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[Fic] Still I Rise (3/3)
Part One and Header Info here
Part Two
We land in a clearing in what I think is District 7 from the herd of cows scattered in a nearby field. Several of the men and women from the hovercraft come down, and Haymitch and I are told to run with them, to keep by the tree line, and they would let us know when to stop.
Haymitch swears, and says he needs a drink. One of the men passes him a flask. It turns out to be water. Haymitch sprays some of it over me in surprised disgust before eyeballing the guy and swigging some of it down. "I'm going to get the DTs soon. You'd better top me up or it'll be like lugging an incontinent child around."
The guy promptly lets Haymitch keep the water flask, an unhappy expression to his face.
I stay by Haymitch's side as we start running. The ground and the trees are so much different here to watch I'm used to. The leaves are not the right shade of green. Haymitch is breathing hard after just a couple of minutes. He looks pale.
"Alcohol withdrawal," he pants, wasting air, "has the same symptoms as someone 800 metres above sea level. But you wouldn't know that feeling, would you?"
"You do?"
He looks a little sad for a moment. "Most of the arenas are quite high up," he wheezes, like it's just a fact, no emotion attached to it at all, but he wouldn't waste his breath on something without any meaning. "It's okay for the Districts who are used to the altitude, but the outlying Districts to the East..."
"We have some mountains," I offer, ducking my head under some branches so I can keep to Haymitch's side.
He grunts.
It takes us a long time to reach our apparent destination, and Haymitch isn't kidding about these DTs or whatever it is he called them. He's shaking and breathing much too hard for someone just simply out of shape. He looks terrible as we're led into the back of a large warehouse.
The building is clinical, reflective steel panels all over the wall, the like of which I've only ever seen on TV in glimpses of the Capitol. We have no use for metal sheeting like this in District 12, although now I think about it, I guess I've seen some houses outside of the Seam which use them on the roofing. The whole place has a funny smell which takes me a moment to place, until I recall it from home. From all the times someone has lain bleeding on our table.
Blood. The smell crawls up my nostrils. I am gripped by the feeling that I don't want this to be the last thing Prim smells. She deserves flowers and freshly-baked bread and freedom. Haymitch then asks in a low mutter if I'm okay. Considering how he's faring, his skin drained white, his eyes swollen and dull, I must look dreadful.
Then we're ushered into a room filled with a people in beds. Patients. There's a woman in the corner who looks up when she comes in. She has dark brown eyes, puffy with fatigue. She looks like she's in her early thirties.
"Commander Paylor of Eight," one of the men leading us says, moving into a salute that his men follow. I stay stood, uneasily not moving. Haymitch breaks out the most shit-eating grin I've ever seen him pull.
She looks much too young to be a Commander. She draws up to us with smart, regimented steps. Up close I can see that one shoulder is dropped. She's been injured. Has there already been fighting? But we've not heard about it.
No, of course, the Capitol would keep it secret that people had already been protesting. I look around at the patients and the couple of women who are dressed in District 7 overalls who are moving between them, applying poultices to injuries. They're healers like my mother, then. The injuries range from bloodied faces to an amputation in a bed closer to us. There's been a lot of fighting, then.
When I look back to Paylor, she's looking me up and down like I'm a sack of potatoes she's unhappy with. "This is her?"
There's an authority to her voice which, at least, makes me realise why she's a Commander even though she's so young. She sounds disappointed.
"I could say the same about you," I say, sounding far braver than I feel. I am disappointed. If this is the leader of this so-called rebellion, I start to think maybe it's not a good idea. I'm closer to the Capitol now than I was. Getting to Prim on my own is still an—albeit possibly stupid—option.
Paylor laughs. "Okay, I see the spark." She pushes her lips together and looks me over again. "We should get her training with the others."
A man behind me gives me a shove, and I glare and refuse to move. "Hey, come on, not without a bit of an explanation as to what's going on here. I know I'm just a kid from District 12 who wants her sister back, but I'm not stupid. How do I know you're not just going to shove me into a room, or turn me over to the Capitol, or-"
"You don't know," one of the men says, sounding quite amiable about it.
"Boggs," Paylor says, with a sigh. She looks at me, and talks about me like I'm not there. "She does have a right to know."
"A right to know what?" I demand.
