least I won’t have to explain to anyone what’s going on with me.

“It won’t matter,” I address the rest of the squad. “The president assigned me herself. She decided the propos needed some heating up.” They’ll be heated, alright. I look at Katniss and see a mixture of emotions cross her face. She never has gotten the hang of that, it seems. Then I get annoyed for remembering that about her. No one speaks. Gale’s scoff is the only sound in the group as he waits for Boggs to return from his phone call.

By the time he gets back, it’s clear that he’d rather see the back of me.

“Jackson, please ensure that there is a two-person guard on Peeta. At all times,” he orders. Jackson, a woman who must be right below Boggs in the hierarchy, steps up and nods. She immediately starts figuring out a plan on how to contain me. As I listen to her, I start to pick up the names of my new squad members. Leeg, Mitchell, Homes. Boggs takes Katniss for a walk. I try not to look after her and instead find myself setting up a tent. Mitchell, who looks maybe a couple years older than me, throws one my way and tells me I better know how to do this. At least we covered this in training. Still, the tremble in my hands makes it a slow process. Of all things, I wish I could be back in the hospital room. But we’re far past making wishes now. Out in the open, I feel too seen. I hadn’t considered what it would feel like to have no walls around me anymore. To be surrounded by people on all sides and being able to perceive them.

Cressida, a woman who looks like she was a Capitol citizen until recently, introduces herself and her crew. She gives me a welcome reprieve from figuring out the tent situation.

“Messalla is my assistant. Castor and Pollux here manage the cameras.”

She’s the one who will be directing any and all propo shots. She teases me about my angles but I’m so taken aback by her brash openness that I barely respond. Castor and Pollux, who look to be identical twins, give me an almost pained expression while Messalla just sighs. At any rate, they’re the only ones so far who are not treating me with open contempt, so I try to manage the conversation as well as I can.

Katniss returns quietly from her walk. She asks Jackson about her first watch for me, to which Jackson replies that she didn’t put her in the rotation. This takes me by surprise. I pretend to be engrossed in the tent as Katniss asks her why not.

“I’m not sure you could really shoot Peeta, if it came to it,” Jackson says. Katniss raises her voice, no doubt hoping to make her next words land as hard as they possibly can.

“I wouldn’t be shooting Peeta. He’s gone. Johanna’s right. It’d be just like shooting another of the Capitol’s mutts.”

Coming from her, my body doesn’t know how to react. Part of me scoffs at the idea that she would point the finger at me being a mutt while she’s no innocent herself. But part of me feels distraught at the notion that she would speak like this about me. Practically to my face. And Johanna, too. I wonder where she is. I close my eyes and pull on the tent, get the final pieces of it to connect. Once it’s done, I quickly zip myself into it and use the moment I spend inside to ground myself. I can see the canvas of the tent, hear the voices of Squad 451 outside. I feel… I feel the steady ground underneath me, cooler than the air. My hands rest on the ground for a little bit as I breathe through what Katniss said. Allow the anguish and the injustice of it to wash over me in waves. After about a minute I rejoin the group, trying not to let my emotions show. Katniss meant to wound me. I can’t let her know she succeeded.

A whistle sounds. It gets all of my squad members moving, and one of them urges me to follow.

“Dinner,” Homes says tersely. Mitchell, the man who gave me the tent earlier, joins them in trailing me. They must be my guards on the first watch. I’m surprised no one has produced handcuffs yet. We walk in silence toward the line of people already waiting for their dinner. The canteen is bare and uninviting, utilitarian. Katniss stands farther along, together with Gale. I can see how their heads turn to each other in conversation. Probably talking about how to kill me in my sleep. I close my eyes and take deep breaths, trying to keep the tremble in my hands at bay. Homes makes a kind of coughing sound and I snap out of it, hoping I didn’t alert them to my behavior. We collect our dinner trays and bring them to a round table where all of us, including the propo team, sit to eat our dinner. The food tastes like plaster in my mouth and I barely make out the voices of the others over the blood rushing through my ears. Katniss continues to look at me as if I would attack her where she sat, which cools the temperature at the table so much that no one speaks by the time we clear our trays. I have half a mind to explain to them that this wasn’t my idea, but I’m not sure they’d believe me if I did.

As we walk back to the camp, the air grows crisp and steely. My breath fogs as I find my own tent, hoping to get some reprieve from the others. I long for the idea that no one can see me and I can just exist for a bit. Boggs stops me before I close the zipper.

“It’s best for you to sleep out here, where the others can see you. Grab your sleeping bag and position it by the heater,” he says. The authority in his voice leaves no room for discussion, so I do as I’m told. As I accept the fact that I won’t sleep tonight, Homes and Mitchell take their positions on small stools close to me. Some of the others decide to sleep outside as well, but others, like Katniss, choose the solitude of their tent. How lucky to be given a choice. As the camp quietens down, I hear muffled sobs coming from the direction of Leeg’s tent.

“She lost her sister,” Mitchell says. Nothing more. I try to block out the sounds of her grief to no avail. So I take shelter in the sleeping bag, pull it over my head and shut out the world. It feels stupid that I longed for an open sky before, in the hospital, when all I want now is to be shut in. This entire idea of having me join this squad feels like one big trap.

I have to come up for air after a while. As I emerge from the sleeping bag, I can see Homes and Mitchell stare out at the camp around us. Neither of them make any indication that they see me. I don’t know what’s worse: being treated like a danger or being ignored.

Finnick’s tent is close to me. As I think about him, my hands find the piece of rope he gave me once again. With nothing better to do, I decide to try out some new knots. But my fingers aren’t agile enough and I end up clumsily knotting the rope and having to unravel it. The sound of the heater combined with the sleeping sounds of the others makes me feel a little more at ease. At least nothing is going wrong now. I sit up, pull the sleeping bag up as high as I can while still holding onto the rope. Attempt another knot and resolve to ask Finnick about them again when he wakes up. Or has to guard me.

The passage of time escapes me as I zone in on the rope. Suddenly, Homes and Mitchell are nodding up at Jackson. Katniss emerges from her tent, her hair sticking out of her braid in wisps. I try not to let it show that I’ve noticed her and continue to knot the rope.

I half expect her to speak. But when no words come, I resolve to stay silent, too. My fingers grow sore from the repeated movements. With Katniss so close to me, I steal glances through my eyelashes. The heater casts just enough light on her to make out her features. Brows set in a frown. Lips in a terse line. Eyes… eyes focused on the far end of the horizon. In every feature, I try to find proof of something. Anything that makes me feel supported in the knowledge that I know who she is.

A mutt.

An enemy.

A girl.

A girl who, not long ago, kissed me on a beach. Who pointed an arrow at my heart while I bled out. Who ran toward me in a hospital room as if nothing bad had happened at all.

So treacherous; so confusing. Does she even know her own mind? I look at her more openly now, just as I did a couple of days ago. Finally, I break our silence.

“These last couple of years must have been exhausting for you. Trying to decide whether to kill me or not. Back and forth. Back and forth.”

I look at her intently. Once again, her emotions cross her face openly. As if she’s battling her own reaction. I feel as though she might just ignore me, but then she speaks up, too.

“I never wanted to kill you. Except when I thought you were helping the Careers kill me. After that, I always thought of you as… an ally,” she says. What a choice word.

"Ally." I repeat the word, mull it over. What have I been to her now?

"Friend. Lover. Victor. Enemy. Fiancée. Target. Mutt. Neighbor. Hunter. Tribute. Ally. I'll add it to the list of words I use to try to figure you out," I say, my voice trembling. The rope continues to glide through my hands, snagging on the callouses on my fingertips.

“The problem is, I can't tell what's real anymore, and what's made up."

Admitting it out loud to her makes me feel at once stupid and bold. How the jumble of conflicting images in my mind is making even the simplest moment a cause for confusion. I don’t know what’s making me admit it in front of Katniss, but it’s not she who speaks up.

“Then you should ask, Peeta. That’s what Annie does.” Finnick. His voice comes from the shadows of his tent and I see his eyes in the light of the heater. The others are moving now, too. As if the entire squad is up. They probably are.

“Ask who?” I say quizzically. “Who can I trust?”

“Well, us for starters. We’re your squad,” Jackson says. I frown.

“You’re my guards,” I say.

“That, too. But you saved a lot of lives in Thirteen. It’s not the kind of thing we forget.”

I did? I did. In the last session, where they showed me the footage of me warning the rebels about the Capitol’s imminent airstrike. How I went directly against Snow because there was a chance it could save Katniss from certain death. My vision blurs. More memories come back. Overhearing my jailors talk about the bombing. The television broadcast, my leg jittery against the rung of the stool they put me in, aching all over. Blood splattering the tiles after I-

I snap myself out of the memory before it swallows me. I see Jackson, I hear the heater, I feel the cold air on my back.

And I try to remember other things instead.

Chapter Text

Finnick’s suggestion of asking things turns out to be even harder than I thought. As I try to think of questions, it dawns on me just how big the task is. Where to begin? What matters enough to ask? Anything. Everything. I spend a while just staring at the rope, trying to remember things about Katniss. Things that don’t include blood or fear or pain. Safe things.

I try to remember feeling safe.

A moment on a train track. Neither of us in front of a camera. Not acting for someone else’s benefit. Just… being.

“Your favorite color… it’s green?” I ask, finally. The question feels almost too intimate, as if it’s bringing with it too many other moments like it. They must think it strange for me to lead with that. I almost feel stupid for being so vulnerable, for letting her see-

“That’s right,” she says. A beat. “And yours is orange.”

“Orange?” I say. What an odd color.

“Not bright orange. But soft. Like the sunset,” she explains. “At least, that’s what you told me once.”

“Oh.” I close my eyes. Recall the sunset. The soft hues of orange, just as she described them. The peace in that. How the sunset featured in a lot of my drawings back in 13.

“Thank you,” I say. The memory of her favorite color takes shape now. Clearer around the edges.

Katniss’ voice pulls me out of my own head.

"You're a painter. You're a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces." The words are out of her mouth in a flash. Then she shoots up from the stool and into her tent, zipping it up behind her.

The others choose not to comment, allowing me to sit with her statements for a while. A painter, a baker. Those things I know. I haven’t slept in a room with normal windows in so long that I don’t know if that’s still true. But she was right about the tea. When they served it in 13 I almost spit out the concoction that had sugar in it. And the shoelaces. Well. I only have to look down to know that’s correct, too. How does she know these things? Did she really pay close enough attention to remember them? It strikes me as strange that she would do it, but I can’t trust my judgement anymore. It could be that these are the only things she knows with absolute certainty. If anything, her statements have lent her some credibility in what she’s saying.

I settle down for sleep with the idea that maybe remembering doesn’t have to be painful all the time. But it’s exhausting nonetheless.

When I wake up, Gale, Finnick and Katniss have gone out with the propo team. Mitchell informs me that they’re filming some content for the propos themselves. Something involving shooting at things and making it look heroic. He doesn’t need to explain that I have nothing to contribute in that area. I eat some breakfast, but the oats still taste off to me so it’s a slow process. But this is all there is, and I will need my strength. By the time I’ve gotten down the last morsel of it, the entire camp is up and going. I tuck away the sleeping bag in my unused tent and change my clothes while no one looks.

Squad 451 has taken to being pleasant enough while still holding on to their guns as they talk to me. As I settle back down near the heater, Jackson takes a seat on the stool she occupied last night.

“I thought about your conversation last night,” she starts, “and I think I might have an idea of how you can ask about things you remember.”

After the turmoil of trying to accept the facts I’ve had to relearn, my enthusiasm about Jackson’s idea is careful. But I nod for her to go on.

“We can turn it into a kind of game. You ask any of us, depending on the topic, a question about something you remember. Then you ask ‘Real or not real?’. And the person who is best equipped to answer will simply tell you and explain, if need be.” The idea is simple enough. It just might work.

“Let’s start with small things, all right? Things I can answer,” she says. It takes me a while to find something I can ask. She graciously lets the silence stretch between us. Then her words from last night come back to me.

“District Thirteen survived the- the bombs because of me,” I say. “Real or not real?”

Jackson grows solemn, but says: “Real. As I told you yesterday, your warning gave us enough time to evacuate. Without it…” she trails off. I don’t ask further. But since her answer is the same as yesterday’s, it gives me a bit more faith in the game.

I ask questions about things I recently experienced: life in 13, the way the District is run. Just to test the waters and make sure Jackson is consistent in her honesty.

“President Coin is the leader.”

“Real.”

“I was brought to Thirteen while there was a broadcast.”

“Real.”

“President Snow ordered the bombing of- of-“ I see the image of Katniss in front of flaming wreckage. “A hospital.”

“Real,” Jackson says quietly.

At some point, the others join Jackson and I, adding to each other’s answers about the war. We sit in a lopsided circle. None of them leave their guns, but so be it. I’ve just gotten to questions about 12 when Katniss and the others join us after filming.

"Most of the people from Twelve were killed in the fire."

"Real. Less than nine hundred of you made it to Thirteen alive."

So few? I think about my family, my friends, perishing in the fire that Katniss… I… my next question comes out quieter.

"The fire was my fault."

"Not real. President Snow destroyed Twelve the way he did Thirteen, to send a message to the rebels,” Boggs says. Not real. Not real. While I was taken into the Capitol and Katniss was taken into 13, it was Snow who rained down fire on my home and killed everyone I know. Suddenly I remember Delly telling me the same thing weeks ago. It was Snow.

I start seeing spots, my hands gripping the fabric of my pants as my breaths become shallower.

Jackson calls for a break. As I recall things I see, hear, and feel, she reassigns the guard pairs into new configurations: one soldier from 13 paired with one person I already know. This means that I’ll always have two different perspectives on things. My guards rotate more frequently to make sure I can see all of them during the day. By the time this has gotten through to me, my breathing has gone back to normal. Only the sweat on my back is proof of the anxiety I felt. The game goes slower after that.

I ask Finnick about the jungle arena in halting sentences. It takes a lot out of me to form the question, like wading through water and mud. He tells me how I slashed into the force field with my knife, how he restarted my heart.

“It was in that moment that I realized Katniss truly loved you. No one playing a game would react like she did,” he explains. His sincerity throws me off and I don’t know how to react. Because isn’t that what I thought about, rewatching myself and Katniss in that moment? Finnick notices my apprehension and talks about the spile Haymitch sent us, and the bread. How I drew a map on a leaf. How he remembers thinking that it was fitting that I would take that upon myself.

Gale tells me about school in District 12. I vaguely recall the names of teachers, the hallways I used to pass with my friends. He has to stop talking once my hands start shaking again because their faces come back unbidden and I need to take deep breaths to stop myself from crying. Most of them didn’t make it to 13. After that, he tells me about the merchant quarter.

“Wait, didn’t…” I trail off, try to find words. Any words. Gale just told me about a woman whose name I can’t remember, but who made the hygiene products my family bought. The feeling of the silky bar of soap between my hands as I scrub away a layer of flour and sugar, see it go down the drain in a hazy pink stream.

“That woman, she-“ I mimic the motion of washing your hands. Gale catches on.

“Yes, she made the soaps. She would always trade a particular set of things for one of those bars. But you could never know what she wanted that day, so it was a guessing game.”

Satisfied, I sit back. He talks some more about the Hob and the coal miners, but I find my attention drifting off.

Katniss goes last that day. It’s more difficult with her. Every question feels pivotal. Every word needs to be measured. She asks me what Gale and I talked about and that sets her off with talking about our math teacher in primary school. After that, I muster the courage to ask about the bakery. She starts to respond, but I stop her with my hand.

“Not my family…” I say, shaking my head to stop them from appearing before me.

“Cheese-“ I start to say. Katniss’ face brightens slightly.

“Cheese buns? You remember them?” I don’t nod just yet, just wait for her to tell me about them. I used to make them for her, apparently. I made quite a lot of them once we lived in the Victor’s Village. It feels strange to remember that fact yet being so unsure about it. She has to go into detail about what they looked and tasted like before I can start to accept it as truth. But her talk about the Victor’s Village sets me off on another path of memories. Because the word ‘victory’ triggers something else. 

“We went on a Tour, didn’t we? As Victors?” I ask. And then she starts recounting those weeks. I ask her about small moments: the color of her dress in District 7, the meals we had for breakfast. We don’t mention the nights. They’re too painful.

I sleep badly that night. As much as the memories are giving me something back, the realization of how much I’ve lost sits heavily in my stomach. Not to mention the things I can’t ask anyone; things about my childhood with my brothers, about the life I led after my first Games. So much of it spent alone. I do remember that.

I get woken up by Finnick. He tells me that they just got the message that the entire squad is filming a propo today and that I’m expected to join them. His expression betrays little, but I can tell from the air in the group that none of them want me there.

All I’m told is that we’re going to a block of housing in the actual Capitol and that there are these traps called pods. Some trigger gunfire, others explosions. Nets. I lose track of the explanation halfway through as I’m trying to get my bearings and resolve to just follow along.

Cressida explains that they want to make the propo more interesting by setting off smoke bombs and added sound effects. I’m told to put on heavy armor, secure it tightly as if I were going into battle. Training covered the basics of this, but my fingers fumble on some of the finer details of the protective gear and someone has to help me. As Homes is finishing up the dressing process, my attention is on the propo team. They’re gearing up too, for some reason. My eyes land on Pollux. Something about him feels familiar, even though I know for a fact I’ve never met him before. I made sure to ask Jackson last night if I met any of them before, because it would have mattered for the game. The way Pollux carries himself makes me think I’m missing something. Boggs pulls me out of my staring and gives me back the gun I had on me when I got here.

“This gun is loaded with blanks,” he says, looking in my eyes but saying it loud enough for the entire squad to hear. I shrug.

"I'm not much of a shot anyway,” I say. When he leaves to join Jackson, I can’t help but look at Pollux again. It’s the quiet of him. The haunted look in his eyes. The way he holds himself, the tight press of his lips as he prepares for the day.

Something in me snaps when I finally know what it is.

"You're an Avox, aren't you? I can tell by the way you swallow,” I say, startling him. He looks at me with wide eyes but I can’t stop the words from coming. From remembering the other people who shared his fate.

“There were two Avoxes with me in prison. Darius and Lavinia, but the guards mostly called them the redheads. They'd been our servants in the Training Center, so they arrested them, too. I watched them being tortured to death. She was lucky. They used too much voltage and her heart stopped right off. It took days to finish him off. Beating, cutting off parts. They kept asking him questions, but he couldn't speak, he just made these horrible animal sounds. They didn't want information, you know? They wanted me to see it,” I ramble, looking around at the others for confirmation of what my mind is telling me happened. But all of them are looking at me in total silence. But it’s so clear in my mind, so uncanny in its sharpness.

"Real or not real?" I ask, hoping they’ll catch on. No one speaks.

"Real or not real?!" I cry now, frantically hoping any one of them can tell me.

"Real," Boggs says eventually. "At least, to the best of my knowledge...real."

His authority settles something in me. My heart rate slows down as the rush of the moment leaves me.

"I thought so. There was nothing... shiny about it,” I say.

I feel my feet move beneath me as I walk away from them, recalling the last moments of Darius and Lavinia’s lives. “They took his fingers first- no, his toes… f-fingers,” I ramble to myself as I move, looking down at my own trembling hands. I barely notice when our group moves along the block of buildings.

The more I parse memories through this new game, the more something is starting to clear up: when I think about Darius and Lavinia, even the cheese buns that Katniss talked about, they appear in my mind as they should appear. But when I think about Snow and the fire in 12, the memory feels hazy, like there’s a cloth of shimmering fabric draped over the images. I get the sense that this is important to keep in mind, so I make a mental note to focus on the memories’ appearance when I talk about them. Maybe it’ll help me figure things out faster.

I trail behind as the squad walks on. The street used to be vibrant, I can tell. The pink and orange paving stones, though duller now, still exude an air of excess. No sound is made except the unmistakable crunch of glass that litters the street. The squad comes to a halt, some are frowning when looking down at a device Boggs is holding. My gun dangles like dead weight on my back as I turn on the spot, trying to make sense of where I am. I vaguely follow the conversation.

“… gunfire pod is close…“

“… bullets should work…“

“The net will be tougher, we should…”

Suddenly, all of them start raising their hands, as if they’re in school trying to be picked to answer a question. I stare at them, still unsure about what’s going on. They don’t enlighten me as Katniss is whisked off by Messalla and the others get in some kind of formation. Mitchell huffs and drags me behind him.

Boggs gives a signal. Cressida is busy directing Castor and Pollux into specific places on the street. Smoke appears out of nowhere and I start, but when none of the others react, I figure this was supposed to happen. So I wait.

"Action!" Cressida calls.

The squad moves in unison with me at its rear. All of them have their guns out and pointed at several windows. I decide to hold my gun as well, even though I have no target to shoot at. But this way I don’t stand out like the imposter I am. I look through the aiming module at the windows that are still intact and pretend to pull the trigger.

There’s some shooting by the others; windows smash, raining down even more glass. But the big explosion is Gale’s doing. He hits something that sets of a terrible outpouring of bullets. I’m dragged into an alcove by Jackson, who holds me by the scruff of my gear. I hear how the bullets go in a kind of arc, sweeping over the paving stones. The sound is deafening, but I don’t dare cover my ears.

When the bullets cease, Boggs orders us to move again. But then Cressida swoops in and asks each one of us to reenact how we ducked out of the bullets’ range. Her cameras move in close as each of us takes a turn. Katniss falls to the ground with a grunt. Gale deftly scoots over the ground into the nearest alcove. Mitchell’s attempt at looking frightened has the others dissolve into fits of laughter. No one comments when I drop onto the ground, looking down at the gun in my hands. Jackson doesn’t seem to have the heart to reenact what she did for everyone in Panem to see. Finnick is the shining star, whose hair manages to stay in place even as he pretends he’s being ambushed. In all, the entire scene feels ridiculous. I’m not sure what propo this will become, but I’m sure 13 doesn’t need this.

The easy atmosphere seems to agitate Boggs, who calls everyone back to attention.

"Pull it together, Four-Five-One," he says with an air of superiority. But he’s looking down at the device in his hand. I hear Finnick call it a ‘Holo’. He’s squinting at the Holo, trying to make sense of its projection in the hazy air of the street. He’s turned towards us all when he takes a step back to hold the Holo up into the light.

I watch how his face changes when he steps onto a seemingly random tile. And then it clicks.

Chapter Text

His features contort into a mask of terror. He knows what comes next. The air crackles with intense heat, followed by the blast of the bomb that blows up, blood and debris splattering the area around him. Acrid smoke fills the air and I scream as a second explosion somewhere in the vicinity goes off. I cover my ears, sink down on the ground as I try to grapple with what is happening. Even as the scent of carnage and dust fills my nose, I wonder if any of this is real. I try to focus on the feeling of my fingers clutching my skull, but it’s no use. The smoke is making my eyes water and my lungs burn more with every breath.

I vaguely see the others move in to where Boggs should be, see them kneeling down, helping, trying to revive someone who is surely lost. Their movements are choppy. As if a broadcast is halted somehow and the figures on the screen are only able to live in bursts and blinks. Their bodies are mere shapes in the hazy air, the sharp outline of their guns the only discernible feature. My vision starts to blur as I lie there in the street alone. I must have fallen on my side at one point because the world is tilting, tilting, head swimming.

As they move ever further away, the smoke in the air becomes a wall. Impenetrable like a force field, as if I’m in the arena and the next hour has started and my allies have left me behind. They left me behind the minute something happened.

I blink.

My squad. A fraction of my mind calls my thoughts irrational, selfish, cruel. But the louder part of me now rears its head, makes it known that when it comes down to it, they don’t care about me at all. My breaths starts coming in faster and faster as I reckon with the implication of it all, hands still clutched over my ears.

I hear someone holler something at the group. Finnick answers and I whip my head towards him because his voice is more familiar to me. His silhouette cuts a figure into the hazy landscape. Through the dense smoke, I make out that he’s gesturing at something near the end of the block of houses. His arm is frantically making the motions. Turning my head, I can see why.

Black ooze is spouting from somewhere underneath the street, creating such pressure that the matter shoots into the air and lands in oily pools on the ground. The darkness is instant; anything the ooze touches becomes a sleek, solid black, encompassing all it touches. The sight of it makes me certain that going near it means death. I’m scrambling away on the ground, legs struggling to find purchase, when I hear the deafening roar of gunfire. I throw myself down on the ground again, expecting an ambush, until I realize they’re squad members firing at the buildings in front of us. More explosions follow, disorienting me again. I hear the splashing of the black tar, the shouts from the squad, and then two things happen at once.

My limbs find a way to make me stand up.

My mind shifts into such clarity that for the first time in weeks, I know exactly what to do.

My legs find traction on the once brightly tiled streets as the black ooze crests into an enormous wave. I make the mistake of looking back, see it looming and foreboding over me, a black drape ready to settle over my life. The pressure underneath the street must be incredible, because the tar is moving quicker than I can even follow. A memory crests, too, of individuals covered in blood. A rain that choked instead of cleansed. I snap myself out of it as the ooze starts to invade my nostrils, bringing me back to the present. I don’t wait for the wave to crash down, to see how it covers anything it touches, suffocating it. The outline of my squad members becomes clear to me now, and I see how they’re ready to start moving away from this trap.

As two people take the lead, I hone in on the other members of my squad, who haven’t even bothered to look out for me. Katniss and Homes are carrying a bleeding Boggs along while the others seem bent on ignoring me as hard as they can. They’d rather haul someone on the brink of death towards safety than help me figure out where to go next. Typical. I should have known their loyalties would not run deep. Not when it came down to it. Jackson might have pulled me in by thinking they would help me, but this exact moment proves that I was alone all along. How stupid! How twisted! As I follow my treacherous squad members, the events of the past days all come together in rapid succession. My head starts to hurt and I clutch my temples, try to push the hurt away by squeezing my skull, all the while keeping my line of sight on the one person to blame for it all.

The roar of the black ooze dims as my eyes track the sweep of her braid over her back. With every step I gain on her a bit, but she doesn’t notice. She never noticed me before, has she? So why now? The utter betrayal of it all. My vision starts to blur and I tap my head hard two, three times to get my eyes to focus but it doesn’t matter. I’m right behind her now. She will know what it is like to be left behind.

I yank her back by her shoulder, carefully avoid that shiny hair of hers. To touch it would burn me, I’m sure of it. She slams into the stones and I can see the wind get knocked out of her. Good. My hands find the gun strapped to my back and I see her face as she realizes what I intend to do with it; I bring my arms back, arcing the butt of the gun down right over her skull. But she rolls out of range before I know it and then I’m swept aside by a massive block of matter. Except it’s a person; someone I don’t recognize. The grunts that come out of his mouth as he pins me to the ground, wrestles the gun from my hands. He hangs over me; his face is vaguely familiar but not enough to know who it is. Pinned down and trapped, he has me in a bind. Instinctively, I know what to do.

I stop resisting the grip on my arms for a second, making him think I relent. This gives me just enough time to roll my legs up under his torso and kick him away from me, sending him several feet down the block of buildings. I have just enough time to sit up when I hear a click. Four cables shoot out of the walls of nearby buildings, breaking through stone, ensnaring the man in a net. Before he is fully launched into the sky, he’s already bleeding onto the ground below. I can’t see what’s causing the bleeding, but the cables must be sharp.

Hands are on me, pinning me to the ground again. Too many to fend off this time. I thrash against the people restraining me, start to sweat as I panic over the fact that I can’t move. I try in vain to stop the tears from running down my temples. But they won’t budge. Instead, the lack of movement is making the acrid scent of the black tar prominent and I realize it’s catching up to us now.

Two pairs of arms encircle my own as I’m dragged into a building. Everything is shiny now; the ceiling, the floors, the bright and unnatural furniture. They drag me and I struggle, feel tears and snot pour down my face as my captors take me away again, to pain and torture and – I feel bile rising in my throat but stop myself from vomiting lest I lose the meager meal I had before. I’m sure they would leave me to rot in it.

I’m still writhing against my jailors when a third person comes into view. I feel the snap of metal around my left wrist, then I’m manhandled to offer up my right. It only makes me wail more, because they’ve never used those before; what do they intend to do with me now? I close my eyes to shut out the world and everything in it, hoping that darkness will take me with it.

I’m shoved and dragged again, and the next time I open my eyes I truly am in the dark. A quick feel around myself proves that I’m not dead, as I’d hoped to be, but in a small space. Outside of my cell, I hear the muffled shouts of multiple people. How many jailors are there? I bang my head against the wall again and again, trying to make sense of anything, but nothing comes. Only the throbbing in my skull and the race of my heart stand out. Snot is covering my face, some patches dried up from earlier. Yet somehow I feel a weight pull at me, trying to coax me into a stupor. Did they drug me? Slip something into my mouth as I screamed? As I fight the feeling, the last thing I think before I slip into unconsciousness is the face of the man I pushed into the net. I do know his name.

When I come to, the pain in my head has reduced to a dull ache at the back of my skull. I find myself surrounded by my squad, cuffed and draped over what seems to be a sofa. Like they dragged me from where they stashed me as soon as I passed out. The large television screen in the room lights up and I don’t dare move. No one has noticed I’m awake and the feeling of unease hasn’t gone away. There’s a slight scent of a chemical in the air. Then I remember the tar, oozing its way toward us. A brief move of my head shows that there are no windows in this space. The room is illuminated solely by the television. I quickly scout my surroundings better. A spiral staircase leads down to another level. We must be in a Capitol citizen’s apartment. Ever since the area was taken by the rebels, they must have evacuated. Or something else. My squad is sitting on a variety of plush stools and sofas littered around the room. The tar covers the floor where it has dropped down from the ridges in our boots.

I have half a mind to say I’ve woken up when something on the television catches my eye. It’s a news broadcast that just started, showing what happened on the street earlier today. The reporter starts out by saying that the following footage will be difficult to watch, but then somehow they glorify the events because it’s rebels that have been taken down. With a start, I realize they’re talking about my squad.

I see myself on the screen, narrowly avoiding the wave of tar as I run up just in time. The others have a minor lead on me. Nothing like the yards I thought they had, making me feel left behind. I see how Boggs lies dying in the street, too much blood pouring out of his body. The painful motion of Katniss and Homes lifting him up to carry him to safety with the rest of us. The black ooze that shoots up from under the ground, covering everything in its wake. The voice over narrates it all, but the voice fades into the background as I see what happened next. I float somewhere outside of myself, vision blurry, wondering how this was not the first thing on my mind when I woke up.

I attack Katniss. The sickening blow of her head connecting with the pavement makes me wince. I hadn’t realized how strong I am. What a disgusting way to find out. I gasp when I bring down the gun, missing her head by a hair. If she hadn’t been fast enough, I would have killed her. What possessed me? Then the man’s face, the face I saw before I fell into a stupor, reappears.

I kill Mitchell.

He tried to save me there; I can see it in the way he’s not head locking me. He had every right to manhandle me but he didn’t, opting instead to secure me in a way that wouldn’t hurt. And what did I do? I pushed him away. I’m once again surprised at my own strength. I didn’t even know my prosthetic leg could do that. And I pushed him right into a pod that trapped him, helpless, alone. He dies suspended in the air.

I left him behind.

The revulsion that wells up inside me is so absolute that I wish I could disintegrate. Die the most painful death over and over as penance for his murder. Because I decided to do this to him. His blood coats my hands. I didn’t even recognize him as I did it. How must he have felt in his final moments, knowing a member of his own squad just murdered him?

I hear Castor say something, then look at the screen again as the news report fills in the blank of the past hour. Peacekeepers line the roof across from the apartment in which the squad took shelter. I know this because the narrator informs us that this is where we’re supposed to be. I figure we must be somewhere far away now, because the gunfire that is opened clearly does not find its target here. The building on the screen collapses in a huge pile of dust and rubble. The footage cuts off and then someone from Capitol News appears who seems to be broadcasting live from the very roof the Peacekeepers are on. The building behind her burns and I see firefighters put in an effort to stop the flames, no doubt to dig up our bodies to parade them around the Capitol.

“The members of this rebel squad, led by Katniss Everdeen, are dead,” she reports solemnly.

“Finally, a bit of luck,” Homes says.

“My father. He just lost my sister and now…” Leeg says.

I try to push down the bitter part of me that wants to say that at least she has people who would care if she died. But I keep my mouth shut. The only person I can think of is Delly, maybe. But she’ll be alright.

The footage plays over and over, especially the moment the building collapses. What follows then is a kind of montage of Katniss as the Mockingjay, documenting her rise and fall. Then they cut to reporters who discuss the events of the day, focusing in large part on Katniss’ deserved demise. They end with the announcement that Snow is going to appear on television later to make a speech.

Snow. I hope we won’t be in front of a television then.

The comedown of what happened today is unlike any I’ve experienced before. I realize now that I must have been frenzied. The footage certainly shows that. The explosions must have triggered something, awakened a part of me that lay dormant ever since I started to get better in 13. The revulsion starts up again. I killed Mitchell. I tried to kill Katniss. Hadn’t I just started to see what Snow had been trying to plant in my head? Hadn’t I known better? How weak, how volatile of me to endanger my squad. They play a game with me to help me and all I do in return is make dangerous situations even worse, because they have to look at their own ranks and watch their backs there, too. And the worst of it is that this was me. I did this. Some sadistic part of me must have been there all along for me to be able to do it at all. I had no reason to kill Mitchell. And I’ve killed before. But never with intent. Never because I just could.

"So, now that we're dead, what's our next move?" Gale asks the others, breaking the silence in the room now that the broadcast has ended. His gaze finds mine a split second before I speak up. His mouth sets in a hard line.

"Isn't it obvious?" I interject. Heads snap toward me at once. They truly hadn’t noticed I was awake. Not their fault. Just like it wasn’t their fault that they’d have to navigate the Capitol with me. The cowardice of my next statement doesn’t escape me. I know I deserve punishment. But it’s the best I can offer given the circumstances.

"Our next move... is to kill me.”

Chapter Text

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jackson cuts through the silence in the room.

“I just murdered a member of our squad!” I scream. How could they possibly give me leeway in this? Haven’t they seen the monster I am?

“You pushed him off you. You couldn’t have known he would trigger the net at that exact spot,” Finnick says. His voice has taken on that tone I’ve gotten familiar with. The one that suggests kindness, a willingness to be gentle. A willingness I’ll never deserve.

“Who cares? He’s dead, isn’t he?” Tears are falling down my cheeks again. I taste the salt on my lips as I speak. The footage has shown me exactly who I am. I can’t live with myself like this.

“I didn’t know. I've never seen myself like that before. Katniss is right. I'm the monster. I'm the mutt. I'm the one Snow has turned into a weapon!" I cry out through the sobs, wiping my face awkwardly with my shackled wrists. My head feels light from the breaths I’ve been heaving, words coming out in stuttering bursts.

"It's not your fault, Peeta," Finnick coaxes, but it’s no use. His tone only sets me off more.

"You can't take me with you. It's only a matter of time before I kill someone else." Who knows what else sets me off? If it was the explosion this time, it could be the trigger of gunfire next! Maybe the slam of a door sends me into a frenzy soon, and then what will they argue? They have to make sure I’ll never be a threat to anyone again. And for that matter, they can’t let me get into the wrong hands again, either.

"Maybe you think it's kinder to just dump me somewhere. Let me take my chances. But that's the same thing as handing me over to the Capitol. Do you think you'd be doing me a favor by sending me back to Snow?" A shiver runs up my spine at the thought of his snake eyes bearing down on me, entrapping me. Breaking me once again. I know that he wouldn’t let me go a second time.

"I'll kill you before that happens," Gale says, tone flat. "I promise." But it’s not good enough. No, what if there’s no time? What if a horde of Peacekeepers rounds us up and they take me before they can react? It would only make everything even worse. I start to shake my head.

"It's no good. What if you're not there to do it? I want one of those poison pills like the rest of you have,” I say resolutely. I’ve seen them handle the small tablets, tuck them into small shoulder pockets of their uniforms. Nightlock pills like the berries in the arena. They never gave me one when I got to the Capitol, probably because they didn’t think I’d be in a situation to need one. But the more I think about it, the more it doesn’t make sense. Why did no one give me the opportunity to escape, if it came to it? If only they gave me a pill now; then I could take one and have it all over with. It would be the best option for all of us. A weight settles in my stomach as I look around the room, where no one dares to catch my eye now. I see Katniss contemplate this scenario. The furrow of her brow as she mulls over her options. It almost feels familiar, but I stop myself from following that line of thought. It wouldn’t do either of us much good. Not anymore. If Katniss ever cared for me, as my doctors, Delly, even Haymitch have suggested many times, then she must know this is the only way.

When she speaks, the pit in my stomach becomes bigger.

"It's not about you," she says. "We're on a mission. And you're necessary to it." She looks away from me then as if she can’t bear to see my expression. But I wager she knows what she’s just decided. Maybe it’s apt punishment to live on until she has no choice but to point one of her arrows at my heart for the final time.

"Think we might find some food here?" And that settles it. There’s no use in stretching the conversation. Katniss has made her decision. I fall back into the sofa and cry through gasping breaths while the others pretend not to notice.

The group then splits up in two distinct teams: one to guard me and one to scour the apartment for food. Despite the many pockets of our uniforms, none seem to be filled with anything useful right now. I look down at my shackled hands while I wait and listen to the sounds of the scavenging group as they move around on the downstairs floor. The clicking and scraping, undercut by Messalla’s voice, suggests success. I feel bad that on top of having to string me along, they now have to feed me as well.

Homes, who is part of the team that stayed behind for me, speaks up.

“I know this counts for little since we haven’t known each other long, exactly. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from this entire situation, it’s that your survival would be the ultimate slap in the face for Snow.” I turn to face him, drag my eyes away from my wrists, and frown. He continues.

“Think about it. Snow took you, bent you out of shape, tried to change you into something you’re not. From what I can tell, it seems you’ve accepted that he was successful in that endeavor. But think about it like this: his careful plan, the meticulous way in which he tried to manipulate Katniss by trying to destroy you, failed. Because here you are. With Katniss. Both very much alive. A man like Snow thrives on control. Knowing everything about everybody, making sure he’s always coming out on top. Because what happens if he loses control? People start acting in ways he can’t predict.” He stops, listening to the rest of the squad making their way up the stairs. He speaks the last words as if he’s been bottling them up for a while.

“Prove him wrong, Peeta. Live out of spite, if nothing else. You owe that to yourself.”

Gale is just breaching the floor when Homes finishes his sentence. I don’t understand where this came from, but I nod at him, a silent understanding, before I turn back to the center of the room. I hadn’t considered living out of spite. Could I do that? My train of thought halts as the rest of the squad walks in with their arms full.

They lay down a large pile of food. More food than I thought they would find given the circumstances. Messalla explains to Jackson how the people of the Capitol started hoarding and stashing it in secret hideouts when the tempers in the districts started rising. There were shortages in shops for a while because everyone was doing it but no one was willing to admit to it when asked. I suppose hoarding was frowned upon in the Capitol’s social circles; the veneer of pretending there is only wealth and prosperity. Well, at least their resourcefulness comes in handy now.

“Everybody grab a can,” Gale says. Some of the squad members frown, look down at the pile of food before them. In camp the food rations are based on physical build and level of exertion, but none of that is possible here. Some of them must be so routined in this that the feeling of just grabbing whatever rubs them the wrong way. But I’ve been a soldier, and a lousy one, for such a short time that I grab the first can I can reach.

Lamb stew, the label reads. I hold the can in both hands as I look down at the simple illustration on the label, depicting a kind of gravy and pieces of meat in a stylized way. A flush of emotions overcomes me and I struggle to identify why. I close my eyes, search the murky depths of my mind for an answer, feel the slight throbbing in my temples whenever I try to remember something specific. Lamb stew has to mean something, why else would I feel this way? I open my eyes and look right at Katniss. I don’t do it on purpose. My eyes seem to drift towards her on instinct. And then it comes back. Her favorite food from the Capitol. Such a favorite that when Haymitch got to feed us in the arena, he sent it in a parachute specifically to do her a favor. With a start, Homes’ words come back to me. Perhaps the Capitol hasn’t changed me as much as I thought they had, a thought that has materialized whenever I feel like I remember something pure. Despite having to grapple with the ugly side of me, there is something to be gained here as I sit on a luxury sofa cradling a can of stew. I feel stupid for feeling a flickering of hope over some food. Then I push that feeling down and tell myself that hope is not a thing wasted in whatever quantity. At least it’s there. And it certainly feels more satisfying than spite.

“Here,” I say to Katniss. She was just reaching for a nondescript gray can with an image that looks mildly unappetizing when she looks up. I hand over the can and search her face. Not that I want to make a big fuss over a can of food. But seeing her lips press together as she seems to remember the meaning of its contents makes that small spark of hope flare up again.

“Thanks,” she says. And I know she means it. “It even has dried plums.”

I decide not to watch her eat because there are lines that cannot be crossed, so instead I shift my focus to my own meal. Not much is left in the way of appealing meals, so I settle for a can boasting some vegetables over what looks to be mashed potatoes. Homes tactfully helps me with the lid before I even get a chance to ask and then seems to look on as I shovel the food into my mouth with it. At first I think it’s because of what he said, about surviving out of spite, but when I cut my lip on the lid I realize it’s because he wants to make sure I don’t cut my own throat with it. Maybe I should have, I think bitterly. I shake my head and finish the can.

For dessert, someone procures a box of cookies from a pantry. We each take one out and I take a moment to look at the icing on top. Simple white with a pattern of flowers drawn into it. Intricate in its simplicity. I bite into the sugar cookie, being surprised by the cream inside. The dough crumbles in my mouth, my taste buds exploding because of the rich, buttery flavor. A real treat. I vaguely wonder if I’ve ever made these myself when the television screen lights up again and Gem of Panem plays over the speaker.

It’s the dead count, like they do in the arena. Pictures and names come in rapid succession in a perverse display of victory. Messalla, Cressida, Castor and Pollux are first. Then come Boggs, Gale, Finnick, myself and Katniss. No mention of Leeg, Homes, or Jackson. Maybe the Capitol doesn’t care about some random soldiers from 13 when their true targets have been obliterated. And even though the display is horrific, the omission of three squad members makes me angry for another reason. As if their would-be deaths are meaningless.

I’m not prepared for Snow’s appearance, despite the earlier announcement that he would speak. He’s seated behind his desk. With a start, the smell of the polished hardwood mixed with the ever present roses comes back to me as if I were sitting at the desk myself. I clench my jaw and grab onto my pant legs to give my hands something to do. Close my eyes for a moment. As my fingertips find the seams and run alongside them, seeking a sensory distraction, I make myself look at the screen. The flag of Panem is ostentatiously draped behind him. A white rose sits in the lapel of his immaculate suit. He looks fake for some reason. His face is taut, his lips too full for his features. Looking at him makes me uneasy for obvious reasons, but the addition of his altered appearance makes me question whether or not I’m looking at a human being.

“My sincere congratulations go out to the Peacekeepers who courageously took on the mission to rid the country of the menace that used to be the Mockingjay,” he says with an air of extreme serenity.

“The death of this misguided individual will surely turn the tide of the war. Who will the rebels follow, now that their ill-advised leader is dead?” The smugness has crept into his tone as he says it. I see the way the corner of his too large mouth wants to perk up. “And who did they rally behind? A mentally unstable girl from the slums of her district, whose only true talent was being able to shoot a bow. Someone who captured the nation’s attention through the bending of rules in the arena. By cheating. Someone who was not a mastermind at all, not even a great thinker. But who else would these rebels stand behind, when they have no real leader among them? She was necessary to their cause, like a moth to a flame. And now she-“

The stream of Snow’s words is cut off abruptly, replacing him with the face of someone I did not expect to see at all: Coin.

“Good evening, citizens. My name is Alma Coin, the head of the rebellion,” she starts. She takes over the broadcast seamlessly, using this airtime to talk about Katniss. It’s odd to hear Coin talk about her death while Katniss is very much alive next to me. Coin waxes poetic about Katniss and she even seems to be overcome by emotion when she ends with: "Dead or alive, Katniss Everdeen will remain the face of this rebellion. If ever you waver in your resolve, think of the Mockingjay, and in her you will find the strength you need to rid Panem of its oppressors."

“I had no idea how much I meant to her," Katniss says. Gale laughs, and I join the others in looking very confused. I don’t know the nature of Katniss’ relationship to Coin, but from the tone she used I can guess it wasn’t ever warm enough to warrant the outpouring of sympathy Katniss just received through the broadcast. I wonder briefly if Katniss and Coin have ever gotten along. Maybe they both needed each other in different ways.

The District 13 broadcast ends with a picture of Katniss, but she’s so heavily altered in the image that it takes me a few seconds to really recognize her. They’ve brushed out some her features, making her a smooth, glowing projection of the real girl. A symbol. Then suddenly Snow appears again, looking composed for someone who just had his show interrupted.