Haymitch steps forward, still sweating even though it's cold in this steel building. "I'll try and house train her," Haymitch promises, "but the girl's been through an emotional ringer. If you want a figurehead to lead the cause, it doesn't hurt to get her on your side. A little information won't hurt, and if the Capitol get to her, she wouldn't last long enough to tell them anything useful. And if you brought us to a fundamental piece in the revolution puzzle, well, that makes you all kinds of not smart, not her."
Paylor makes a whistling sound between her teeth. "Fine. Come with me."
She jerks her head. I throw an uncertain look at Haymitch and he tilts his head, meaning clearly, follow. I do. When I look back, Haymitch has already snatched a bottle of white spirits from one of the shelves. I wince. That stuff is meant for cleaning wounds and it tastes particularly unpleasant. I know. Mother keeps a bottle of it around, and I went through a phase of tasting every one of her remedies to make sure Mother couldn't kill herself with any of them while I was out.
Paylor jerks her head at one of the men, who hurries up with a portable screen and some wires with some complicated equipment that Paylor snaps into the wall with a collection of sighs which show she'd really rather be using her time more usefully than interacting with an impulsive sixteen year old.
"This is this year's official footage of the Reaping," Paylor says, pushing the last piece of equipment into place. She sounds a lot like a teacher when she says, "Tell me what's different about it."
I swallow and watch it, desperate to see who else might be the one to hurt Prim. There's been a worse thought, deep in the back of my mind, that if it's the Victor who kills her, then the Victor would live, and taking out a Victor would hurt the Capitol too. I don't think I should voice this thought. Not because I am ashamed for thinking it, although that's true too, but because these people might think it's a good idea.
I am much too impulsive when it comes to plan-making. Haymitch is right.
The Reapings are cut together seamlessly, moving from one District to the next. District 1 and 2 take the longest. They have the most complicated volunteer process. Then it's rapid from then on, moving from face to face to face until they all blur into one impossibly strong, fast, determined tribute intent on mowing Prim down in the most horrible way.
When they get to District 12, it's not smooth. It's not seamless. It's jumpy, badly edited. I put my hands to my mouth in realisation. They've edited me out, and I made too much of a stir. I was too obvious.
"People noticed something happened in District 12," Paylor says, as the screen blossoms into an advertisement of the Hunger Games. Coming soon. "The Districts that could get hold of the footage have been passing it around. Your volunteering has spread like wildfire in those Districts. The Districts that couldn't get hold of it, like District 7 at first-" She nods around the room. "They assumed District 12 had an uprising."
"But-" My mind is whirring. "There's no news of 12 being punished. If they think that-"
"They think the Capitol is weak. Allowing protest. Almost five Districts are currently in the midst of protests. There's been a lot of casualties. In three of those, the Capitol has tried to sneak out the footage. I am correct in that you saw your sister's interview?"
I nod. I remember Caesar asking Prim about me volunteering. "It's too late," I say, remembering how quickly Prim was taken from the stage. "They think the Capitol is just covering it up so they can quietly take out the problem." I turn to Paylor. "Tell me. How much are they punishing Prim for what she did?"
Paylor's expression is tight, and then she sees something in my face that resonates with her, because she sags a little. "Very little food, from what I can gather. We have a man on the inside. A stylist. He's been sneaking her food when he can. The other tributes are being encouraged to bully both 12 tributes. And Peeta Mellark was given a 12 as his training score this morning."
"That's too early," I say, "that's not enough time. There's still a week of training left, at least."
"Not now. They've moved it up a week." Paylor shakes her head. "The Games start tomorrow."
"A 12 though," I say, "that's good, right, it-" I trail off. Realising what it means. "It's a punishment. They'll all be after him now. We have to go. We have to go now."
Paylor sighs. "It's going to take us 2 days to get surreptitiously to the arena. By that time, the Games will be mostly over."
Something behind my eyes spark, and I nearly get an arrow fully notched to a bow when someone grabs me, holding my arms behind my back. I turn angrily to see District 4's shining victor, Finnick Odair, holding me down. He's just as beautiful up close as he is on TV, and I feel rage and fury. I want to destroy his perfect, stupid face. Behind that handsome mask is the eyes of a killer. I want to tear his throat out with my teeth, like that District 2 winner did, once upon a time. My teeth are not sharpened, but they will do.
"Stop struggling, Mockingjay," Finnick says, looking at the gold pin I attached to my jacket to keep it safe. "I'm not the enemy."
"Let me go," I snarl.