“Tomorrow morning, when we pull Katniss Everdeen's body from the ashes, we will see exactly who the Mockingjay is. A dead girl who could save no one, not even herself."

The seal is shown, Gem of Panem plays, and then the screen goes back to neutral. Just like that. I derive some pleasure from the thought that Snow might have been concerned about the rebels taking over his broadcast again.

"Except that you won't find her," Finnick says in the quiet of the room, still looking at the screen. He has a haunted look in his eye that I can’t quite place. But maybe Katniss’ eulogy reminded him of the fact that Annie now thinks he is dead, too. Communications with 13 must be difficult now that we’ve veered off onto a different path. And what he says is right: when they don’t recover any bodies except Boggs, they’ll realize their mistake. And our time as ghosts will be over.

"We can get a head start on them at least," Katniss says. She busies herself with the device they call the Holo and asks Jackson to teach her some things about how it functions. The Holo projects the image of the Capitol and it quickly becomes clear that we are absolutely surrounded by pods. The grid map lights up with them, dozens upon dozens lining the streets. An impossible feat if they’re planning to make it to Snow’s mansion.

"Any ideas?" Katniss asks. I see how tired she is, then chastise myself for noticing, then chastise myself for chastising myself. Being inside my mind is exhausting.

"Why don't we start by ruling out possibilities," Finnick offers. “The street is not a possibility."

"The rooftops are just as bad as the street," Leeg says. Something about seeing them hop from rooftop to rooftop spells disaster anyway.

"We still might have a chance to withdraw, go back the way we came," Homes says.

"But that would mean a failed mission,” Katniss says quickly. "It was never intended for all of us to go forward. You just had the misfortune to be with me."

"Well, that's a moot point. We're with you now. So, we can't stay put. We can't move up. We can't move laterally. I think that just leaves one option,” Jackson says.

"Underground," Gale says. Truth be told, I wouldn’t have thought of it. I see the tension in the group as they all assess the idea. But it seems to be the only viable option at this point. Unless they want to give themselves up to the Peacekeepers with bows tied around their necks.

Katniss manipulates the Holo to show underground streets, but the tangled map shows a variety of intersecting tunnels as well as clean lines of larger walkways. The pods seems to be much smaller in number, though. Gale, annoyingly, was correct. Katniss and Jackson discuss the layout of the apartment and conclude that on this floor there is a tube connecting the apartment building to the tunnels. Apparently, there is a maintenance shaft in the closet that they need to pass through to get to it.

"Okay, then. Let's make it look like we've never been here," Katniss says. I try to help by collecting some cans and following the others toward the trash chute. They flip pillows, wipe down surfaces and floors, then have a short but heated discussion about the forced lock on the front door.

I sit in mute silence as I watch them go about their mission. As much as the tension feels palpable, a kind of calm comes over me. They’ll be okay once they reach the underground. Out of sight, with a variety of options to make it to the center of the city. As the plan materialized in front of me, Homes’ words started to become less and less assured in my mind. I don’t want to live out of spite. The bright flickering of hope died with Katniss tossing the empty can of stew into the trash chute. All in all, the brief idea of being valuable enough to the squad to tag along vanished step by step until it felt ludicrous at best. Their earlier arguments feel so insignificant. In the face of being dead to the public, the reality of what’s happening should matter more to them than sparing my feelings or even arguing out of some misguided principles. But if I’m the only one willing to be honest about the situation, then so be it.

By the time Squad 451 is ready to go, I am ready to drive my point home. I sit back down on the blue sofa, crossing my arms.

"I'm not going.”

Chapter Text

“I'll either disclose your position or hurt someone else,” I argue, not budging from my spot on the sofa. The others are looking at me and my face becomes hot under their scrutiny.

"Snow's people will find you," Finnick says.

"Then leave me a pill. I'll only take it if I have to," I reply. The argument is solid enough. But instead of understanding, Jackson huffs and speaks up.

"That's not an option. Come along," she says with resolve, as if she expects me to jump up and salute her. Well, let this show once and for all that I’m not a soldier.

"Or you'll what? Shoot me?" I say.

"We'll knock you out and drag you with us," Homes says. "Which will both slow us down and endanger us." I can’t look him in the eye, anger bubbling just under the surface. Enough about spite. Why am I not allowed to make any kind of decision?

"Stop being noble! I don't care if I die!" I yell, looking at them in turn now, my eyes finally landing on Katniss, pleading.

"Katniss, please. Don't you see, I want to be out of this?" She’s frowning now, worrying her lip with her teeth. As if she’s contemplating what I’m asking of her. Doesn’t she see that it’s the only way? She’s not doing me any favors by keeping me alive, stringing me along just to have me potentially murder one of my allies again. We’re going into the sewers and who knows what might set me off? I never wanted to be here anyway. Ever since the plan came together, the pit in my chest has only grown larger. If she can’t depend on me, what am I to this squad? I stay still as she thinks, watch the miniscule shifts in her face. But I come up short trying to understand them. Another moment passes. She opens her mouth to speak, and it seems my pleading did me no good.

"We're wasting time. Are you coming voluntarily or do we knock you out?" she says. I groan quietly and drop my face in my hands. The cuffs hurt my teeth as I clang into them but the pain is necessary, jolting my awareness into the present with a sharp tap. I take a deep breath and remember more of Selene’s grounding technique. As I focus on the feeling of the luxurious plush carpet underneath my feet and the faint smell of tar in the air, the tears that would have come stay back. A minute passes, maybe two. No one moves or speaks. I raise my head again and stand up without a word.

If Katniss reasons that my death would be too merciful, then so be it. Maybe I should stop fighting the notion that I have any say in what happens to me.

"Should we free his hands?" Leeg asks, eyeing the redness on my wrists.

"No!" I growl, drawing my hands in close to my chest. They’d be completely insane to do so. I hide the shock of pain that travels up to my elbows.

"No. But I want the key,” Katniss says. Jackson hands it to her without ceremony, as if she’s glad to be rid of it. Katniss puts the key away in the pocket of her pants. She falters for a bit because I see her hand still, but she regains composure quickly.

Homes takes the lead as we make our way out of the apartment. Now that I have to consider myself part of the group again, the idea of going down to the underground of the Capitol brings with it an entirely new level of concern. None of us look at ease. As Homes opens the door to the maintenance shaft, a small discussion ensues about Castor and Pollux’s cameras. I can’t entirely follow the conversation in the passageway, but I see them drop the large camera shells on the ground and take out smaller, handheld cameras. If they had these on them the entire time, why haul around the larger ones as well? I suppose it would only makes sense to professionals.

Messalla stashes the camera shells into a nearby closet, since there’s no other way to dispose of them. I hear a few sighs from the squad, hear Katniss mutter something about a trail. But seeing Castor and Pollux unburdened by the heavy equipment immediately makes them look more ready to continue, even if Pollux is looking pale.

We form a line of people, holding any items that stick out next to us as we navigate the narrow and dark corridor that leads us to the next room. The tar on the bottom of my boots leaves the soles tacky and I have to work harder to lift my feet up, but they’re mercifully quiet. Within minutes, the front of the group is opening a door to the apartment where we need to be. There should be some kind of tube that acts as an access to the underground tunnels. Messalla starts explaining that this is the reason why no Capitol citizen wants to rent the center unit of an apartment building; because the tube is in the utility closet and you lose living space. I get lost by the frivolity of his claims until Finnick laughs a little and Messalla gets back to business. He opens the tube cover and wordlessly descends the steps. The notion of laughter is gone now that we’re standing at the edge of what comes next. When it’s my turn, the beckoning darkness does little to encourage me. At first I have to make sure my feet are steady enough on the rungs of the ladder, but there is a thin layer of rubber on each one that makes me feel a bit more sure on my feet. Then comes the issue of the cuffs. I keep my hands close together and find that I have just enough purchase to be able to switch hands as I descend. The metal clinks softly against the rungs in the silence but I don’t let it bother me. I deserve these.

Once all of us have made it down, we stand in the dim light of the underground corridor, waiting for someone to give instructions. The smell down here should not have come as a surprise: sewage, rot, and the tang of some chemical that supposedly keeps things clean. My lungs start to feel heavier with every breath, the air thick and stale. The group’s silence is broken by labored breathing and I become aware of Pollux, whose gasps are coming in quick and short. He reaches for Castor’s arm, pale as a sheet. The panic in his eyes. Every gasp is like a gunshot in my mind and I struggle to focus on anything else when Castor speaks up.

"My brother worked down here after he became an Avox," he explains. "Took five years before we were able to buy his way up to ground level. Didn't see the sun once." I look at Pollux, whose face betrays that he’s somewhere else in his mind. What kind of labor did they subject him to? Clean up, transport, worse? Was he the one who installed the pods that are threatening us now? At first this makes me feel hot all over, the idea that he was responsible for this predicament. But then I remember that it is never Pollux who can be blamed. Not after they cut out his tongue and took him away from his family to rot in subterranean tunnels. No, it wasn’t his fault he was left here. He’s a survivor. He deserves to know that he can still do something good. I turn to him.

"Well, then you just became our most valuable asset,” I say. At first I feel foolish, but then Castor laughs and even Pollux can be convinced to show a smile. I smile back in what I hope is an encouraging way and want to pat him on the shoulder, but then remember that doing so with handcuffs would take away from the tone of the moment. This exchange gets the party moving. I shoot Pollux another glance and he catches my eye. The nod he gives me says that he’s ok. I nod back.

Gale and Jackson flank me as we walk; an arrangement I can only encourage. Neither of them has to explain. If they see me go off again, they’ll be close enough to kill me before I can do any real damage. I keep my eyes on the ground, though, hoping it’ll stop me from seeing anything that will affect me without knowing it beforehand. My boots trudge along the wet cement floor. Specks of dirt and sewage cling to the black leather. I think I recognize the shape of a flower in one of the specks but by the next step it’s gone. With hunched shoulders, I follow the leaders.

Pollux and Castor communicate through a kind of sign language, which Castor then translates back to us. Turns out I was right in calling Pollux an asset; he explains how the tunnels are laid out in the same fashion as the streets above ground. The Transfer, as it’s called, is used as a way to transport goods around the Capitol without the citizens having to look upon their freight being hauled. The pods are only active at night to allow trade to happen during the day.

But as Pollux quickly shows us, there is much more to the Transfer than the simple lay-out it boasts: shafts, train tracks, even tiny passages. He alerts us to dangers along the way as we navigate the less neat part of the tunnels. He even points out difficult terrain because he remembered about my leg. I nod at him in thanks. I should ask him how to sign it, so I can do it properly.

The cameras would normally give our location and identity away immediately. But Pollux knows where they are, what angles they film from, and most importantly: where they are not installed. This makes the usage of the tubes and forgotten train tracks efficient. We walk for hours, even though there is no true way to keep track in this place. My legs start to cramp after a good while, followed by my lower back hurting. Sweat is pouring down my face and my neck, getting into my eyes. I breathe away images of a jungle at dusk until the sounds of our boots come back to me.

Without anything else to do, my mind starts wandering. There’s no time to play ‘real or not real’, so I push down any questions about my own life. Which turns my thoughts to those around me. Jackson, Leeg, Homes; I know so little about them that I can barely remember what their first names are. Did they even tell me? Messalla and Cressida feel like separate entities, too removed from the war and my world to consider fully. Katniss. Too dangerous to think about now. Which leaves me with the twins who are currently leading the way. I can’t say that I know either of them well, but between every new person I’ve met in this squad, they feel the most familiar to me. Ripped apart by circumstances, trying to think themselves out of an impossible situation. Finding each other again, only to end up in a war. How long did Pollux have between coming back to the surface and being here? The idea that he spent years without knowing if he would make it to the surface sours my mood so greatly that I barely notice when the group stops walking. I bump into Gale as he pulls up short and mutter an apology. He grunts.

Katniss checks the time on the Holo and says: “Say we rest?”

No one finds it in themselves to object. My leg is aching, shooting darts of pain up my thigh. Still, a ripple of unease makes its way through the group: first, the matter of the bodies. Second, the matter of finding a place to actually rest. Since there is little to do about the first point, the second is resolved instead. Pollux leads us to a small room off the walkway. The door makes no sound as we open it and step into the space. It must be some kind of machine room, since dials and levers fill the largest part of the walls. But the presence of the machines makes the room warm, and after the damp, humid feeling of the passages, the warm air is a welcome reprieve. Pollux communicates that our stop here can be four hours at the most. I think it must have something to do with guard rotations or maintenance workers coming to check on the dials. Either way, four hours sounds like plenty of time.

While we all find a place to claim, Jackson quickly works out a guard schedule. Since I’m the one who’s being guarded, my name is not called. Pollux and Leeg take the first watch while the others settle down. Katniss’ breathing steadies immediately after she lays down between Leeg and Gale. He and I make eye contact before he turns over on to his left and I look away. The look in his eyes is hard to read. Something tells me he might just have been my only supporter in leaving me behind in the apartment.

I lie on my back and look at the shifting dials, try to find some kind of method to the swaying of the arrows over the numbers. The pressure on my leg is minimized now that I’m lying down, but I don’t dare remove the prosthetic in case we need to get away fast. I slip in and out of consciousness for a while, waking up with a start every time my eyes focus on the dark ceiling above me. Then, when I remember where I am, my heart only settles a little. Leeg goes to bed at some point and I hear Jackson’s voice. She has a whispered conversation with Pollux but his clear sounds of dissent tell me that he won’t go to sleep. After that, I sleep until the next shift of guards wakes up.

I hear Katniss shift and my eyes fly open at the sound. Jackson is telling her to eat a can of some food, then tells her Pollux won’t sleep and to keep an eye on him. Katniss’ feet are right by my head, so I hear the drag of her boots as she sits up, grabs a can. The light from the Holo illuminates the ceiling and makes it look less threatening. Katniss ends up handing it off to Pollux. Without preamble, she addresses me. Somehow I’d forgotten she can see when I’m not sleeping. Maybe she even listened to my breathing, too.

"Have you eaten?" she asks. I feel her eyes on me. I shake my head but don’t say a word. What concern is it of her if I have? What use is it to feed the dead? I push the thought away when she leans over and hands me a can of something. She even goes to the length of opening it, but I see the grip she has on the metal lid. I sit up, read the label. The picture of the soup looks nothing like its contents, but I find it doesn’t really matter. I chug the soup to show her that I’ll eat, that I’ll play along if she insists I stay alive.

"Peeta, when you asked about what happened to Darius and Lavinia, and Boggs told you it was real, you said you thought so. Because there was nothing shiny about it. What did you mean?" Katniss asks. What a time to bring it up. Still, the question is understandable.

"Oh. I don't know exactly how to explain it," I start to say. "In the beginning, everything was just complete confusion. Now I can sort certain things out. I think there's a pattern emerging. The memories they altered with the tracker jacker venom have this strange quality about them. Like they're too intense or the images aren't stable. You remember what it was like when we were stung?" I ask her. She’s the only person in the room who could have a semblance of understanding.

"Trees shattered. There were giant colored butterflies. I fell in a pit of orange bubbles. Shiny orange bubbles."

"Right. But nothing about Darius or Lavinia was like that. I don't think they'd given me any venom yet," I say. The agonized screams and sickening scent of blood feels too real to be manufactured.

"Well, that's good, isn't it?" she says. "If you can separate the two, then you can figure out what's true." If only it were that simple.

"Yes. And if I could grow wings, I could fly. Only people can't grow wings," I say. Then I question the validity of my statement.

"Real or not real?"

"Real," Katniss says. "But people don't need wings to survive."

"Mockingjays do." I clear off the soup in one final gulp and hand the can back to Katniss.

"There's still time. You should sleep,” she says. I do as I’m told, too weary to resist anyway. Feigning sleep, my mind turns into itself over our conversation. Her questions about my shiny memories make me reconsider them in detail; which ones am I certain of? The shiny quality of her braid in the arena comes back in multiple memories, does that mean they were all fake? Did they really go to the length of changing every last one? The more I think about it, the more I can convince myself that this is fact. I should really ask someone about this; almost want to turn around and ask Katniss before I can overthink what I’m doing.

Then Katniss touches me.

Her hand slides through my hair, sweeping it away from my forehead as I lie down. My entire body goes rigid, a shot of cold shooting up my spine. I try to breathe through it, brace for the pain that is sure to come. But none does. Instead, she keeps using a gentleness when she touches my hair over and over, smoothing it back. There’s a part at the front that never quite stays the way you put it. The part of me that expects the pain quietens down until I am able to move again. Then, the careful cadence of her movement catches me off guard in a different way.

I haven’t been touched this gently since… since before. Since hazy nights on trains and warm beds and the scent of pine trees and woodsmoke in her hair. I close my eyes and allow myself to feel what it is I need to feel. Anguish. Hurt. Security. Confusion.

Hope.

That sense I first got back in 13. It’s come and gone in the past few weeks along with the setbacks and triumphs of my recovery. Yet here it is again. Because Katniss is stroking my hair and it should hurt, shouldn’t it? It should send me into a frenzy. But instead it’s making everything go quiet. There is only her and the warmth in my chest, and it’s no coincidence that the two should be here at the same time. If my squad had let me, I would be dead by now. I would have swallowed that nightlock pill without a second thought from the moment they left the apartment. But Katniss had the final say in withholding that choice from me. A shiny memory surfaces. A gloomy cave, sickening berries, the lull of drug-induced sleep. Sweat beads on my forehead as I scrunch my eyes closed tighter. I focus on the feeling of Katniss’ fingers and the sounds of the steady whir of machinery around me. The memory changes. I wake up. No longer feverish and delirious. Katniss beside me, not having killed me despite me already being dead asleep. There is nothing shiny about it.

My next question comes out as a whisper.

"You're still trying to protect me. Real or not real.”

"Real," she says.

The magnitude of this statement knocks the breath out of my lungs. I don’t expect her to elaborate, until she says: "Because that's what you and I do. Protect each other."

After all this time and all that’s happened? The unguarded way in which she speaks makes me put my guard down, too. Because if my failing memory still serves me at all, then I feel strongly that this is something true. Not fabricated. Not tainted by venom or manipulation. Real. Katniss and I protect each other.

I settle into a sleeping position and find my eyes growing heavy. I fall asleep thinking about her.

I dream about her, too.

We are in an impossibly luxurious train and Katniss has just come into my room to ask me to share my bed with her. Her hair looks mussed, as if she’s been tossing and turning for a while in her own bed. I oblige, pushing back the blankets to give her space. She lies down beside me and sinks into the mattress, taking my arms and wrapping them around herself. Her breathing slows down and I wrap myself around her, falling asleep with my face buried in her hair.

A soft knock on the door rouses me from sleep. Katniss is still dreaming; the knocking seemed to have only woken me up. I try not to stir too much as I leave Katniss in my bed, try to make it out to see who is on the other side. I pull up short when the knocking returns, followed by a soft scraping sound. Then the scraping sound becomes louder until the knocking stops and all I hear is what seems like metal upon the door, more and more urgent as time passes.

“Katniss.” The exaggerated pronunciation of her name, drawn out like a hiss, makes my blood run cold.

“Katniss.” It comes again, more insistent, louder, multiplied. I step away from the door, careful not to trip over my own feet. The scraping becomes more aggressive. The hissing becomes more volatile. I can’t seem to remember if I’ve locked the door, then remember Katniss was the one who closed it. But if whatever is beyond the door wanted to, they would have gotten in already. Why didn’t they?

I turn on my heel as Katniss sleeps on, a strand of hair concealing part of her face. I try to get her attention as the sounds of the hissing and the scratching and the pounding in my ears grows louder.

“Katniss,” I say. My voice won’t come out louder than a whisper and I strain to talk, to scream. I claw at my throat, feel the sting as my nails run gashes into my skin.

“Katniss!” I say again. Barely a sound escapes.

When I try to say her name for the third time, the door to the room opens.

Chapter Text

“Katniss!” I scream, finally producing enough sound to cut through the scraping of claws. In my frenzy, I tried to run toward her, but am frozen to the ground as the snarls and yips catch up on me. I don’t dare to turn around and face them. Their presence in the room has revealed what I should have known.

“-niss!” I startle awake with a gasp of her name, sitting up straight. I was dreaming, but I know I didn’t dream up the mutts. They’re coming for her. Snow sent them to find her somehow and they did. They must have picked up her scent in the sewers after they failed to find the remains of her in the torn down apartment. After the Peacekeepers failed to kill her, he sent his mutts to do the dirty work.

"Katniss!" I find her face in the group and lock eyes with her, only seeing her features as if I’m still dreaming and there should be a lock of hair on her face.

"Katniss! Get out of here!" I yell. She frowns as if my words aren’t clear, as if she even has the time to think before running.

"Why? What's making that sound?" she asks.

"I don't know. Only that it has to kill you," I say quickly. She’s still standing there and only now do I see the way she is holding her bow; pointed at me. I don’t even have time to form the thought that she would kill me for real this time, and scream: "Run! Get out! Go!"

She considers this for another agonizing moment until she seems to decide that what I’m saying holds merit. I want to push her, shove her into moving. She just points her bow down, relaxes the bowstring. Scans the faces of those around us. Everyone is standing at attention.

"Whatever it is, it's after me. It might be a good time to split up,” she says. I push down the whine that’s making its way up my throat.

"But we're your guard," Jackson says.

"And your crew," Cressida joins in.

"I'm not leaving you," Gale says resolutely. She’s not getting a choice in the matter, just like when they wouldn’t let me kill myself.

“Finnick, hand one of your guns to Castor,” Katniss says. He does as he’s told while Homes procures my useless gun. He loads it with a real cartridge and upon Katniss’ instruction, hands it to Pollux.

Messalla and Cressida each receive a gun from Gale and Katniss, who tighten the grip on their bows. This is taking too long entirely. They show how to point and shoot, then move on to the next issue: me. It’s obvious that I’m the only one going out into the sewers unarmed. Everyone agrees on this with a look. I don’t see any reason to object, eager to finally get Katniss away from here. I push myself up from the ground and wait until someone opens the door. I feel the hit of the heavy, dank air as I step out from the relative comfort of the machine room and into the sewer again. The group collects just outside of the door to wait for everyone to make it out. The gloom makes it difficult to tell, but somehow there’s an agreement on all of us being present.

We move on at a steady pace. The relief of moving is overshadowed immediately by the threat of what lurks in these tunnels. Mutts are lethal and efficient. Intent on the one thing they’re made for. The fabricated memory of encountering them in my sleep is enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I keep my eyes on Katniss as much as I can, switching between the back of her head and the pounding footfalls of my boots, trying to make sure I have her in my sight.

Our scent is the only thing stopping us from making a quick escape. The mutts’ hissing sounds louder in the tunnels outside of the machine room, but at least there’s an indication of where they’re coming from. As Katniss and Pollux they take up the lead together now, I try not to think about what it means that those mutts and I shared the same thoughts. It’s no use. A chill goes down my spine at the thought that Snow has reduced me to one – soulless, unrecognizable – forever. With how much of myself I’ve had to recover so far, I can’t bear to think about how much else he would have taken from me. I try to clear my head and focus on my footsteps, trying to make myself as silent as possible, but Snow’s face is now front and center in my mind and I feel myself slipping, losing the precarious grasp on my reality. My arms move out of their own accord and I wince as I pull on the handcuffs. The shooting pain followed by a slight throbbing in both of my wrists brings me right back to where I am: running, sweating through my clothes, keeping nausea at bay, focused on Katniss’ braid as she runs before me.

I feel our pace increasing. Pollux and Katniss pick up speed as we hear the insistent hissing at a steady distance behind us. The fact that they’re not falling behind must be the reason why there’s an even more urgent energy in their steps. Despite the burning in my lungs, I am relieved to see everyone take the threat for what it is. Katniss tells us where to go before each intersection and curve so we’re sure to follow. I hear some grunts from my squad, the occasional metallic clang of a weapon hitting a pipe or a wall. Our breathing becomes more ragged, especially mine. I accidentally step in a puddle, creating a splashing sound that makes everyone wince. I don’t dare apologize since it would only cause more trouble and purse my lips.

The running goes on for a while, with Katniss still issuing commands now and then. I lose track of where we are, how much distance we’ve covered; the only things that stand out are when we cross a seemingly abandoned part of an underground train track. My head is starting to feel light from the exercise, the fear. I don’t dare ask anyone for water to help with the sandy dryness of my mouth. The panting isn’t helping that, either. Maybe Pollux knows of another room close by, stashed out of the way of the mutts. It would be nice to rest my aching leg for a minute in some measure of safety.

Then the screaming starts.

Horrible, animalistic sounds reverberate through the tunnels. Unintelligible wails, as if someone is trying to plead but they can’t speak. We pull up short.

"Avoxes," I pant to the group, who all look bewildered. "That's what Darius sounded like when they tortured him." I suppress the images of the memory.

"The mutts must have found them," Cressida says.

"So they're not just after Katniss," Leeg adds.

"They'll probably kill anyone. It's just that they won't stop until they get to her," Gale says. This simple fact sends a silent wave of shock through the group. Katniss’ expression is absolutely clear right now: the stricken look of guilt is unconcealable.

"Let me go on alone. Lead them off. I'll transfer the Holo to Jackson. The rest of you can finish the mission,” she says, not looking at anyone in particular, as if she’s seeing innocent people die in her mind’s eye.

"No one's going to agree to that!" Jackson hisses.

"We're wasting time!" Finnick says, trying to argue. I turn away from the group. The screaming has stopped and my heartbeat picks up as the chorus of ominous voices starts up again.

“Listen,” I say. The group stops talking at once. We all hear them hiss her name again, but this time it’s below us as well. Pollux and Katniss share a look, say something about lower levels, then quickly agree they are no longer an option. She nudges Pollux and we take off running once again, stopping at the entrance door to the lower level. As Katniss pulls out the Holo, my nose picks up the scent right when hers does, too. She starts gagging at once.

“Masks on!” Jackson barks. But this is no poison. This is Snow reminding us that we’re in his territory. The scent of roses sticks itself firmly in my throat, my nose, my mouth. Choking me on the memory of his inhuman eyes, their expression filled with the certainty that he still has the upper hand.

My wrists dig into the handcuffs hard while Katniss vomits. The sickening smell of bile cuts through the scent and I blink a few times before I recognize where we are. I’m not sure how long I was gone just then. Katniss stands up again and, trembling, moves away from the door to the stairs, right into a brighter corridor of the Transfer. It’s empty for now, but there’s a tingling sensation on my back that tells me we’re quickly losing distance to what is hunting us.

Katniss shoots an arrow at a pod, causing an explosion that makes some kind of rat fall out of a net.

“Stay with me! There’s a false step ahead!” she orders. We do as we’re told, following her as we hurry along to the next part of the Transfer. I make up the rear of the squad, with only Messalla behind me. I steal a glance back when I stop hearing his footfalls, then stop running altogether. I turn around fully and see Gale fire two arrows in quick succession from over my shoulder. But the golden light that shines down on Messalla has him in its grip. I faintly hear someone call out Katniss’ name, but it wasn’t a mutt. I break my eyes away from Messalla as the flesh starts to melt off of his bones, his face a mask of a scream. Another life lost. I yank on the handcuffs over and over as I turn around to face the squad, who all seem transfixed by the scene. What are they doing? I feel the mutts’ presence all around us now, closing in, choking us out.

“Can’t help him! Can’t!” I yell, pushing first Gale, then Cressida, then the others forward. The tingling feeling on my back is only getting worse. I blink back spots in my vision, tug on the cuffs again, and finally get everyone moving. As long as I can hold on my sanity long enough to get them out, I’ll have done something worthwhile at last.

The group picks up the pace so fast that Katniss almost runs headfirst into a spray of gunfire at the next intersection. I spot the Peacekeepers at the far end of the underground street, blocking us in. At once, the soldiers of the group get into a stance made for fighting back. I watch as Katniss, Finnick, Leeg, Homes, Jackson and Gale open fire against the Peacekeepers. I stand back with Castor, Pollux and Cressida, covering my ears and trying to hold on to consciousness as I watch the red bloom on the Peacekeepers’ uniforms, see them dropping down by the dozen. The reverberation of the guns makes my heart stutter. The nauseating smell of carnage is already filling up the Transfer as the feeling of being hunted explodes into a shock of sheer panic.

Because suddenly the mutts are pouring in from where the rose scent was the most cloying, climbing over Peacekeepers – dead and alive – crawling over their bodies on their hind legs. They tear off their heads as if to make sure they leave no one to tell the tale afterwards. I see them and see death personified: scaled, long tails, reptilian eyes and tongues that seem to taste the air for us. For her.

When they’ve finished off the Peacekeepers, they fall forward to make use of their front legs, gaining momentum in seconds. I lock eyes with one and feel a jolt of recognition. Of what, I don’t know.

"This way!" Katniss shouts at us, leading us past the false step pod. Once she’s made sure we’re all behind it, she fires into it, causing an enormous gash to appear in the street. Out of it comes what looks like a meat grinder: huge metal teeth that turn in both directions at a dizzying speed. The entire intersection is covered, the roar of the blades almost drowning out the incessant hissing. Almost.

"Forget the mission. What's the quickest way aboveground?" Katniss yells over the mayhem. Pollux takes the lead but I make the mistake of looking back toward the grinder.

Jackson and Leeg take their stance, weapons up, and start firing at the mutts that are jumping over the blades. They don’t look back.

Sick to my stomach, I lose the ability to speak for fear of vomiting or losing consciousness. The cuffs still work to keep me where I am, but I feel their grasp on my sanity lowering with every monstrosity we encounter. Pollux opens a door that leads to a small pipe. We crawl through, then come out into what can only be the main sewer line. A small ledge stops us from dropping into a toxic blend of human and chemical waste, mixed with all sorts of garbage. The fumes that rise up are making my eyes water. I can only hope my footing is sure enough.

Pollux continues to guide us as we move along the ledge and past the slow moving stream. There’s a narrow bridge that we need to cross before we arrive at a nondescript ladder in an alcove. Pollux points up. That’s it. The way out somehow feels too unremarkable.

Katniss sizes us up, then realizes what I already saw.

"Wait! Where are Jackson and Leeg One?"

"They stayed at the Grinder to hold the mutts back," Homes replies.

Katniss screams and lunges herself toward the bridge, where Homes intercepts her and yanks her back to where we stand. The hissing is growing louder again. I turn toward the way we came.

"Don't waste their lives, Katniss. It's too late for them. Look!" Sure enough, the mutts have made their way out of the pipe. Leeg and Jackson are dead.

“Stand back!” Gale shouts. He points an arrow at the bridge’s opposite bank. It explodes with great power, chunks of it falling into the sewage right when the mutts are reaching it. They’re absolutely covered in blood and other gore now. “Katniss! Katniss! Katniss!” Their hissing sounds frantic, being so close to their true prey. The soulless look in their eyes makes me take a step back. They’re killing each other to get to her now, crawling and pushing each other away, even down into the sewage. The gunfire explodes in my ears as everyone starts shooting. Gale and Katniss use arrow after arrow, taking down a pitiful fraction of mutts. These are no natural creatures. Surely the average weapon couldn’t destroy them.

The cloying scent of the roses sticks in my nostrils, overpowering even the smell of blood and toxic waste. It only clicks for me now that it’s the mutts who emit this scent, taking it with them as they stalk their quarry. Without a doubt, Snow had these designed specifically to torture Katniss one final time before he had his reptiles sink their claws into her. Like when he designed them to resemble fallen tributes. I wouldn’t put it past him to have tried out several iterations of mutts in his arenas to learn which ones had the biggest effect.

“Go, Katniss! Go!” I scream at the top of my lungs, looking around as the others start to realize this is a useless fight. They stop firing but Katniss continues, not hearing the shouts and commands that are the only way we’ll make it out of here. She freezes then, mouth open in shock. If she doesn’t move soon, the mutts will find their target at last. The thought of losing Katniss in this forsaken sewer, in the dark, turns my entire body cold.

Finnick and I make eye contact. He gives me the faintest nod of his head. He acts at once, lifting Katniss up from behind and depositing her right onto the ladder, ordering her to climb. Pollux is already going. I follow Katniss as her hands grasp the rungs and she starts to move, hear Cressida come up behind me. No sign of Finnick, but I figure he’ll follow once the closest mutt is down.

We climb until the rose scent wavers a little and reach a platform between the first and second ladder. Then another. The silence is complete as Cressida climbs the last rung, with Katniss pulling on her arm as if she’s hoping she might yank the others up as well.

But no one comes.

Katniss is going down at once until I hear Gale’s voice and they both climb up. Katniss hauls him to his feet once he’s almost at the top, peering down into the dark shaft, looking for the others. A pit lodges itself firmly into my stomach, dragging my limbs down with it.

“No,” Gale says simply. He’s bleeding. A large wound is gushing blood from his neck. Not a major artery, but a large enough wound that he’ll need help soon. He barely seems to notice the wound, though, as he looks at Katniss, his uniform torn to shreds.

A scream cuts through the silence. Is it Homes or Finnick? Where is Castor?

“Someone’s still alive,” Katniss says.

“No, Katniss, they’re not coming,” Gale says. “Only the mutts are.”

She takes Cressida’s gun and shines the light down the shaft. I hear the screaming continue as the person down below seems to see the light. She stands there transfixed for a few seconds. Is she going to pass out? But no. She takes down the gun and instead procures the Holo. Her voice is strained as she says: “Nightlock. Nightlock. Nightlock.” Then lets it drop straight down. We push ourselves against the wall as an explosion rocks the metal platform, sending up a waft of heat and smoke.

It sends body parts up, too. Wet pieces of reptilian skin and who knows what else cover every part of me, no matter how much I try to shield my face. The fallout of the explosion seems to last minutes, but I can’t know for sure. All that goes through my mind is his face. Did Finnick really just die? The last thing he ever did was protect Katniss. He protected me, too, by choosing to stay behind and fight a battle he knew he would lose. I didn’t know exactly what he was communicating when he nodded, but I know it now. Then I see him again in a different place, when he handed me a piece of rope and told me to hold onto it. Just because he was kind. Just because he recognized my pain even if he wasn’t able to understand it fully. If I had known the rope would outlive him, I’d never have accepted it in the first place. I’d never have accepted me outliving him. I was supposed to die!

An urge to scream at the top of my lungs fights its way up but I quench it by biting down on my tongue. The sharp taste of blood fills my mouth at once. No good. The pain is no good anymore. I yank on the cuffs again and again as the others around me start standing up; the slight rocking of the platform makes that clear. But I’m frozen, crouched, making myself invisible. Someone slams something; Pollux locks the cover of the pipe closed over the opening, confining Finnick, Homes, Messalla, Jackson, Leeg, Castor to the darkness forever. No funerals. No remembrance. Just like Mitchell.

A silent sob racks my body as I think about his face contorted in rage and fear. His broken body caught in the net. Then Jackson and Leeg staying behind, Finnick, Castor and Homes fighting a losing battle, watching us escape. Living with the knowledge that they would never see anyone they loved again. And for what?

Stupid, useless, dangerous, volatile, hopeless, careless mutt! No good to anyone! You couldn’t even kill Katniss when you had the chance!

I start to shake my head no, to stop the voice, but it’s no use. No use at all to pretend any longer that I am not past the point of saving.

"Peeta," her voice comes to me from far away, too far. I ignore her.

“Peeta?” Closer she comes. Her hands find mine and she pulls them away from my face. Bits of flesh fall to the ground with wet squelches. My eyes are blurry, ears ringing. Skull pounding and the pain is coming.

“Leave me,” I whisper. “I can’t hang on.”

“Yes. You can!” she says. I shake my head at her insistence to protect me. Even now, when she should be mourning the people who actually saved her life.

“I’m losing it. I’ll go mad. Like them,” I say. I nod my head at the pipe cover. Didn’t this attack prove it?

Snow made me believe the girl in front of me is one. But all I see is someone desperate to keep the others alive. She would have stayed behind if Finnick hadn’t put her on that ladder, putting her life before his. She is no mutt.

I want to scream at her, say mean things that will finally make her leave me behind, lose hope forever. So I can finally swallow one of those nightlock pills and do the only good thing I still can: die.

Dark splotches are starting to block my vision. Expecting another attack, I close my eyes. My wrists are now bound by her hands and I strain against them as I lose consciousness, sanity, it doesn’t matter anymore. Let me suffer. Let my heart stop. Let-

Pressure.

Soft, warm pressure.

I open my eyes. Katniss’s face is close to mine, closer than I expected. I can see her individual eyelashes, but her eyes are closed. With a start, I realize she’s kissing me. Her lips on mine become a current of electricity. I start to tremble and the broken part of me protests. I shudder violently, the mutt in me begging for this to stop, to mistrust, to maim. She doesn’t relent. Instead, her hands move up my wrists to hold mine properly. The added point of contact is making my head spin. Gentle pressure on my palms, my fingertips. A warm, crashing wave of contentment and ease. The mutt quietens, drowned out by the wild beat of my heart. In my mind’s eye, I see a night in a cave. The flash of cameras.

A beach at dusk.

Memories start surfacing, morphing, turning her back and forth into human, monster, enemy, ally, lover, stranger. Shiny and dull, resplendent and menacing. But the warmth of her is constant.

When she moves away, I find myself gasping for air.

"Don't let him take you from me,” she says. Her voice distorts, a snarl on her lips as I push back against the visions of her poisoning me, pointing arrows at me, leaving me to die.

"No. I don't want to..." I plead. She won’t let go of my hands. The touch of her scalds me now, unbearable. To be close is to be in pain.

"Stay with me."

Her face in sharp contrast. The ringing in my ears stops, eyes focused only on her gaze. I search it now for those words, because I remember them. The visions and memories swirl in my mind until they settle into one clear image of that night. Words said in privacy, because we could, because they were real. My reply comes without hesitation.

“Always,” I murmur, echoing the word that I uttered so many nights ago. The surety that no matter what, Katniss and I would be there for each other. In whatever way that fits. Something in Katniss’ eyes lights up when I say it. She’d hoped I would remember. The look on her face makes something flutter in my chest. I take a deep, shaky breath and assess where I am. Katniss helps me up, still holding my hands until she confirms that I can stand up by myself. The burn from seconds ago transforms back into a warmth that I don’t want to leave. When she lets go, I feel rattled. Untethered.

But somehow, clearer than I’ve felt in days.

"How far to the street?" Katniss asks Pollux. The gentleness of her tone is gone. Pollux gestures by pointing his index finger up and Katniss nods.

I follow her up the stairs behind Gale, whose bow will be more useful in case a squad of Peacekeepers awaits us above ground. His neck has been bandaged haphazardly. A dark stain already shows the bleeding hasn’t stopped.

I’ve just climbed the last rung of the ladder when the door to the utility room we’re in opens.

Instead of Peacekeepers, a singular woman steps into the room.

Her call for help is cut off when Katniss shoots an arrow straight at her heart.

Chapter Text

The woman’s face is frozen in a scream. Her knees buckle, the birds on her nightrobe turning red before she collapses forward into the carpet. Her magenta hair covers her face, her neck at an awkward angle. She was dead before she hit the ground. I wish I had looked away.

Silence descends over what’s left of the squad. At first I think they’re stunned, but then they begin to move, stepping over the dead woman and into the rest of the apartment. I close the door behind me and lean against it. Cling to the handcuffs before I can follow the others, who do a much better job of moving on. One more death to add to this day.

The apartment appears to be empty. The others search every room for another occupant but find no one. The woman’s cry for help might have just been a reflex. No one outside has heard her either, because none of the neighbors are at the door. Maybe they all left and she was the last to evacuate.

They regroup in the living room of the luxurious apartment, getting sewage and blood on the floor. I join them after pulling myself away from the door. The sight of the carnage makes me lose focus again and I find the nearest sofa to drop myself on to. When that proves useless, I grab the nearest pillow, biting down on  it to stop myself screaming. Or crying. In fairness, both feel like the only correct response. I see the blood-specked floor, I hear my own labored breaths, and I feel the strange texture of the pillow on my tongue. Additionally, my wrists have started bleeding but I barely notice the wetness as the blood trickles down my arms. It’s only when I stop that I feel the inside of my sleeves sticking to my forearms and I have to suppress the urge to gag, which sets me off again.

The others are talking but their voices blur into a mess of sound. I’m sure I’ll be informed whenever they see fit to do so.

Katniss, Cressida and Gale leave the room. I only notice this because the voices stop and the only other sound is Pollux weeping against the mantle of an ornate fireplace. Without Castor by his side, he looks untethered. I lower the pillow and take another deep breath. The soreness of my wrists helps ground me as I once again try to name three things I can see and three things I can hear. Carpets, ornate chandelier, pillow. Sobs, ragged breaths, and the opening and closing of doors. The stumbling further along the hallway suggests that the others are scavenging for something.

By the time they call for us, Pollux has tired himself out and sits despondently on the sofa along the other end. There’s nothing I can say that will make him feel any better, so I decide to say nothing. Meet his gaze because I don’t want him to feel alone, even if his brother lies dead underneath him. I stand up and blink away stars. Another deep breath helps to clear my vision. I wait for Pollux to stand up as well before I walk in the direction of Katniss’ voice.

The bedroom they’ve raided is littered with colorful clothes, wigs, cloaks and make-up of all kinds. No one explains the idea. I guess they don’t need to. Or they somehow believe I heard them discuss anything as I sat on that sofa. While the sight of these items doesn’t make me optimistic, it’s better than staying holed up in this apartment. The selection of clothing, however, feels garish in light of the circumstances. But maybe that makes it work.

Katniss eyes me, then looks down at my wrists. The blood has congealed a little bit, but red streaks still appear out of the open wounds. She starts digging into her pants pocket but I turn away from her, knowing she’s about to produce the key.

"No. Don't. They help hold me together,” I say.

"You might need your hands," Gale says.

"When I feel myself slipping, I dig my wrists into them, and the pain helps me focus," I explain. No one protests this.

I pick out clothes from the pile, put them on without much thought. The suggestion is made to tie our boots around our necks, conceal them under a cloak, and put on civilian shoes instead. I find a pair of yellow slippers that fit well enough. My fur lined cloak hides the handcuffs if I keep my hands down. The cloak has a hood that I can pull up, but I need to do so before I leave this apartment or else the cuffs are on full display.

Next is our faces. All of us have been in the public eye to some degree, so getting recognized by Capitol citizens would be a disaster. We put on makeup, smear thick layers of colored creams over our cheeks and eyelids, put on lipstick. Cressida wraps a scarf over my mouth, then does the same to Katniss. Without looking in the mirror, I know that the absurdity of our costumes will blend right in on the streets. Before we leave, we put food and first aid supplies in any pocket that can hold it. Weapons are stashed under the cloaks. Then we’re at the front door.

My heart starts hammering at the idea of keeping it together out there all by myself. Drawing attention to the squad would be a death sentence, so there is no room for me to slip. I pinch the soft parts of my hands and hope that will be enough.

"Stay together," Katniss orders. She opens the door and then we’re there, surrounded. Snow is starting to fall and I wonder if my slippers will provide me with enough grip on the pavement stones. But no use turning back now. On all sides, people in equally garish fashion are walking with purpose. I don’t dare make eye contact with anyone, but the snowflakes that land on my cheeks provide small, stinging reminders of where I am, so I dare to turn my head up sideways from time to time. As we mingle with the citizens, it seems that all of them are talking about Katniss and the war. I hear someone blame her for all of it. I grit my teeth and pull on the cuffs. The sting on my wrists tells me the wounds have reopened. Fresh blood oozes down my wrists. I wipe my hands on the inside of the cloak and keep it closed.

We pass a block of apartments, following the current of people toward the center of the Capitol. When we turn a corner, dozens of Peacekeepers march right at us. My breath halts but then Pollux pulls me aside and they pass us by without a second glance. The other citizens also stop to let them through, the atmosphere in the crowd grim. We stand still until the crowd starts moving again. From just this moment, the cold has started to seep through the layers of clothing.

After another short while of walking, sirens start blaring through the streets. I try to cover my ears, then remember about the cuffs. I drop my hands and pinch myself instead. Through the window of an apartment, a news report is showing pictures of our squad. Castor and Finnick are the only faces they have identified yet, it seems. Seeing Finnick’s face is making my head hurt and I have to look away.

"Cressida?" Katniss says. I turn to look at her.

"There's one place. It's not ideal. But we can try it," Cressida replies. I don’t know what they’ve been talking about, but just follow when Cressida sets off and guides us through the residential area and through a gate into a private garden. At the end of the garden is a smaller gate that comes out into a narrow street between the avenues that make up the city center. Dark storefronts pop up one after another as we continue walking. I eye the shop signs; used furniture, cheap jewelry, discounted wigs. Cressida starts talking very loudly, which startles me at first. The few people we pass barely glance at us as she raves about fur underwear. With a flourish, she stops us at another unassuming storefront. The mannequins in the window are all wearing iterations of fur undergarments, one more garish than the other.

Cressida must have led us to a safe location now that they’ve started searching the sewers for our bodies.

She pushes open the front door and a little bell chimes. The inside of the store is dim to the point of barely seeing where you are. The air smells stale. The walls are lined with racks full of fur clothes. I brush some as I walk past and have to hold a sneeze.

We’re alone in here, which is good. I finally lift up my hand to wipe at the sweat that beads on my forehead despite the cold outside. The scent of my own blood makes me pull it away again. Cressida leads us to the back of the shop. We all follow closely and I try not to knock over any merchandise on the way, catch the hem of my cloak before it can take a pile of gloves with it.

The owner of the shop turns out to be someone Cressida knows well, because she calls her by her name when we reach the counter at which she sits. At first, the owner doesn’t say anything. Then Cressida pulls off her wig in one swift movement and the atmosphere in the shop changes.

“Tigris, we need your help,” she says. I get a look at Tigris and try not to react when I do. My wrists bite into the cuffs again to make sure I don’t hallucinate the person that sits before us. She’s a cat. Or rather, the closest a human being could become to being one. She has whiskers on her face and stripes covering her entire body, and the fur lining of her clothes completes the look. Even her eyes have a feline quality, as if they’ve been stretched to accommodate the shape. She looks familiar despite hailing from the Capitol.

"Plutarch said you could be trusted," Cressida adds onto her greeting when Tigris doesn’t respond right away. Even with her own extreme appearance, we must look like a band of strange birds in front of her. Katniss starts taking off her disguise and this seems to confirm Tigris’ suspicions.

A low growl comes out of her mouth. She stands up from the stool in one fluid movement and goes to the back. Within seconds, her hand appears from behind the wall to beckon us to come further. I see Katniss tense. Cressida gives her a look that I don’t understand. But then Katniss is moving along, pushing a rack of fur clothes out of the way to make space for all of us to follow her.

In the cramped space of the back room, it takes me a second to place what Tigris has done. She’s gesturing down and then I see it: a small opening in the wall, right above the floor. Inside are gloomy steps that lead down. A hideaway, then. I try not to think about the moment the panel will close over the opening again, locking us in. At least I won’t be alone in there.

"Did Snow ban you from the Games?" Katniss asks Tigris. Her tail – which I now realize she has – flicks. I remember now that she used to be a stylist.

"Because I'm going to kill him, you know." This gets a smile out of her. Then Katniss is off, crawling through the opening and down into what must originally be a cellar of some kind. A light turns on right when I enter, easing the anxiety that’s started to clasp itself around my heart. When I make it down the steps, I see the cellar for what it is. Small and wide, a ceiling just high enough to stand in without having to crouch. One lightbulb on the ceiling and one way in and out. The air is damp and stale. Furs are lying in a heap on the floor. I hear the panel close behind me, the shuffle of wheels. It must be the clothing rack Katniss pushed aside earlier. Tigris has made us disappear. I wonder what her stake is in this war.

The unease of the place is drowned out by a groan from Gale. Only he’s trying to suppress it so it comes out as a gasp, but I see him clutch at the wound on his neck. Pollux and Cressida are moving pelts into a makeshift bed while Katniss is supporting Gale, helping him sink down to the floor. She takes off his weapons once he’s sitting down, then lies him on his back.

I don’t watch when Cressida takes off the bandage. The smell of blood is enough to turn my stomach as it is. My fingernails dig into my palms and I watch as Katniss uses the faucet in a corner of the cellar to get some water. Then I wrap the cloak around my head a little tighter when I hear her mutter things about sutures and stitches. Gale doesn’t make a sound while Katniss attends to him, so at least there’s that. Pollux is making another bed while Katniss finishes up, and when he’s done he catches my eye and gestures that it’s mine. I nod in thanks.

"You can rest now. It's safe here," Katniss says to Gale. As I make my way to my new bed, I dare a glance at him. The wound is bandaged and Gale is already fast asleep. Cressida and Pollux are busy making the leftover beds. Then Katniss approaches me.

“Let me look at your wrists,” she says, pointing at them in case I forgot what wrists are. I offer them up without protest and watch as she rinses the wounds carefully. Her touches are gentle, as if she thinks I might lash out. Every point of contact shoots darts down my spine. I try not to let it show, the effect she has on me. She puts some kind of ointment on them, and then bandages them underneath the cuffs. She has just enough leeway to move them out of the wounds and up my arms a little. I’m grateful she doesn’t offer to take them off again.

"You've got to keep them clean, otherwise the infection could spread and--" she starts to say.

"I know what blood poisoning is, Katniss. Even if my mother isn't a healer,” I say, almost wanting to roll my eyes. Then I catch myself and stop. I’ve said these words before. The memory forms slowly, too slow to conjure it properly. Katniss has gone still, her eyes unfocused. When she next speaks, it’s as if she’s in my head.

"You said that same thing to me in the first Hunger Games. Real or not real?" she asks.

“Real,” I say without hesitation. “And you risked your life getting the medicine that saved me?”

“Real. You were the reason I was alive to do it,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Was I?” I say, confused now. Didn’t she try to kill me? No, that’s not right. So I saved her? What part was that? Who did I save her from? Flashes of faces pass by, a tall boy, a blond girl with a mean shimmer in her eye. I lose sense of where I am and yank on the cuffs, bringing me back, away from the ghosts. When my eyes focus on her again, it’s like they took the last bit of strength I had left. Living in my own mind is exhausting.

“I’m so tired, Katniss.”

“Go to sleep,” she says. Part of me wants to sink down into the furs and lose consciousness, but then another part of me is alarmed at the idea. The edge of the memory is still there, right out of sight but too close for comfort. What if I fall asleep and lose it? Or what if I try to kill someone because it distorts into a shiny false memory? No, I can’t risk it.

“You have to restrain me,” I tell her. At first Katniss objects, but I insist that it’s best this way. Never mind discomfort; my rest won’t be more important than the others’ safety. So she removes one cuff and loops it around one of the concrete beams that supports the stairs. When she recuffs me, I have limited movement and my hands have to rest above my head if I want to lie down. But when I do, sleep comes immediately.

Chapter Text

My sleep is uninterrupted. No dreams, no nightmares. No mutts warning me, taunting me with our shared consciousness. Instead, the first inhale when I wake up is free and relaxed. I should almost forget where I am, but then the cuffs above my head remind me. Pins and needles numb my arms all the way to my shoulders. The second inhale fills my nose with stale air and the faint tang of blood. It hurts to move, so I don’t. I wish I’d had a nightmare just so waking up wouldn’t be so different.

Everyone is already awake by the time I open my eyes. I don’t think they bothered with a guard schedule for me anymore, since all of them look like they just woke up. Or maybe seeing me chained to the post put them at ease. Gale is pale even in the fluorescent lights, but he’s eating. The bandage looks clean enough. A pile of cans and medical supplies is stacked in the middle of the cellar, making for a temporary kitchen and sick bay. Pollux is staring at the floor. On second thought, I’m not sure he got any amount of sleep. Cressida seems to be chewing all of her fingernails off. Katniss looks haunted.

Katniss’ expression gets an explanation as soon as I make eye contact with her.

“I need to tell you something,” she begins. It’s clear she was waiting until everyone was awake. She launches into a monologue that she must have practiced while we slept, because she doesn’t stumble over the words. Looking at each of us in turn, she confesses that the mission to kill Snow does not exist. That it’s her fault the others died in pursuit of it, because she fabricated it. That it’s her own motives to take revenge on Snow. Her eyes are hollow as she speaks, her voice soft spoken but resolute. No one speaks for a long time after she finishes.

I try to search her face for something I can’t seem to find. Malice, maybe. Intent. Instead, she just looks broken. The part of me that wants to blame her for the deaths in the squad is silenced, because the look in her eyes tells me she’s had all of the thoughts I could possibly have and worse. No one can be meaner to her now than herself.

It’s Gale who says something first.

"Katniss, we all knew you were lying about Coin sending you to assassinate Snow." I certainly didn’t, but it’s no use bringing that up. I missed so much time that I barely could have told a lie from a truth to begin with.

"You knew, maybe. The soldiers from Thirteen didn't," Katniss says.

"Do you really think Jackson believed you had orders from Coin?" Cressida speaks up. "Of course she didn't. But she trusted Boggs, and he'd clearly wanted you to go on."

"I never even told Boggs what I planned to do," Katniss says.

"You told everyone in Command!" Gale interjects. "It was one of your conditions for being the Mockingjay. 'I kill Snow.'"

Conditions? What else did she demand before taking up the role?

Katniss and Gale go back and forth about the subject, with Katniss trying to convince us of her guilt and Gale convincing her that the mission was, in fact, successful. Even Cressida tells her that Plutarch would be happy about the turn of events, getting so close to Snow. My head is starting to hurt a bit so I zone out at some point, until Katniss suddenly says my name.

“What do you think, Peeta?” she asks. I consider her for a moment. Her confession. The fierce way Gale and Cressida stand behind her. They knew of her lie and went along with her anyway, just as, I imagine, the others on the squad. Because they knew she could do it.

"I think...you still have no idea. The effect you can have." The numbness in my arms has gone away for the most part so I attempt to push myself up. When I finally sit on eye level with her, I speak again.

"None of the people we lost were idiots. They knew what they were doing. They followed you because they believed you really could kill Snow,” I say. She looks at me for a few seconds. Her eyes on me still makes me burn, and it’s starting to confuse me in what way that is. But my words seem to have an effect on her, because the hollow look in her eyes disappears. Something clicks in her mind. She pulls out a map from her pocket and lays it down on the floor.

“Where are we, Cressida?”

The energy in the room shifts now that Katniss is in fighting spirits again. Cressida is by her side in a flash.

She starts pointing at the map and they share a short discussion on the most efficient way to reach Snow’s mansion. We’re within walking distance of him now. The thought makes me uneasy, but if Katniss’ intent is to kill him herself, I’ll have to put that unease aside. The problem mainly ends up being that there’s no way to actually get inside.

“What we need is to get him out in the open,” Gale says. “Then one of us could pick him off.”

"Does he ever appear in public anymore?" I ask.

"I don't think so. At least in all the recent speeches I've seen, he's been in the mansion. Even before the rebels got here. I imagine he became more vigilant after Finnick aired his crimes,” Cressida says. If what happened to Finnick was only one of them, it stands to reason why Snow has suddenly decided to become a recluse.

"I bet he'd come out for me," Katniss says. "If I were captured. He'd want that as public as possible. He'd want my execution on his front steps." The proposition hangs heavily in the room.

"Then Gale could shoot him from the audience,” she adds.

"No." The word is out of my mouth before I know it. This plan is suicide.

"There are too many alternative endings to that plan. Snow might decide to keep you and torture information out of you. Or have you executed publicly without being present. Or kill you inside the mansion and display your body out front."

"Gale?" she says.

"It seems like an extreme solution to jump to immediately," he says. "Maybe if all else fails. Let's keep thinking."

The silence in the room makes my stomach churn. In the quiet, my mind races with the implication of Katniss wanting to give her life to kill him. I fail to come up with another plan. Overhead, I pick up the sounds of Tigris walking through the store. Something slides and then she says: “Come up. I have some food for you." Her voice is deep and throaty, as if she either hasn’t spoken in a while or she has made herself purr like an actual cat.

Katniss silently undoes the cuff from the post, then reattaches it around my wrist. I nod in thanks. Our discussion will pick up later, I’m sure.

As we climb the stairs, Cressida asks her if she’s been able to contact Plutarch.

"No way to. He'll figure out you're in a safe house. Don't worry,” Tigris says. She doesn’t seem too bothered, probably used to the lack of communication in the past couple of days. From her attitude and the look of her shop, it seems that the war hasn’t personally affected her all too much.

Once we’re all upstairs again, I see Tigris’ food laid out. There’s some bread and cheese, an almost empty jar of mustard. Suddenly I feel bad about thinking that Tigris hasn’t felt the consequences of the war, if a wedge of moldy cheese makes up a third of her food supply. Katniss tries to object, but Tigris won’t hear any of it, telling us she rarely eats. And that she prefers raw meat. At first I think she might be attempting to make a joke, but her comment is genuine. This furthers my confusion about her catlike appearance. Did she really decide to live as a cat? I shake my head and decide to stop letting myself get distracted, focusing instead on the food in front of me.

Mold is scraped off, mustard applied, and then we’re all eating our serving of cheese. The food tastes like nothing when I take a bite, wincing as my wrists touch and scrape the cuffs. The pain is distracting to the point where I barely notice I’ve finished my last bite. But at least my stomach is fuller than it was five minutes ago. Tigris turns on a television and we watch in silence as a news report comes in. Our faces are plastered on the screen. They’ve found out five of us made it out of the sewers now.

“These individuals are dangerous and will attack unprovoked,” the voice says over the images of our faces. A substantial price is put on any scrap of information that is provided. I shift in my seat, look down at my hands, then up again at the sound of gunfire. They’ve made a sickening montage of the Peacekeepers in the Transfer, leaving out the mutts that came to kill them right after. Nausea bubbles up at the memory and I have to breathe in slowly to stop myself from vomiting up my meal. The next image is the woman Katniss shot in the apartment, except she’s on her back now, not at all how she fell down. They manipulated the imagery for the cameras.

“Have the rebels made a statement today?” Katniss asks Tigris, who shakes her head.

"I doubt Coin knows what to do with me now that I'm still alive,” Katniss adds. This puzzles me. Is she referring to the tearful obituary Coin broadcasted?

"No one knows what to do with you, girlie,” Tigris says, amused. She then gives Katniss some fur leggings and allows us to return back to the cellar.

Downstairs, the need for a plan comes to a head again. Ideas are tossed around, then quickly discarded.

“We can’t go out as a group,” Cressida says, which has us all nodding. It’s the one thing we seem to know for certain.

“And Katniss, no giving yourself up. We have to try getting into the mansion first,” Gale says. Katniss nods in assent, but there’s something about her eyes that makes me doubt her sincerity. I don’t bring it up or push anything, but let it sit in the back of my head.

No further plans materialize, so we decide to keep busy. Who knows, maybe one of us can come up with something while distracted. Katniss changes Gale’s bandage. I drink some water from the tap. Then she cuffs me back to the stair support. When she lies down to sleep, her breathing evens out almost instantly.

Sleep doesn’t come easily for me this time. The thought of a plan – despite the current lack of one – to seek out Snow fills me with dread. Not for myself. I’ll take a nightlock pill before he can ever get his hands on me again. But Katniss. She won’t stop until he’s dead. As I stare at the ceiling, I try to remember everything I know about her. Everything I’ve learned since they tried to make me misremember. She’s brave to the point of self-destruction. There’s no way to argue that. And stubborn, too. Fierce in the way she believes. I go back further, to a time where I’m not entirely sure anymore. But my thoughts take a turn for the weird and I drift off to sleep, thinking about arrows and fire and trees.

When I wake up again, my chest is heaving. Tears stain my cheeks as I try to grasp the remnants of the dream but the harder I focus the more it disintegrates into nothing but a ravenous feeling of fear. I try to sit up but my shoulder gives in, too numb from my sleeping position to support me now. I try to get my bearings instead, look around the dim room and try to make out who’s here with me. Pollux, Cressida, Gale, Katniss. All of us still here. The sight of Katniss, asleep, harmless and dull in the darkness of the room, settles the ache that made me cry, soothing my sobs enough so I can take a full breath. As I look at her, I realize it’s not her being harmless that puts me at ease. It’s her being out of harm’s way.

I try to sit up again and succeed this time. I lean back against the support to give my hands a bit of room to come down to the floor. My fingers won’t stretch when I want them to so I lay them on the concrete and wait for some feeling to return. In my distracted state, I haven’t noticed that someone else is awake, too.

“You alright?” His voice comes as a whisper from across the room. I turn my head.

“Yeah,” I start, not knowing about what exactly he’s asking, so I resort to keep the conversation focused on my hands. “Just numb.”

Gale sits up gingerly.

“Are you?” I ask, nodding my head at the bandage around his neck. His hand goes to touch it reflexively.

“I’ll live. Mostly feeling the blood loss,” he says. He sits for a second, letting the silence stretch between us. Gale and I have never exchanged many words before. Doing so now feels almost unnatural. But the unease is making me sweat so I ask him for some water to give both of us something to do. I see him shuffle, then stand up, head ducked down, and he fills up a bottle with water from the sink. Pollux stirs but doesn’t wake up.

He hands it to me, setting it on the floor right next to my hands. When I feel like I won’t drop the bottle, I pick it up and take a drink. The water’s metallic aftertaste coats my tongue, but I don’t care much.

"Thanks for the water," I say.

"No problem. I wake up ten times a night anyway,” Gale says, leaning back against a large stack of pelts. I see him sneak a glance at Katniss.

"To make sure Katniss is still here?" I ask.

"Something like that," Gale says. Neither of us speaks after that. I entertain the idea of pretending to go back to sleep, then decide that would be childish. So I wrack my brain for something to say and settle on something that’s been on my mind since I heard the words being spoken.

"That was funny, what Tigris said. About no one knowing what to do with her,” I say. Maybe Gale knows more about Katniss and Coin than he lets on.

"Well, we never have," he replies. That gets a laugh out of me; a startled thing. Gale laughs as well. His response took a different turn than I’d expected. But his answer is telling. Because this is Gale, who knows Katniss so well. I look at his face and remember him lying on a kitchen table, covered in snow and bandages.

"She loves you, you know. She as good as told me after they whipped you,” I say.

"Don't believe it," Gale scoffs. "The way she kissed you in the Quarter Quell...well, she never kissed me like that." This rubs me the wrong way. Not only because the memory of that beach is making me chafe my wrists against the cuffs, but also because I still can’t decide if it’s true.

"It was just part of the show," I say, trying to dissect the shiny from the real, the show from the feeling. The warmth that blooms in my chest is sudden, unbidden.  

"No, you won her over. Gave up everything for her. Maybe that's the only way to convince her you love her."

I don’t know what to say about that. What did I give up? When so much was taken from me? My family, friends, home. Not given willingly at all. And even if my brain is a treacherous maze, I know for a fact that I never convinced her to love me. I couldn’t. Katniss is her own person, capable of making her own decisions. Too headstrong to even attempt to sway in one direction or the other. To imply that only sacrifice earns you her love is a great misjudgment of her character. That I know for sure.

And if Gale is trying to imply that she fell in love with me because I was willing to die for her in the Games, then I’d rather have the conversation stop here. But he continues.

"I should have volunteered to take your place in the first Games. Protected her then,” Gale says after a while of silence.

"You couldn't," I say. "She'd never have forgiven you. You had to take care of her family. They matter more to her than her life."

"Well, it won't be an issue much longer. I think it's unlikely all three of us will be alive at the end of the war. And if we are, I guess it's Katniss's problem. Who to choose." Gale yawns then. "We should get some sleep."

"Yeah." I slide my hands down the support again, then stop myself. I can’t help but say: “I wonder how she'll make up her mind." Moreso for Gale’s reaction than anything else.

"Oh, that I do know,” Gale says quickly.

"Katniss will pick whoever she thinks she can't survive without.”

Chapter Text

Gale turns on his side and drifts off while I mull over his words. Survival. He thinks Katniss’ choice will come down to the practicality of simply getting through each day. A straightforward idea on his part.

But it just doesn’t sit right with me. I look at Katniss as I lie back down, spot her hair peeking out from under the layer of furs, and consider what survival means for her. Yes, Snow tried to take me from her, so I must mean a great deal. In what way, I can’t fill in for her. Gale is in this squad for a reason, too. Both of us have had a part to play in her life. I’m certain she’d prefer both of us to stay alive if she could help it. But survival? She’d find a way to go forward without either of us if she had to. So if I know anything about Katniss at all, then I know the one person she can’t survive without. The sharpness of the memory startles me in a good way, because it is unburdened by manipulation. I remember her in the town square, wearing a blue dress, screaming at Effie that she volunteers as tribute.

Because at the end of the day it’s Prim.

I fall asleep with a reply on my tongue.

She’ll survive as long as she has her sister.

Nightmares come of Prim being chased by birds, then Katniss being hunted up a tree by rabid animals, then Finnick and I perishing in a blazing fire. By the time I wake up again, the thought of bringing up the topic of last night’s conversation to Gale feels monumental. I decide that it’s no use either way to make him see sense.

The morning brings Tigris in the opening to the cellar, beckoning us for a breakfast of paté and cookies with fig filling. As we step out, I notice the faint light coming from the window. Dawn has yet to come. We sit together and receive the latest news. After the relative quiet of the cellar, the shock of sound and lights from the television is making my eyes water.

Beetee has managed to break in to the Capitol’s broadcast, relaying the news that the rebels have found a way to infiltrate the city center. By sending cars down streets lined with pods, most of them are deactivated, leaving the space for lines that lead right to the president’s mansion. The lines are conveniently labeled A, B, and C.

"This can't last," Gale says. "In fact I'm surprised they've kept it going so long. The Capitol will adjust by deactivating specific pods and then manually triggering them when their targets come in range."

It’s like his words hold some kind of prophecy. We watch as a patrol of rebels sends one of the cars down a street. As predicted, multiple pods go off, luring out some members of the squad who make it to the end of the street in safety. But when the other soldiers follow, a bomb that was disguised inside some flower pots in front of a shop goes off, blowing them all to pieces.

"I bet it's killing Plutarch not to be in the control room on this one," I say grimly, thinking about his job as Head Gamemaker. Then I briefly wonder if the pods aren’t just tried and true Gamemaker traps taken out of the arena. It’s like Snow’s mutts in the sewers. Traps and monsters taken from a game as if they were meant to be used in this way.

The normal broadcast resumes and a reporter comes on-screen to announce which blocks need to evacuate next. Katniss is using the information to mark out where everyone is; rebels and Peacekeepers. Then she walks to the window and comes back looking haunted. From the commotion outside, I’m guessing a wave of evacuees are rushing the streets.  

“I will go out, see if I can get you some information,” Tigris offers. It’s a sound idea, considering she can leave the building without causing alarm. We go back to the cellar once we finish our food, then listen as Tigris leaves.

Katniss paces back and forth in the small space. I watch her turn on her heel again and again, beating a path on the concrete floor. The frown between her brows is telling me she’s deep in thought. Depending on Tigris is a bet. She must be weighing our odds now. I try to look at the others, but they mostly seem annoyed with Katniss’ pacing. And I know better than to ask her what she’s thinking.

Hours pass. I know because I get hungry again, drink some water to pass the time. Tend to the wounds on my wrists, which gets Katniss to slow down for a minute to help me out. Conversation comes and goes. Idle chatter at first, but Tigris’ absence is starting to weigh on us now.

“Where do you think she is?” Gale asks all of us.

“She could have been arrested,” Cressida muses.

“Or turned us in,” Gale adds.

“She could have gotten hurt,” I say, looking at the others’ faces. The grim set of their brows is making me disbelieve my own words immediately. But how could Tigris betray us after helping to hide us away? I try to block out the others as I have a can of soup. No one takes the lid from me this time.

The silence turns into something palpable. All of us are tuned in to any sound from above, signaling either Tigris or a squad of Peacekeepers that’s come to arrest us.

It’s a while later still when we finally hear Tigris return. She opens the panel at the top the stairs, motioning for us to come up. Without hesitation, we follow. Any of the earlier talk of betrayal seems to have vanished at the smell of fried food that wafts from above.

We eat a meal of warm ham and potatoes. I eat with just a fork, cutting it with the edge instead of trying to navigate a knife around my cuffs. The hot food soothes me, and Tigris talks about how she was able to trade some of her fur underwear for it. People who left their homes without much thought have now realized the value of her stock.

“Many are out on the streets. Those who live in the inner city are hesitant to open their doors, as if their former neighbors could turn out to be rebels in disguise,” Tigris says. I can’t make out if she’s smirking or grimacing, but maybe it’s both. “Most apartments look abandoned, but I saw some curtains shift as I was out. People are just pretending to be out so they don’t have to answer the door.”

We watch a broadcast where the Head Peacekeeper is telling Capitol citizens that they’re all expected to take in some of the refugees that are flocking to the City Circle. Peacekeepers are banging on doors, demanding the owners open up and accept a number of people.

“Temperatures will drop well below freezing tonight. Your President expects all of you to be willing and enthusiastic hosts in this time of crisis,” the Head Peacekeeper warns. Snow might as well be looking right into the camera. They show some footage of citizens accepting refugees into their homes, but it all looks staged.

“President Snow himself will be opening part of his mansion to citizens tomorrow to aid the refugees. Shopkeepers should likewise be prepared to lend their floor space starting tomorrow,” he explains.

“Tigris, that could be you,” I say, looking at her. Her face betrays little. Where will we go if, tomorrow, a number of Capitol citizens might occupy the space where we now sit? The cellar would become a cell, trapping us indefinitely. My vision blurs, but then the news report pulls me back into focus when I hear my name called.

“… Peeta Mellark. The young man was beaten to death on the street. We advise citizens who think they recognize rebels to report to authorities before taking up arms. We will handle the identification and arrest of the suspect.” Then they show a picture of the man they killed: he looks nothing like me. My stomach is in knots, the potatoes suddenly a mistake. I have to look away from the screen before I start to spiral.

“People have gone wild,” Cressida murmurs. The screen turns to a rebel broadcast informing everyone that more blocks within the inner city have been taken. Katniss takes out her map and starts marking it.

“Line C is only four blocks away,” she says. Then, without preamble, she turns to Tigris and says: “Let me wash the dishes.”

Gale stands up as well, saying he’ll give Katniss a hand. I keep my eyes on them as they leave the room, unsure of what happened between them to warrant needing a private conversation. Because that’s what it is. I try not to let it rub me the wrong way. But the Gale from last night’s conversation is a far cry from the Gale who now sticks to Katniss’ side as if he can’t bear to leave her. As Cressida and Pollux pour over the map on the table, my mind returns to the man killed in the street. Tigris nudges me.

“It’s not your fault,” she says quietly. She nods her head towards the television. “About that man.”

Suddenly I’m blinking tears away, feeling scrutinized by her gaze and the way she somehow read my mind.

“Feels like it,” I mutter, using my sleeve to wipe a stray tear away. She puts her hand on my shoulder, her long nails softly moving to scratch my back. It’s more comforting than anything she could have said. As I try to get a hold of my breaths and focus on the sensation on my back, I hope that the man didn’t have to suffer.

When all of the dishes have been washed, the pair returns to the shop. Tigris stands up and gives them space to propose the plan: Katniss and Gale will go into the City Circle tomorrow, with Pollux and Cressida acting as guides. They sound so sure of themselves that I wonder if the plan hadn’t been made a while ago instead of in just fifteen minutes.

Then they tell me I’m supposed to stay behind, lest I endanger any of them.

“That’s fair,” I say, surprising both of them. “Going out with you would be a risk.” Katniss visibly relaxes, as if she thought I would put up a fight. Did she think I would be so reckless as to put them in more danger than necessary? No. I have a better idea.

“I’m going out by myself,” I announce.

“To do what?” Cressida asks. She can’t keep the incredulous tone out of her voice.

"I'm not sure exactly. The one thing that I might still be useful at is causing a diversion. You saw what happened to that man who looked like me," I argue. Seeing him in my mind’s eye made me realize how I could still be of some use to this squad after all.

"What if you...lose control?" Katniss asks.

"You mean...go mutt? Well, if I feel that coming on, I'll try to get back here," I tell her.

"And if Snow gets you again? You don't even have a gun,” Gale says.

"I'll just have to take my chances," I say. "Like the rest of you." I don’t break eye contact with Gale. He seems to get what I’m trying to say, reaches into his breast pocket, and hands me his nightlock pill. Finally. A choice. I let the pill lie in my open palm for a bit, trying to fathom what using it would mean. Then, I think about what Gale is giving away.

“What about you?” I ask Gale.

"Don't worry. Beetee showed me how to detonate my explosive arrows by hand. If that fails, I've got my knife. And I'll have Katniss. She won't give them the satisfaction of taking me alive,” Gale says.

“Take it, Peeta,” Katniss says. She closes my fist around the pill, locking it away. Her touch makes me shiver. “No one will be there to help you.” Her voice sounds strained, as if she’s holding back something. I’m not sure I have it in me to decipher what it is.

The rest of the day is spent going over the plan again and again, with Katniss and Cressida marking the path on the map until I’m sure there’s a groove in it. Gale spends time making sure all of the weapons are good to go. No one speaks about my part in the plan. By the time we judge that it must be evening, we’re all on edge as we use the makeshift beds one final time.

Sleep is a nightmare. The whole night we’re waking each other up with our gasps and screams. Every time I manage to doze off, a new nightmare wakes me up again. Pollux’s cries are the worst.

When the others start to stir, I’m relieved we can stop this charade of pretending any of us have slept at all.

Breakfast consists of anything that’s left of the stash of food. I eat crackers, some canned fruit. Wash it down with water and try not to bring it back up when I think about what today holds. All of a sudden everything feels too immediate; we’ll leave this place, and who knows what today has in store. Some of us might not make it to nightfall. I pick at my skin to give myself something to do and try to find some courage to get up and climb the stairs to the ground floor.

Katniss saved a can of salmon for Tigris, who seems genuinely emotional as she accepts it. She carefully puts it aside, saving it for later. I hope she gets to enjoy it. Then she sets about disguising us. This is not like in the apartment, where we were anxiously trying to make it work. Tigris is a professional. She gets a determined look on her face as she picks out cloaks, slippers, and wigs that she attaches with pins. She applies makeup to our faces. She’s surprisingly gentle with the brushes, almost purring at me as she coaxes me to sit still. It makes me wonder if we’d gotten along in other circumstances. I close my eyes and see Portia. Tigris’ hand slips as I shake off the memory. She doesn’t say a word as she corrects the makeup.

She gives each of us some handbags, random objects to fill our arms as if we, too, abandoned our Capitol apartments to flee from the rebels. The murky mirror at the back of the shop shows someone unlike myself. Not even close to the man mistakenly killed for looking like me.

"Never underestimate the power of a brilliant stylist," I say. Tigris makes a gesture with her hands to wave me off, but I can see the smile on her face. At least she gets to know that she did a good thing today, no matter what happens to her. I hope she survives this war. If only so she can see Snow’s demise.

The plan that Gale and Katniss came up with is repeated one more time. Since the streets are still filled with refugees, it’ll be easy enough to slip into the stream and join them. Cressida and Pollux leave first. They know these streets the best. Then Katniss and Gale will follow the wave of refugees walking to Snow’s mansion, hoping to get in. I’ll go last, trailing behind far enough to be separate, but close enough to create a diversion. The nightlock pill is tucked into an inner pocket in my cloak, ready to be consumed.

Too soon, Tigris is watching the streets through the blinds in the shopfront. She turns around and nods toward Cressida and Pollux, who spring into action.

“Take care,” Cressida says. Without a look over her shoulder, she’s out of the door. I catch Pollux’ eye before he leaves. Katniss and Gale position themselves in front of the closed door. Then Katniss turns around to unlock my cuffs, fitting the tiny key into the slot. She catches the cuffs in her pocket. I rub my wrists, feel the tender flesh. I haven’t flexed them in days and the pain shoots through me, making me more alert. Good.

“Listen,” Katniss says. My eyes shoot up and I see her face: unguarded. “Don’t do anything foolish.”

“No. It’s last-resort stuff. Completely,” I assure her. Then before I know it, she’s wrapped her arms around my neck. I can’t move for a few seconds. Then the warmth of her spurs me into motion and a flurry of emotions and memories wells up. My arms wrap around her in response. Hesitant, because some of the memories make me unsure what to think. But in the end, it’s not a memory that makes me hold her back. It’s the sense that I’ve been here before, and that used to mean something.

“All right, then,” she says, releasing her grip slowly. It takes me another second to realize that she’s gone. My eyes follow her as Tigris tells them it’s time. I watch her kiss Tigris’ cheek, fasten her cloak around herself, pull her scarf up to hide most of her face. Gale is out the door. Katniss follows. A memory of standing in a damp, humid jungle, watching the back of her head as she trails behind Johanna into the night.

Meet me at midnight.

Except midnight never came, did it? Not like we thought.

Without the cuffs to pull me back, I grab onto a clothing rack and feel the metal indent my skin, not causing pain but close enough. Tigris’ hand touches my shoulder. Her face is worried, her stripes disjointed. I shake my head to say ‘I’m okay’, then try standing without having to lean on anything. She squeezes my shoulder and I smile at her, showing that I truly am okay.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Don’t mention it,” she says quietly. There’s something familiar about her that I can’t place. Maybe it’s the kindness that reminds me of someone I once knew. It doesn’t matter now. She’s back to watching the street. Before I know it, she opens the door to let me out. I turn back a last time to say goodbye to her. I smile, and then I make myself turn away.

The cold shocks me. Snowflakes are pelting my face, tiny but fearsome, making me wrap my scarf even higher up my face. The wig on my head is a welcome substitute for a hat as I try to navigate the streets. The bag that hangs from my shoulder is like a shield, and I clutch it to my chest. No chance of seeing any of my allies, let alone Katniss. I realize immediately that this plan’s major flaw is that there’s no way to communicate anymore. I’m on my own.

Tears start to well up but the cold makes them painful, so I stop crying. Tell myself that being alone now is the best thing to be. If anything, I don’t stand out from the other refugees at all. Most of them are crying, children wail in their guardians’ arms.

The snow is making it difficult to see ahead. Some people around me are talking in hushed tones about Snow’s mansion. If I follow them, I should be headed in the correct direction. But then the group splits up between two streets and I’m stumped, having to shuffle along without attracting too much attention. In shop windows I can see the faces of refugees looking out through the glass. How long will Tigris be alone before they’ll knock on her door, too?

The booming voice of a Peacekeeper startles me, but it startles those around me as well. He’s directing us to keep to the right, with other Peacekeepers in the crowd directing us. Their white uniforms stand out in the muddled crowd of people.

Gunfire splits the air ahead of me and people are screaming. I see several people fall down to the ground, then more gunfire. The sky is just clear enough to make out white uniforms on the rooftops. Peacekeepers? I struggle to stay moving as I start to put together that they’re not Peacekeepers at all, but rebels dressed like them. Shooting at refugees. I see several Peacekeepers – real ones – dead on the ground as well. Targets. The refugees are collateral damage, then. The rebels jump down from the rooftops and disappear into the crowds. I still follow, hoping that I won’t find Katniss dead on the ground as we pass the part of the street that was targeted.

At the next intersection, chaos breaks loose.

Rebels start pouring in from all sides, ducking in alleyways, doors, even behind potted plants. A wave of Peacekeepers appears seemingly out of nowhere. Cars are used as shields as the groups open fire on one another, the refugees in the middle of it all. I hear rather than see a pod go off, the screams burnt out quickly by whatever horror the pod contained. 

The dead lie in the streets as I try to run, ducking instinctively whenever gunfire starts up again. Black starts to crowd my vision and I vaguely sense the impact of my knees hitting the ground before I feel the kick of legs that try to outrun me. Underneath my cloak, my fingers pinch and tug at my face, anything to stop the cloud of confusion that’s coming over me. I slam my head into the concrete, feel the sharp sting of the impact, but it’s worked. The pain in my temple is bringing me back to the present moment, where I quickly realize I’ve gotten myself into a tight spot. I try to get on my arms and legs, but the passage of people knocks me down a few times before I manage it. I rise slowly, holding the side of my face, my hood pulled back. I’m glad to be wearing a wig. A child makes eye contact with me as I start walking again. Before it gets the chance, I pull my hood up firmly and stagger forward. My bag lies lost somewhere in the throng of people. I twist my hands into the cloak and pull it tight.

Ahead, on the next block, the march of boots stops me in my tracks. People are screaming and crying all around me. Peacekeepers start crowding the street so I huddle together with what looks like a family, pushing my face into the back of someone’s fur coat. Shivering and stifling sobs, I can’t look like a threat at all. Once the Peacekeepers pass, I turn around before any of the people can recognize me.

The idea of me being a distraction is a no-go now that I’m out here. There’s too much going on. I wouldn’t make a dent in the chaos. I briefly consider going back to Tigris, laying low, not causing trouble. But the thought of having to face the refugees head on as I turn in the other direction stops me from going through with it.

At the next block of buildings, the smell of blood makes my stomach turn. Hundreds are lifeless on the ground, bleeding, faces contorted in pain. I push on the sore spot on my temple to stay with it, walk along until the stream of people becomes more refugees than soldiers.

More screams fill the air as I hear an earth shattering crack resound. It’s in the next block over; I see heads drop down suddenly as if there’s a chasm that’s opened up in the middle of the street, swallowing anyone unfortunate enough to cross it. Since cowering seems like a natural reaction, I dash into an alcove where someone put a chair and some plants, wait for the commotion to stop.

Once the sounds of terror abate slightly, I know the pod is done. But the appearance of the chasm means that the direct route forward is blocked. I try to think, but my brain is addled and it takes me a while just to get moving again. I end up ducking into a side street that’s littered with refugees who must be too weak to walk anymore. None of them pay me any heed as I walk, then turn the corner into the parallel way that I was going. A pod must have activated here earlier, maybe even at the same time as the other one: people lie on the street, their bodies burnt to a crisp. Their faces are unrecognizable, skeletal frames showing through the scarred flesh. I stumble along, try not to trip over or walk on anyone.

As I fall into the next intersection, the air changes. Instead of more blocks, the street opens up into a large square. So large, in fact, that the crowd manages to disperse enough to see clearly. The president’s mansion sits at the head. Large, opulent buildings form the perimeter. I’ve reached the City Circle.

People stop here, because there is nowhere else to go now. How much time has passed? An hour? Two? The throbbing in my temple is making it hard to think back. Part of me feels incredulous that I’ve made it, but the weariness won’t end. I can’t see the others; haven’t been able to spot them at all. Are they even alive? I try to survey the people that mill about. They’re crying, rocking back and forth, clutching themselves or loved ones. I see old people, people my parents’ age. But no children. I try to get closer to the mansion in the hopes of spotting my allies, but all I can manage is a glance at the front of the mansion. I finally spot the children there, but nothing makes sense. Large, concrete barricades shelter them from the rest of the square. Peacekeepers line the barricade, letting in only more children while turning parents away. The realization of this tactic makes my blood run cold. Snow is using the children as a shield.

“The rebels! They’re coming!” Suddenly I’m pushed to the left, trampled as I hit the ground once again. I try to protect myself by using my arms, wait for the rush of people to slow down. The movement has pushed me back, too, because when I stand up again, the barricade is further away. Someone stepped on my arm. I clutch it to my side as I watch with the other refugees how rebel soldiers push the refugees back into the avenues, clearing the square. Then a large hovercraft appears, bearing the Capitol’s seal. It stalls over the children. Parachutes drop down in a silver rain, flanked by snowflakes. The hovercraft flies off. The parachutes are too familiar to be a coincidence. Hands grab at them, eager to find food, water, maybe even toys. These Capitol children know what they might contain.

They don’t stand a chance in the end.

The parachutes explode upon contact, dozens upon dozens of them, creating a shockwave of sound and motion. Wails fill the air, the smell of smoke and blood. Babies are crying as well as adults, everyone stunned. My distance from the explosion makes sure I don’t see the worst of it; the broken bodies that must lie in the snow now, never to move again. Unsure of what to do, I remain in place. My chest heaves at the scene before me. Why did a Capitol hovercraft bomb children? It makes no sense. And now an entire generation has been wiped out at once.

My fingernails dig into my wounded arm, pulling blood. It’s just enough to stay with it, though my vision is blurry. I blink a couple times, clear the snow from my eyes. Then a small commotion sets the crowd moving around again. A small army of white uniforms moves into focus. No Peacekeepers. As they move past me, I see their packs, the way their attention is focused on getting to the children. Medics? They must be rebel medics, I recognize the costumes from 13.

Just as they reach the broken barricade to get to the children, it seems like time slows down for a few seconds. Slivers of silver parachutes go around hands, glinting in the snow, before they, too, explode in a blinding flash.

Chapter Text

Agony. Stillness. Both exist at the same time, working in tandem to dominate me. Fire licks at my arms, my face, my neck. Embers catch and alight my clothes, work their way into my skin. Movement hurts. My ears ring sharply, eyes blurred from the smoke. I close them but the ash and snow is scratching at them. The blast from the parachutes pushed me into some kind of wooden structure while fire rains from the sky. I have been burned before. Many times, I suddenly remember, the pain bringing on an onslaught of memories. Fire has followed me all my life. But this time it is all-consuming. The stomp of boots on my limbs only adds another layer of pain, and I find myself too weak to move out of the way, to do anything but lie down and wait. I lose control of my consciousness as the wails on the street continue on. Let the blankness swallow me, shielding me from the flames.

When I wake up, the ceiling of a hospital greets me. Blurred at first. I have to blink a few times to make out the slight swirls in the pattern of the ceiling tiles. Scents of disinfectant and something more earthy make my hands try to grasp around for a way out. The sound of something beeping, accelerating all of a sudden, has me lifting my head to try and get out, scout my surroundings. But then the pain pulls me back down, leaving me defenseless.

A doctor rushes to my bedside, speaking calming words. It hurts to move my head, so I allow them to bend over me. No malice in their eyes. They’re telling me that I’m in a Capitol hospital, that I’ve survived a bombing that used tribute parachutes. The burns I’ve sustained are severe because I was so close to the explosions. The second explosion was bigger than the first; it caused the entire City Circle to go up in flames. Many died. My hands, face and neck are all in bad shape. It’s a miracle my eyes weren’t hit, I’m told. I’ve broken some ribs from being trampled or from slamming into something, they can’t be sure. My prosthetic was dealt some damage as well and they’re having a new one fitted to me as soon as they’re able. The information is making my temples pulse, my vision fading until I’m lost in a murky memory that I can’t seem to place.

The soothing cold of morphling takes me out of the memory and into slumber.

I awake again and feel the full force of my injuries. It hurts to frown, to inhale, to blink. Sharp stabs shoot up through my arms as I try to lift them. Panicking, I call out for the doctors to give me more, anything that helps me escape. They oblige at first. Then, they tell me that large amounts of morphling would only hinder my healing and they need me to start functioning to assess the damage done to my nervous system. I find their reasoning insane, but I don’t argue. There’s no point. And privately, I wonder if they’d have enough morphling to keep up with demand. In lucid moments, I’m spoon fed soft foods by an unlucky nurse who has to clean up my chin and hospital gown. The sweet tartness of fruit is the only thing that truly registers, and I eat until my lips start burning. My arms are wrapped in bandages. My face, too. A doctor comes in to tell me there will need to be surgeries to repair some skin, graft it on from other parts of my body. Parts that the fire did not touch. There’s no need for me to consent; the doctors seem so bent on my survival that they’ve gone ahead and scheduled everything while I slept. It’s like their vow of fixing me outweighs my own needs.

The day of the surgery comes and goes. I wake up again in my room, blissfully unaware of how they cut and pasted my skin back together. Once the strongest pain killers wear off, the slightest brush of my skin against anything is agony, helped only by a steady supply of morphling. They’ve upped my dose again, no longer concerned about my nerves. Yet I don’t get to sleep as much anymore.

When I manage to have a clear thought, my mind wanders to Katniss. None of the doctors will tell me anything aside from my own situation, and even then I think they’re keeping things for themselves. In the time I spend staring at the ceiling, trying to keep myself from going insane, I will the world to keep her alive. I need to believe she is. This was her mission. I was supposed to be the distraction, to make sure she could get to Snow. But did I manage it? No. Did she? The pain starts to fade to the back of my mind as I imagine dozens of ways she could have been killed on the way to the City Circle. Despondent, I close my eyes and try to stop myself crying. Partially because I can’t give any credence to the images in my mind, and partially because the salty tears would only make my face burn more.

I meet more doctors. A parade of them, working at all hours, probably trying to lighten the load for each other as they attend to everyone. At long last, a familiar face is among them. Dr. Aurelius. The sight of him settles something in my chest. He tells me my other doctors from 13 are all attending to other patients, other victims from the blast. Dr. Selene is planning to come see me, though. His appearance finally gives me an opening. He’s the only one I dare ask about Katniss. I know he would not lie to me.

“Did she make it out?” I ask. My voice sounds far away, my body on the other side of the room. He doesn’t need me to explain.

“She did. She was in the City Circle as well. She’s in this wing, having sustained burns of her own. She had to undergo similar surgeries to yours, trying to save as much of her skin as possible. She’s in bad shape. Her sister…” he trails off. A beat of silence.

“Prim? She-“

“She was among the medics. She was killed in the explosion.”

After everything.

I close my eyes, shut out Dr. Aurelius.

Prim is gone. Katniss must be beside herself. It’s why he said she was in bad shape. If she’s awake long enough to think, anyway. I hope they’re being generous with her morphling supply. Suddenly I’d rather give away every vial set aside for me to send to her. I imagine her in her room, by herself, with nothing but the memory of her sister there. She must have seen it happen before her eyes if she made it to the Circle. My reply to Gale’s statement comes back to me. How will she survive now?

“The other members of your squad survived,” he tells me quietly, coaxing me back to the present moment. I nod. I don’t have it in me right now to feel guilty about not asking about them.

Dr. Aurelius decides to distract me with talk of my physical state. I let him. He’s telling me about how the skin grafts are sensitive and will need time to heal properly. How parts of my skin will always retain a changed appearance, puckered or looking like seams. But I don’t care about any of that. Prim is dead and I am alive somehow. It would be foolish to mourn the look of my hands.

He leaves me with the reassurance that he’ll be back, as well as other familiar faces. They’ll check up on me frequently.

“When can I see her?” I ask. He turns back around, hand already on the door handle. The sag of his shoulders tells me he wished I hadn’t asked.

“We will keep you in the know, Peeta. That’s all I can offer.” Well, then that’s all I can accept.

They wean me off the morphling slowly, careful not to disrupt the healing process. At first the itching of the wounds drives me mad, and I have a mind to ask them to restrain my arms to stop me moving them. The silence allows me too much time to think. About Katniss. About Prim. About what life will be like now. I sit up once I’m healed enough, take meals on my own again. But with the absence of morphling, something unexpected happens. The day they inform me that all of it is out of my system, I find my mind clearer than it has been in months. Sharper around the edges. No spots clouding my vision, no pain in my temples whenever I delve into a particular memory as I lie staring at the ceiling. Either the explosion has nullified the pain I’ve had before, or the shock of surviving the war has snapped me into some kind of focus.

Because it did end. The war. When he judges me fit, Dr. Aurelius informs me about what happened since I got taken to the hospital. The explosions signaled the final loss of trust in the president. Even the Capitol citizens turned against him then, when their own children were his target. I witnessed the end of Snow’s reign as I lay burning on the ground.

President Coin has taken up the mantle of president in the interim. I’m told by Dr. Aurelius that I was given mercy because of a deal Katniss made for me while I was still in the Capitol. A bargain in which Johanna, Annie and I would be saved and Katniss would be the Mockingjay.

All this time, she was looking out for me. I was not alone.

Snow is being held captive somewhere in the Capitol now, awaiting his trial. He surely will be executed, and if Katniss is in shape to do it, I don’t doubt she will be the one to end his life. She will get her revenge on him. I’m not sure if it still matters all that much now.

The surviving members of my squad are sent out to the districts. They all made it to various parts of the City Circle, but not close enough to the explosions. Gale was taken by Peacekeepers but released when the Capitol fell. Cressida and Pollux never made it past a cluster of refugees that had walked themselves into a dead end. They were as unharmed as they could have been.

Days pass and no news of Katniss reaches me. She certainly does not come to see me, which only adds to the worry that she is in much worse shape than even Dr. Aurelius told me she is. And no word about me going to see her, either. When I press him on the matter, he says: “She’s lost the ability to speak. Not a word has come out of her since the bombing. It’s why we’re still keeping a close eye on her.”

I know that nothing I can say will make things better, but doing nothing feels worse. I try to bring up the idea that talking to her might help her release something, anything, that’s inside her mind. But they won’t let me. So all I can do is sit around, waiting, allow for my raw, baby-like skin to heal, eat the food I’m given, try to be less despondent. I have lost no more than I already have. They fit my new leg and have me walk around with it until I’m comfortable on it. When I get the news that I’m allowed to leave the hospital wing, I’m unsure of what to do with myself. Where do I go? The question is answered before I have a chance to voice it. I’m given a room within Snow’s mansion to use until further notice. Dr. Aurelius sees the objection in my face but assures me that other survivors are there as well. Snow has been sequestered elsewhere. As a parting gift, I’m also given the grey jumpsuits the people in 13 wear. As I get dressed, being careful not to rub my skin too much, I try to tell myself that leaving this place will bring me closer to Katniss. Or rather: I hold out hope it will.

The first time I enter the mansion, I could cry with relief that the incessant scent of roses is not there. I was expecting them everywhere, but the room I’m assigned to seems to have been aired out thoroughly. It’s impersonal and grand, too grand. Plush carpets, heavy furniture. Too many breakable objects. I open all of the curtains to make sure I can see the hours change, the sun cutting through the winter sky in its usual arc. Then I open the windows and sit in the breeze, even if it’s winter and the cold makes my breath catch. I sleep with them wide open that first night, bundled under many blankets. My doctors firmly told me I shouldn’t expose the new skin to sunlight, so I refrain from sitting in front of the window too much. But in the morning, I allow the rays to touch my face, closing my eyes as I try to make up for lost time.

A day after my release, I learn that Snow has been tried in court. His trial was perfunctory. His execution is planned within the next day. I sit with the news for a while, staring out of the window from a safe distance, watching how the day passes even when it feels like everything has changed. Snow will be gone for good. I close my eyes and meet his gaze in my mind’s eye. The unhuman grin on his taut lips. With a shake of my head, I banish him. Then I stand up and walk to the window anyway, needing the sun to clear away the dark cloud in my head.

A knock on my door pulls me out of a memory. I hadn’t even noticed I was gone, clutching the curtains to steady me. I turn around gingerly, not knowing who to expect on the other side. When I open it, I’m shocked to see none other than Effie Trinket. Her gold metallic wig is much like how I remember her, but there is a vacant look in her eyes. She’s been through this war as well. I don’t ask in what way. She clutches a clipboard, her hands shaking a little. Her fingernails are unpainted. The only part of her that hasn’t returned to who she was before.

“Peeta, darling!” she exclaims, her eyes wet. Without preamble I pull her into a hug, hearing a soft gasp before I feel the clipboard – and her hands – hug me back. I wince as the hard edge of the clipboard nudges at a spot of raw skin but don’t show it, not wanting to disrupt the moment.

“It’s good to see you, Effie,” I say. And I mean it.

“You, too,” she sighs. Then she puts her smile back on and beckons me out of the room. “Come, we have much to do today!”

She leads me through the wing into a new set of hallways, explaining on the go that I’m about to attend a meeting with all remaining Victors. There are seven of us left: Katniss, Johanna, Annie, Haymitch, Beetee and Enobaria. And me.

The thought that this is the first time I’ll see Katniss again makes me feel betrayed somehow.

“Why?” I ask. She doesn’t answer me, insisting that I’ll be informed soon enough. Like she got instructions to keep us in the dark about the true nature of the meeting. I feel unease creep up the back of my neck. An ambush of some sort. But when I step through the door and see the others, I know that at least I’ll be surrounded by survivors. Katniss isn’t here yet, though. I look back to Effie, who gestures to her clipboard and mouths her name, indicating that she’s last on her list of invitees to collect.

I eye the others as I choose my seat. Haymitch and Johanna look tired, Annie is quiet and staring into the distance. She’s wringing her hands. Beetee looks on with mild curiosity. Enobaria smiles.

“Why are we here?” I ask them. Haymitch shrugs.

“No one’s told us. Better take a seat before Katniss gets here,” he says. I’m not sure what he’s implying, but I do as I’m told.

After a while, Katniss appears in the doorway. The sight of her makes me grip onto the rests on the chair I’m in. Now I think I know what Haymitch meant. She’s wearing her Mockingjay suit. Her hair is cut at all angles, parts of it singed off completely. The skin of her neck and hands is red and tender. I see the trail go up into her long sleeves and know how badly hurt she was. There’s a steely look in her eyes. Distrust. Then I wonder if she can speak again.

"What's this?" she says. Her voice is brittle and hoarse. The relief of hearing it makes me have to look away from her for just a moment.

"We're not sure," Haymitch says. "It appears to be a gathering of the remaining victors."

"We're all that's left?" she asks.

Beetee explains that Victors were targeted from both sides. The Capitol killed those they deemed rebels, the rebels killed those they deemed loyalists.

"So what's she doing here?" Johanna spits at Enobaria.

"She is protected under what we call the Mockingjay Deal," Coin says. She’s right behind Katniss. "Wherein Katniss Everdeen agreed to support the rebels in exchange for captured victors' immunity. Katniss has upheld her side of the bargain, and so shall we." Enobaria gives Johanna a too-sweet smile.

"Don't look so smug. We'll kill you anyway,” Johanna says.

"Sit down, please, Katniss," Coin says. Katniss sits down. She hasn’t met my eyes. I’m not sure what it’d be like if she did. She puts down a perfect white rose on the table.

Coin sits down and wastes no time in introducing us to the topic of conversation.

"I've asked you here to settle a debate. Today we will execute Snow. In the previous weeks, hundreds of his accomplices in the oppression of Panem have been tried and now await their own deaths. However, the suffering in the districts has been so extreme that these measures appear insufficient to the victims. In fact, many are calling for a complete annihilation of those who held Capitol citizenship. However, in the interest of maintaining a sustainable population, we cannot afford this."

Over the sound of Coin’s voice, I feel Katniss’ eyes turn to me. I dare to look at her. Her face looks like mine; pale and raw, spots of where the fire got her. It’s no small feat that she’s sitting across from me now. The intensity of her gaze makes me turn my eyes away from her within a second. Coin, however, goes on.

"So, an alternative has been placed on the table. Since my colleagues and I can come to no consensus, it has been agreed that we will let the Victors decide. A majority of four will approve the plan. No one may abstain from the vote. What has been proposed is that in lieu of eliminating the entire Capitol population, we have a final, symbolic Hunger Games, using the children directly related to those who held the most power."

I snap my head up.

"What?" Johanna quips.

"We hold another Hunger Games using Capitol children," Coin says coolly.

"Are you joking?" I ask, looking at the others in the room as well.  

"No. I should also tell you that if we do hold the Games, it will be known it was done with your approval, although the individual breakdown of your votes will be kept secret for your own security," Coin reassures us.

"Was this Plutarch's idea?" Haymitch asks.

"It was mine. It seemed to balance the need for vengeance with the least loss of life. You may cast your votes,” Coin says. Her measured, detached tone strikes something in me.

"No!" I burst out. "I vote no, of course! We can't have another Hunger Games!"

"Why not? It seems very fair to me. Snow even has a granddaughter. I vote yes,” Johanna says.

"So do I," Enobaria says, no emotion apparent in her voice. "Let them have a taste of their own medicine."

"This is why we rebelled! Remember?" I plead, looking at those who haven’t cast their votes yet.

"Annie?" I say.

"I vote no with Peeta," she replies. "So would Finnick if he were here."

"But he isn't, because Snow's mutts killed him," Johanna says unhelpfully. Annie cowers.

Beetee chimes in with a ‘no’ as well. "It would set a bad precedent. We have to stop viewing one another as enemies. At this point, unity is essential for our survival. No."

"We're down to Katniss and Haymitch," Coin says. Silence falls over the room. I watch Katniss closely now, look at her, try to understand the thoughts happening behind those eyes. When she speaks, the air leaves the room.

"I vote yes... for Prim."

"Haymitch, it's up to you," the president says. I turn to him, half wild.

“Haymitch, think about this. The atrocities we’ve been through. We can’t do that to each other again!” I rage, balling my hands into fists as I rise from my chair. But Haymitch doesn’t seem to hear me at all.

"I'm with the Mockingjay," he says finally.

"Excellent. That carries the vote. Now we really must take our places for the execution,” Coin says, her eyes sparkling. What just happened? Are we really no better than those people years ago, allowing bloodshed to happen? Did we already forget the war, when our wounds are too tender to have healed yet?

Coin passes Katniss on her way out. I watch them closely. Katniss gives the rose to Coin, who promises that Snow will wear it. And that he’ll know about the Games. I can say with absolute certainty that his own granddaughter will feature in it. Coin will rig the reaping to fit her own idea of revenge. My stomach twists.

I’m escorted out of the room while others come in. I see them apply makeup to Katniss’ face. I pass Plutarch on the way to my room but am too furious to meet his eye. I stomp forward, gathering startled looks from everyone I pass. The other Victors have walked ahead to their own rooms. I slam the door closed behind me and pace. Try to make sense of what just happened. But there is no sense. The violence, the blood, it will never stop.

Someone has put a simple suit on the back of a chair that I’m supposed to wear for the execution. I have half a mind to hurl it out of the window. But I put it on anyway, damning myself for being a part of this farce. How could I have been so wrong? How can Katniss do this? For Prim? It makes no sense.

Someone else comes to collect me and I follow, eyes trained on a point in the distance. Even with the war over, I’m still left to do someone else’s bidding.

The remaining Victors are to stand in a line near Snow while Katniss carries out the execution. To show Panem that we stand behind the Mockingjay as she completes her final task. I struggle to breathe as we’re put in our positions. I don’t talk to any of the others. How could Haymitch condone this? My eyes are steel, set on the post that will hold Snow until he draws his final breath. The rubble of the City Circle has been cleared away, allowing for the masses to witness the execution. The fire has left soot marks on the ground, on facades of buildings. The sheer volume of all of the voices is staggering. The winter air is electrified in anticipation. Guards, rebel leaders, officials, all of the people who’ve had a hand in the rebellion show up at one point. Take their positions near the execution site. The snow has covered up the blood that soaked the pavement we stand on.

Coin appears on the balcony overlooking the City Circle, high above all of us. Cheers erupt even louder when Katniss steps out from the double doors, directly in front of the crowd. I keep my eyes on her as she turns sideways toward the crowd, allowing them to see her in profile. I do as well. I study the careful set of her mouth. The tension in her shoulders. The moment she consented to the Games. For Prim, she said. I have never claimed to understand Katniss Everdeen, but this feels wrong. She volunteered for Prim so she wouldn’t have to go through those Games. She saw her sister die trying to stop them from ever happening again. Then my earlier thought comes back. It makes no sense.

There must be more at play here.

Katniss remains still as they carry Snow out of the double doors now. The audience’s roar is deafening. I briefly break my gaze to look at him as they chain his hands behind the post. His snake-like eyes, the puffy lips. A white rose sits in his lapel; Coin has kept her promise. Blood dribbles from his mouth when he coughs. He’s already dying. This moment will just speed up the process. He focuses on Katniss. I focus on her, too. She’s close to Snow, closer than she should be, given what a crack shot she is. She lifts up her bow, holds the arrow. Repositions it just so. I look up at Coin, who is surveying her citizens. Her eyes retain that sparkle. She’s asserting that she is Panem’s true leader now, with the Games to seal it.

My head snaps back down to Katniss. The Games. She agreed to the Games because Coin wanted them. She certainly didn’t try to make us see both sides during the meeting. Katniss is not stupid. The calculating nature that she’s always had should have made her see that. So she agreed to the Games to appease Coin. But why? Coin is no threat.

Except that she is.

If she is capable of organizing another symbolic Games, she will be capable of much worse. Us Victors were just there to make it seem like it wasn’t her sole decision. If she can tell the public that it wasn’t her idea, then no one will point the finger when it sets a precedent. She would be blameless.

Katniss aims her bow, takes her position. I see the inhale, know the next exhale will be when she takes her shot. In that final moment of stillness, as Katniss readies herself for the last shot of the revolution, I finally understand her plan.

Time slows down. Her bow points up at the last moment, finding Coin’s heart as if it was always meant to land there. With the release of the bowstring, Katniss’ final arrow strikes true. In the hush of the crowd, Coin collapses. Her hand is too slow to reach the arrow that killed her. The silence is absolute.

Then Snow starts laughing; a terrible, wet sound. The gurgling coughs are drowned out by the first noises of dissent from the crowd, followed by the guards moving in on both Snow and Katniss. I see her whisper something to her bow, as if she’s saying goodbye to it.

My legs move of their own accord when I see her twist her neck to get at the pocket on her uniform.

My hand finds Katniss’ shoulder. I barely register when her teeth break my skin.

Chapter Text

Our eyes meet in the brief second that I need to stop her from killing herself. She pulls her head back, my hand gripping the pocket of nightlock so firmly that I can feel it rip. I hold on to her shoulder like a lifeline, my feet unsteady after what just happened.

“Let me go!” she hisses, trying to break free.

“I can’t,” I breathe. Let go? Of Katniss? When have I ever been able to do that?

Guards rip her away from me. In the commotion, the small pill falls from the hole in her uniform. This causes her to become frenzied, thrashing in the guards’ arms toward the interior of the mansion. The crowd starts pushing in from all sides. Katniss is lifted above the fray and carried inside while others herd the other Victors and I inside as well, keeping the throng of bodies off of us. She screams Gale’s name. He must have been in the group of officials, but he’s too far away for her now. We veer into the nearest corridor and are deposited in a grand room, large enough to hold all of us. Katniss is nowhere to be found. Probably being carried off to a private room elsewhere. When the door shuts behind me, all I can do is stand there, dazed, trying to make sense of what happened. It takes me a minute to come back, but the others scarcely notice my turmoil.

I decide to walk over to an empty corner, sit down in a velvet chair, tracing my fingers up and down the fabric to give my hands something to do. Sweat beads on my forehead despite the cold outside. The sting of her bite mark only starts to make itself known now. I wash my hands in the adjacent bathroom, a thin stream of blood coming out of one of the puncture wounds. Annie comes in silently, and without preamble she takes a small towel and starts wrapping my hand in it, to help stop the bleeding. She cries softly, her shoulders heaving in an almost gentle way. We stay in there for a while as the others start talking over each other, discussing what happened. Johanna’s laughing, Haymitch curses. Annie and I leave the bathroom and she joins me on the velvet chair. I look out the window and try to grapple with the events of the past hour, trying not to let my emotions show on my face.

She’s done it. Snow is dead; the commotion outside is confirming that the citizens have taken his execution upon themselves. Coin is dead. Katniss killed Coin. What will they do to her? Will there even be a trial? No matter her good reasons, her instincts, she will be seen as a murderer. Never mind all of the others she was forced to kill before. This time will be different. I fear everyone will argue that, too. Suddenly, my act of saving her from the nightlock feels like the most selfish thing I have ever done.

I hold out hope that someone will come in. Maybe Plutarch. We stay in that room for hours, waiting for any scrap of news. None comes. In the end, a guard ushers us all to our own appointed rooms again.

Days pass without news. I waste them away by applying salve to my new skin, forcing food down, walking around the mansion but staying close to my room, scared of losing my bearings. I try in vain to engage any official in conversation, desperate for a scrap of information. No one answers my questions. I sit in the morning sun while I chew off all of my fingernails, thinking about what I’ve done. I have to convince myself that Katniss is still alive just to make it through the day. Part of me believes that they wouldn’t execute her. Another part of me scolds me for my naïve way of thinking. But I have to rely on my instincts. That saving her from herself was the right thing to do. But there are moments where doubt sets in; I see her in my mind’s eye and can’t help but imagine the disapproval on her face. How often did I wish to be given a choice? How could I have chosen to take away hers?

The television in my room is on at all hours of the day. It informs me better than any of the real people I see. Now that Coin is dead, Commander Paylor of District 8 is elected president in an emergency vote. I watch her make the oath and hope that she will be different than her predecessors.

Dr. Aurelius finally visits. The aftermath of the execution means more people to take care of in the hospital. Many were trampled in the commotion. He promises that Dr. Selene will be in to see me, so we can talk about everything. I haven’t seen her since the first time he promised me, but I try not to be cynical about it.

The bite marks on my hand become infected. Dr. Aurelius tuts as he sees the reddened skin, the ooze that comes out of the tooth-shaped wounds. The question of why I didn’t seek out anyone to take care of it doesn’t need to be asked. He makes quick work of my hand, gets someone to bring pills that stave off further infection. He instructs me to keep the bandage clean even if the skin grafts make it itch. I nod absently and he sighs.

Haymitch stops by after the doctor clears the room. He lets himself in, drops down on one of the couches and makes himself entirely too comfortable. The ease with which he carries himself makes me want to shoo him away as if he were a stray dog.

“Heard anything?” I ask. If he invades my space, he might make himself useful.

“No. Not that they’re taking special care to keep me in the know,” Haymitch says.

“You aren’t allowed to see her either? I’ve asked everyone I could, but no one seems to have the permission to give me permission,” I say.

“Checks out. She’s an enemy of the state,” Haymitch says, scoffing. I let the words hang in the air and pace back and forth along the windows. Turning away from him, I ask my next question.

“Did you know what she was going to do?” I ask. My fingers are tracing the edge of the bandage on my hand.

“Not exactly, no. But from the moment she agreed to Coin’s Games, I knew she was at least thinking of something. It was unlike her.” I turn around to face him again.

“That’s what I thought. It’s why I didn’t understand why you would agree, too,” I say. Haymitch shrugs.

“I guess I wanted her to know I was on her side in whatever it was she chose. But that arrow for Coin was… unexpected.”

I lean back against the wall.

“You and Katniss… you were good at understanding one another without words. Real or not real?” I ask. Haymitch takes a second to catch on to my game. Then he says: “Real.”

This might be the first time Haymitch and Katniss’ understanding let him down. Haymitch’s leg starts to bounce. He’s getting restless.

“Let me see if I can find Effie,” he mutters, making himself scarce. He walks out of the room without saying goodbye.

All of a sudden, people start finding their way to my room. A few hours after Haymitch comes in, I finally meet Dr. Selene again. She stands in the doorway with her clipboard, flanked by Aurelius and Cassius. My original doctors returned to help me one more time.

“Is this a bad time?” she asks. I hope she’s joking.

“When has it ever been a good time?” I shoot back, but I try to keep my tone light so I won’t chase them away. Selene, to her credit, smiles.

“It’s good to see you,” Selene says. “We’d like to talk to you about what happened.”

“You all came here just to chat? Why don’t I believe that?” I ask, gesturing for them to sit down on the couch. Dr. Selene remains standing up.

“Good intuition,” she says. “And entirely justified. You see, when we learned about what you’d been through in the Capitol after joining Squad 451, we had reason to believe the impact would put you in a dissociated state-“

“It did.” I grit my teeth, Mitchell’s face flashing in my mind. “I killed someone on my squad. I got locked out of my own brain and just… murdered him in cold blood.” My doctors nod.

“Yes. We saw the footage. And if you want to talk about that, we can do that. But, Peeta, what really stood out to us is that you survived it. You stayed with your squad, made it to the City Circle. You survived the blast from the bombs. The trauma of that alone could have put you back into that previous mental state. But it didn’t. Then, when you stopped Katniss from killing herself, it clicked.”

Dr. Selene lets that final sentence hang in the air between us. I frown, look between my doctors.

“What clicked?”

“The reverse hijacking. It worked,” Dr. Selene starts pacing the room. I’ve never seen her break that professional detachment. She’s always been careful in her movements. I wonder if that was mostly for my benefit.

“At least, we have reason to believe it did. Which is why we’re here. Your old team. We want to run some tests. We want to see if this moment where you decided to save Katniss’ life means that the venom has been reduced enough for you to be the closest version of your old self.”

I stand, dumbfounded. While it’s true that my mind has been clearer, I couldn’t assume it meant anything. And certainly not anything as monumental as this.

“How would you make sure it worked?” I ask. Dr. Selene starts rattling off some ideas. Blood tests to begin with, to look at concentrations. Then the reverse hijacking method I’d been subjected to in 13. And talking. A lot of talking. They bring up drawing, too, but I think that’s entirely for my benefit.

Hours start to blur as days start to repeat themselves once again. I meet with my doctors and other medical staff, depending on the kind of therapy we’re doing that day. My blood tests come back bearing revelations. The doctors are finding doses of venom still, but the concentration has reduced drastically. This explains why my mind has been less foggy. But that isn’t all. When they show me tapes, the same ones as they did before, I find that my reactions to them have altered. Instead of the emotions I have come to expect, I manage to rationalize most of them. I tell myself that the images I’m seeing are real or not real, recall my conversations with allies and friends, try to find reassurance in the fact that they had no reason to deceive me. When they show me lying in the cave, waiting for Katniss to return as I slept in a daze induced by sleep syrup, there is nothing shiny about it. Tears spill down my cheeks when I manage to tell them. Then, when they show me the kiss on the beach, I look away for entirely different reasons than before.

Selene and Aurelius also show up just to talk. I start to draw and doodle again, allowing myself to put down anything and everything. We talk about the war, about home, about people from the past and the present. I only break down a couple times. Black splotches fill my vision when things get particularly bad, but they teach me ways to get myself out of it. They allow me to cry myself out, know when to intervene as I start to babble and blame myself. Remind me that it’s not my fault. My doctors are there to guide me. And I trust them.

I ask them about my decision to stop Katniss from taking the nightlock pill. They’re the only people who I can ask without feeling any judgement. No one has the correct answer, they tell me. All they know is that stopping her must have come from somewhere. A part of me that can’t bear to see Katniss come to harm. A part of me that, until recently, had been obscured by Snow’s torture. I stop them when they try to tell me I acted out of love. I’ll figure that out for myself.

The next time I see Selene, I decide that I should be brave. I’ve been chewing on a piece of toast for about fifteen minutes when she knocks on the door for my session. I couldn’t sleep the previous night because a nightmare kept reminding me I killed Mitchell. Then when I woke up, my mind replayed all of the times I endangered the others.

“You look troubled, Peeta. More so than usual,” she says. Her clipboard sits on her lap. She’s sitting down on the couch across from me. I take a deep breath. Put down my half eaten toast on a side table. I meet her eye when I’m ready to talk about the part of me that I can’t seem to reconcile with.

“When I first got to 13 and in the weeks after, even when I was with the squad… I could be cruel. Plain mean. Just for the sake of it. And I don’t think it was the venom,” I tell Selene. She nods, allowing me more time to talk.

“I thought cruel things, wished badly upon others. Hurt people with words that I knew would cut. And I can’t seem to pin all of the blame on Snow for it,” I say weakly, fighting back tears. Selene takes a moment before she replies.

“It’s true that not everything can be attributed to what happened to you in the Capitol. Sometimes, it might have been frustration, anger, sadness, any emotion dictating the way you conducted yourself.”

“That’s not helpful,” I say, standing up to pace the room. “You’re saying that I’m mean because I just am?”

“I’m saying that your thoughts are your own. Good and bad. Hijacking aside, they’ve always been there. But look at it like this: the Capitol stripped you of many of the memories and convictions you had, leaving you to reckon with thoughts that never surfaced quite clearly before. And they might not always be kind,” she says, standing up as well. I stop pacing.

“But, Peeta, … You are allowed to have them. Thinking something bad doesn’t make you a bad person. Cut yourself some slack. You’ve had to put yourself back together. That’s an incredibly difficult thing to do, and you’ve done a marvelous job of it so far. So if you have all of these pieces of yourself that you need to align again, then do it. Until the final image resembles someone you want to be. Do it until you fit into yourself again.”

When she leaves the room afterwards, I slowly start to allow myself to puzzle.

This is how it goes on for a while. There are setbacks, moments where my mind clouds over and I come to, panting and disoriented, often on the floor or lying down in bed. In those moments I have to remind myself that setbacks don’t mean losing progress. When I snap, I try to give myself grace. Apologize with sincerity. Allow the bad thought to happen and then remind myself that it doesn’t make me bad. My physical health also takes its turns. Wounds and grafts take their time, heal, scab, somehow get infected again, heal over.

I’m asked to testify in Katniss’ trial. My doctors try to convince the authorities that it isn’t a good idea, that it would ask too much of me, but I tell them I’ll be ok. Dr. Aurelius tells me he’ll testify as well, which makes me feel more secure. If they won’t believe a boy who just got his mind back, they’ll believe the person who helped fix him.

On one of those nondescript days before the trial and after therapy sessions, I wander into a new part of Snow’s mansion. It appears to be uninhabited. It quickly becomes clear why. The double doors that lead to this wing are heavy, adorned with roses carved into the wood. They open into a corridor lined with doors. Some ornate, others more sober. I push open the larger doors and find myself in a room full of ghosts.

There is the dais, the two chairs sitting on the slightly raised floor, angled toward one another. In the corner is a space carved out for equipment, sound, cameras. If I close my eyes, I can just imagine Caesar sitting in one of those chairs, a harried man directing him and me to get ready for the broadcast. Multiple memories attach themselves to me here, sticking on the inside of my brain. Demanding to be relived. I called for a cease-fire here, addressed Katniss and the rebels. Talked about my time in the arena. All because Snow deluded me into believing it was the only right thing I could do. Had he already gotten his venom to work? I can’t be sure about it. I close the doors without stepping one foot into that room, then turn away from the wing. The lock bolts shut behind me.

The day of the trial feels like a fever dream. I’m woken up at the crack of dawn to be transported to a justice building. Cameras line the streets, the rooms where her actions will be weighed. Selene and Aurelius prepared me for this. I sweat under the scrutiny of the cameras. The judge and jury eye me with great interest. What will I say? How will I defend her?

In the end, my testimony is simple. Katniss Everdeen did everything she could to protect her family from the Games. She volunteered, she won. She set into motion something that became bigger than only her actions. But at the heart, it was all for Prim. I testify against the memory of Coin. Explain the concept of the symbolic Games in my own words. Do my best to convince the judge and jury that Katniss’ execution of Panem’s interim president was the only way to safeguard the future from repeating past mistakes.

I’m led out of the courtroom and collapse into Aurelius’ arms.

Then Plutarch and Aurelius come forward. Plutarch argues that, as the Mockingjay, Katniss has upheld the values of the rebellion, meaning that she would revolt against any leader who would condone such acts of violence.

It’s Aurelius, though, who seems to win them over. He goes over Katniss’ medical record. Apparently she’s been starving herself in the time since she was taken from the execution site. It’s the first I hear about it. He paints her as a hopeless, shell-shocked young girl who is so distraught after the war that the only reasonable thing to do is to let her live a quiet, uneventful life. Away from scrutiny and politics. Her mind simply wouldn’t be able to handle any more stress. Not after the loss of her sister.

The final verdict comes days later. Katniss is to be sent to District 12 to live her life anonymously, as Aurelius suggested. The primary condition of the judge is that she is to remain under Aurelius’ care. My relieved sobbing is undercut only by the applause from the people who have gathered outside of the justice building to witness the trial on large television screens. As I’m taken back to the mansion, I can finally rest easy in the knowledge that she will finally, finally be safe.

They don’t tell me when Katniss returns home. Because of my situation, the doctors decide to leave that bit of news alone until I’m cleared to leave the Capitol, too. When they ask me where I would like to go, there is only one answer. District 12 is my home. I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

In my final conversation with my doctors, I notice that none of them are trying to retain an air of professionalism. Their relief is apparent in every word and expression.

“I can clear you, Peeta. Your tests are coming back normal, your wounds have healed. Please keep using the cream we gave you to protect your skin from the sun, even in winter. Send for more when you run out. Other than that, I think phone conversations should suffice. If you ever need anything, just call us. We can arrange to meet or see if we can help you over the phone. You’re not alone,” Dr. Selene says.

My room in the mansion is cleared quickly. The meagre belongings I have are stashed into a canvas bag. Drawings, mostly. I pull the door closed behind me, walk the hallways that I’ve become too familiar with, and vow never to set foot in this building again. I hope they tear it down. I hope they make it into something better.

Selene escorts me to the hovercraft that will bring me back to 12. I hug her before I step on, and she wraps her arms around me without hesitation, as if she knew it was coming.

“Thank you for everything,” I say. She draws back and holds on to my upper arms, eyeing my face.

“No need to thank me. You did the work.”

The hovercraft rises. I don’t look out the window, choosing instead to let my last image of the Capitol be of Dr. Selene’s face. I don’t know if I’ll ever return. I don’t know if I’ll ever need to.

The journey takes a few hours in which I try to decide what I will do first. I settle on small steps. No rush to do anything. The hovercraft drops me on the outskirts of the district, and I’m glad I don’t have to walk through the merchant quarter. My feet touch the ground of my home. I start walking immediately.

Chapter Text

Time slows down now that no one is waiting on me anymore. I find the thought comforting.

As I walk through the Victor’s Village, about half of the houses have some kind of light on. Mine is dark. Like they left it alone in case I made it back. I walk through the front door. Aside from dust, everything is the same as when I left. Down to the firewood I kept stacked near the fireplace, even though I knew I wouldn’t need it anymore. I stoke the fire with the wood, grateful now for the misplaced sense of foresight past me had. Even though the days are warmer, the nights are still cold.

I was able to take some food with me from the Capitol to get me through the first day. I eat in silence. Allow the fire to warm me up but being careful to stay away from the hottest flames. The television shows only news coverage of building work that is already starting, and I can’t bear to see more of it. Not for now, at least. But I leave it on because I need to feel like there’s some life in this house.

The coloring supplies that Dr. Selene kept for me come in handy that first night. I draw the woods now, no longer angry at the mockingjays that flutter across the page. I shade trees until my wrist aches and the friction causes my skin to itch. Time escapes me until I feel the weight of my eyelids and fall asleep on the couch, clutching a pencil. I wake up with a start, dropping the pencil on the floor with a clatter. The clock reads 4:30 am. Might as well start the day now.

While the early hours of the day don’t set me up for the most active morning, inaction eventually gets replaced by restlessness. The lack of consistent sleep hasn’t diminished my conviction to make something of the day.

I get dressed in front of the fire, eat a small breakfast. When I open the front door, the silence around me is broken by birdsong.

My boots catch on roots and brambles. I swat at my neck to keep away the bugs, sweat pouring down my back and temples. The woods were never my home, but that’s no matter. I find what I’m looking for; gently scoop away soil and other plant life. I use a canvas bag that I swap for a wheelbarrow that I salvage from the wreckage in town to transport five small bushes.

By the time I reach the Victor’s Village, I’m exhausted. Not in a bad way, though. My burning lungs remind me that I’ve done something. I put the crate down on the ground, then go fetch a shovel. The sun is still hesitant in showing itself fully, but I know it won’t be long until it shines. It’ll be a bright day today. The shovel scrapes against the soil. I’ve picked a spot around the side of her house, so it’s not in plain view of everyone that passes. This is only for her. I’m about ready to start planting the first one when I hear the door open, frantic footsteps beating down the path around the house. I start, instincts telling me to run, but then I remind myself that no one is after me.

I look up from the ground when I hear the footsteps halt. It’s sooner than later that we meet here again. I try not to react when I see what state she’s in. Pale and thin. Her eyes are hollow. Darkness surrounds them, as if she’s not sleeping a wink. But seeing Katniss alive in front of me has made the long trek this morning worth it.

“You’re back,” she says, eyeing me up and down. I don’t know what she makes of me. Maybe I should just stop trying to figure her out. Let her decide when she wants to confide in me. That is, if she ever wants to.

“Dr. Aurelius wouldn’t let me leave the Capitol until yesterday,” I reply. “By the way, he said to tell you he can’t keep pretending he’s treating you forever. You have to pick up the phone.” Katniss continues to size me up. I frown slightly when I look closer at her. Her hair is in mats around her head. She seems to notice me staring and makes an attempt at hiding it behind her ears.

“What are you doing?” she asks suddenly.

“I went to the woods this morning and dug these up. For her,” I explain. “I thought we could plant them along the side of the house.” I still hold one of the primrose bushes in my hands, ready to put them back into the soil. Katniss frowns at them. The set of her eyebrows makes me ache. Emotions cross her face, but she settles on a curt nod. I’m about to ask her about placement when she turns on her heels and runs back into the house. I hear the smashing of glass and have a mind to check on her, but all goes quiet almost immediately. And besides, I have a task to complete.

It takes me longer than necessary to plant them all. I take my time getting the lines straight, the holes dug just right. I bring in pails of water from my own house because I don’t want to disturb Katniss in hers. It’s almost noon when I stand up, panting and lightheaded. I walk back to my house and take a shower, hissing at the too-hot water hitting my skin. The sweat and grime has aggravated some of it. But I have nowhere to be and no one to see, so I use the salve from the doctors and then wait to dress until most of it has absorbed. In the mirror, I assess myself. My cheeks have yet to fill out more. The pinkness of my skin in places is startling. I shouldn’t be out in the sun so much, but find myself craving the feeling of warmth. The look in my eyes is different. I can bear to look at myself again, I realize. The sight of my face doesn’t make me cry anymore.

I make myself food. Have copious amounts of water to go with it. Brace myself for the moment Dr. Selene specifically told me to be careful with. As I tighten my boots, I allow the sunlight to shine on my face. I resolve to be gentle with myself, allow any emotions to come as they present themselves.

I let the door fall behind me once again and head toward the merchant quarter. The rubble in the streets has been cleared in certain areas, and there are multiple clusters of people who are carrying wheelbarrows and other tools to help the effort. I see horse-drawn carts, people in protective gear. The thaw has revealed things here, no doubt. These people are not only clearing rubble.

I see a group of them near the mayor’s house, walk past them on the way to my parents’ bakery. The carts become more dense as I near the center.

Some of the rubble in front of what used to be the window has been cleared. I can trace my steps to this building blindfolded, so I know I’m where I need to be.

I enter through what I remember to be the front door of the shop. Walk further in through the staff door. The oven still sits in its spot, a stronghold in the carnage. Standing in what was once my home, I don’t have to close my eyes to see the memories. They’re overlayed in the places that I identify just by knowing where they once stood: the table where I used to ice the cakes. I remember now that on the morning of my first Games, I’d laid out the supplies, thinking I’d be back to work the next morning. The sink where my brothers and I would wash up the baking utensils, making a game of who could do it the fastest. None of us ever admitted it was to avoid mother’s displeasure. The place where the stairs used to be. How often did I run up and down them on school mornings, on the days I would have wrestling competitions?

I sink down on one knee and feel the sharpness of the rubble underneath it. The pain is immediate. I try not to focus on it this time.

My mother. My father. My brothers. Would they have been together when it happened? Would they have sat in front of the television to watch as the arena blew up? Would they have looked at each other when the explosions started, realizing it was the end?

I wail. The pain sits like a shard of glass in my chest. I weep until its edges have dulled somewhat, allowing me to open my eyes and come back to myself.

I’ll remember them. For all of their faults, for all of their virtues. For the lives they could have led if things had been different.

“My name is Peeta Mellark. I’m from District Twelve. I’m a baker, a painter, a son and a brother. I will always be those things.”

Back on the street, I find some people in protective gear. We exchange some words. We agree on a time. Soon, when things have slowed down, we’ll find a way to salvage the oven.

They tell me about a mass grave in the meadow. They don’t have to tell me why I should know this. I decide to walk over there against my better judgment, feeling the strain of the emotions and physical exertion already. But the trek is worth it, because it gives me a place to visit them.

I sit at the edge of the meadow, stare out into the distance. And I remember. The people that were taken from me, the memories that now serve as the only proof they existed. Once I retreat back into the silent, still air of my house, I feel their presence with me.

Once the sun starts to set, I’m startled by a knock on the door. The sound echoes through the silent hallway. I walk from the living room, unsure of who I might find on the other side of the door. When I open it, I find an older woman with a child trailing behind her. She introduces herself as Sae, and that name rings a bell. I attempt to recall a specific memory, and dredge up some facts. Greasy Sae, Katniss said.

“Hello,” I say slowly, realizing what a dazed figure I must cut, staring at her from my doorway. I learn quickly that Sae is neither deterred nor offended. She gets right to what it is she needs.

“Katniss needs you,” she says simply. The tone of her voice doesn’t sound alarmed, but I still ask: “Is she okay?” Sae scoffs. It is a stupid question.

“She’d be a little more okay if you’d be there tomorrow morning. Make something to eat if you can,” she says, depositing some baking supplies from a basket onto my front step.

“Of course,” I say. The child behind Sae catches my eye and I smile at her, making her skitter off. Sae releases a breath, clearly weary, but she also manages a smile before she says: “I’ll come by here first thing tomorrow, we’ll go see her together.”

I don’t get a chance to agree because she’s already turned on her heel to leave.

The next morning, I’m waiting in the hallway, a still-warm loaf of bread in my hands. There wasn’t any cheese, so I hope regular bread will do. Another nightmare acted as my alarm and I’ve been making bread since about 5 am. Sae shows up with the girl, who she tells me is her granddaughter. We arrive at Katniss’ house, where Sae lets us in with a key of her own. I don’t question why she has this, but I have a sense that Aurelius has something to do with it.

Katniss comes up to us as we walk through the hall into the kitchen. The difference in her is noticeable; her eyes have a spark to them again, even though the red rim around them tells me that the night’s been difficult. Her hair is clean and loose, her skin slightly red. She must have been in the sun as well. Sidling up beside her is Buttercup the cat. He meows indignantly at us, as if assessing us as visitors. The sight of them next to each other is startling. But I know immediately why they’ve found each other now.

After my shared meal with the others, the walk back to my house has me thinking back on Katniss and the way she seems to have found something to wake up for everyday. 

Katniss is returning to life. A life of her own. I find myself trying to do the same.

I run upstairs and find all of my paints, brushes, and canvases. More than I remember having, but I try to be gentle when a voice in my head tries to tell me that it’s foolish to trust my mind. I get to painting. Really try to lose myself in it, allowing the colors and the shapes to be all I can think of. Instead, it’s like the act of something so familiar makes it easier for my brain to process the things I can’t articulate otherwise. 

It’s easy for me to lose myself in the lives of others. Knowing that others need me to make some bread, or that helping someone with their yard work makes the day go by faster. The idea that I could be useful trumps anything else.

But that’s not living, is it? 

During the nights where sleep eludes me, I pace around the house and try to work myself out. Dr. Selene said it’s not selfish to want things for myself. But it’s difficult to know what I want when it’s never been something I had room to think about.

I lived for my parents; they needed me to work. I lived for my friends; people at school counted on me for wrestling, or to help them with schoolwork. Then, when it became clear that the odds were not in my favor, it was natural to want to live for Katniss. With my mind returning to me, I remember the sheer force of will I had to ensure Katniss’ survival over my own two times over. Because it made sense to me. And I don’t regret any of it. But my parents are gone and so are almost all of my friends, and I’m learning that Katniss doesn’t need me to survive. 

A lifetime ago, I tried to explain an idea. That they don’t own me. That they won’t make me into something I’m not. But if I ever want to do right by myself, then I have to come to terms with the fact that they succeeded. I was a tribute, a prisoner, a pawn used to further a political agenda. They changed me in subtle and unmistakable ways. I get to live with that reality for the rest of my life.

“My name is Peeta Mellark. I’m in District Twelve. I…” I mutter to myself. Sigh. 

The next train from the Capitol not only brings food and provisions, it also brings back people.

I happen to be in the area of the train station when I hear the laugh that brings me back to a different place.

Swivelling, I face Delly Cartwright.

Her eyes go wide at the sight of me and she takes no time running up. Then she stops short, seeming to remember herself. But I no longer hesitate to wrap her in a tight hug.

“Delly, it’s good to see you,” I say to her hair. Her shoulders are shaking. When I pull back, a teary smile is on her face.

“I could say the same about you,” she says, wiping her eyes. The bag around her shoulder drops onto the ground.

“After what happened in the Capitol, I wasn’t sure what would happen to you. Then I heard that you came back home and, well, it made sense to do the same. Because this is home, right? Even if all of it’s changed,” she rambles, reaching down to grab her bag again.

“I know,” I say. 

We catch up on the way to her house. She was allotted a small house in the middle of the district when she requested she wanted to come home. None of her family made it back. I tell her she’s welcome any time if she wants to talk.

That first month, I try to find balance. My calls with Dr. Selene are necessary just to confirm I’m not going insane without being aware of it. We go over my thoughts and she makes me feel less broken on dark days. Delly actually comes around to visit me, which is a relief. I apologize for how I acted towards her in 13. She doesn’t try to wave me off, which tells me how much I needed to say it. Katniss comes around sometimes, too. I make sure there is always some food she can take back. 

Every night, I sleep with the windows open. I take sugar in my tea, I double knot my shoelaces. I bake and I paint and I tell myself over and over that I’m going to be okay. Even when the nights seem endless and I can’t wake up from a nightmare. Even when I see Katniss and that glint is back and I have to physically shake myself off and run back to my house in case I hurt her. She comes by when it’s been a particularly bad time and we play ‘real or not real’ until I see her for who she really is.

The sparkle in her eye is all hers.

So, I live. Day by day, night by night. Remind myself of all I’ve learned, all I’ve lost. All I've gained, even though there is very little in that regard. I tally up the things that are going well. Acceptance comes in many forms, even when it feels like I’m making no progress.

I’m sitting at the edge of the meadow. The breeze picks up a bit, another hazy summer day coming to its end. Stray locks of hair flop over my forehead, covering some scars there. My legs are splayed out in front me and I lean back on my hands, staring at the sunset that is slowly starting to make itself known.

My fingers reach out into the grass, fingernails digging into the soft soil. Katniss and I are meeting each other at my house for dinner. She insisted on cooking for me tonight. Something about plum stew. A smile lingers on my face at the memory.

As I pack my things and take a last look at the meadow for that day, the burn in my leg reminds me that I have a long way to go before I reach my house. But no matter. I’ve survived worse than that.