"There's definitely fire in the family," Finnick says to Paylor. There's laughter in his tone. Of course there would be. Everyone knows how popular Finnick Odair is. They say he has a girl in every District. "Relax. Prim's got protection. My District's sponsoring them. She'll have food, water, weapons. She'll last the two days. We won't get there in time if you hold us all up."
I glare, struggle, and still. Someone yanks my bow and arrows away from me, and I smooth myself down, glaring at them both.
"And you don't have a choice," Paylor says, grimly. "We were going to use Finnick as our symbol, but I think you at the head, with Finnick following, is a much stronger image to show to the Capitol and the Districts. But we can still use Finnick and I can lock you up in the brig until this is all over. Of course, then there'd be no one in the arena with a reason to root for your little sister. No one to take that special care to ensure she doesn't get accidentally hurt by one of our own."
I glare, but I have no arguments left.
"Take her," Paylor says to Finnick.
"With pleasure," Finnick purrs, in his golden, honey-toned voice.
"Get her ready for the arena," Paylor says.
"Nothing ever gets you ready for the arena," Finnick says, in such a haunting tone I think somehow I've misunderstood him. But then he grabs hold of my elbow and I shake him off, anger boiling in my stomach. Finnick is a Victor. Did he feel anything when he killed his opponents? Maybe he killed someone's little sister. "Come on," he adds, in a gentler tone.
I look back desperately, but Haymitch just nods, go on. So I follow, feeling the hope for Prim's rescue fade out of me.
Like a Mockingjay flying away.
I don't know what I thought Paylor had meant by training, but not this. It's a boot camp. To my consternation we do not even get into a hovercraft until 24 hours have passed, and for most of those hours, apart from a short period of sleep time I get, I spend learning how to fight.
Finnick teaches me how to work against a trident. When he sees how I shoot, we move onto sword fighting. After my sleep, we move onto climbing, up a rudimentary sort of climbing wall.
And then we're transferred onto a hovercraft, and instead of being shoved into a small dark room like before, there's a large well-lit room in the back with what Finnick calls gym equipment. He hadn't heard of it either until the Games, but now he's a Victor, he makes sure to have access to it whenever possible, because the only way he can sleep after the Games is to know he can run.
He makes me run on a machine I have never seen the like of before, and joins me, jogging away at a much higher speed than I can manage. I am exhausted, but keep pushing. He tells me we'll have eight hours to rest before touching down in the arena, and I must sleep for as much of that as I can manage, because I will need to be strong.
We take a break and drink something for dinner that Finnick calls a protein shake "with added fat". It's tasteless but will make us stronger, he says.
"I never thought I'd go back into that arena for anything," Finnick says, as he pulls me back onto the running machine after a short rest. "Turns out that sometimes something ends up being worth more than all the terror. Something more than your own life."
He tells me without looking at me with such heartbreaking honesty about this girl, Annie. About how President Snow has sold him all over the twelve Districts, sold his body. In return, Snow has kept the girl Annie alive. Annie's mind got a bit jumbled in the arena, but Finnick's love for Annie—once he begins to talk about her—is so obvious that my heart jars.
I thought no one in the world would understand how badly I needed Prim back. I don't mind telling Finnick Odair that I am wrong. He smiles a sad, terrible smile, and says, "Thanks, Mockingjay."
He doesn't use my name, and soon Paylor and the rest of her people pick up on it. Mockingjay. I am no longer Katniss Everdeen, older sister, District 12 girl. I am the Mockingjay. Some of Paylor's soldiers side-eye me with such hope in their expressions that I am almost physically sick with terror.
What are they expecting from just a District 12 girl, not even old enough to work?
Finnick sees the terror in my face and distracts me with footage from the game. There is not much of Peeta and Prim. The Capitol are editing them out as much as possible. My heart leaps every time there's a cannon blast. Sometimes the Games last for weeks, but this batch of tributes are being mown down. The District 11 girl Rue even claims a victim as I watch, dropping a nest of trackerjackers down on some Careers. I force myself to watch. Even 12 year olds are turned into killers for the games. Prim. Her heart would not survive killing someone. We note down where cameras where in the most popular locations of the Games, so we can take out any that might announce our advance too soon.
Before it is time for me to try and sleep, Prim and Peeta make it into the Final 8. The Capitol are forced to show some footage of them. I let out a holler and nearly stumble from the weight-training thing Finnick's pushed me onto. They're both wearing metallic suits that cover them up to the neck.
"What is that?"
"They would have bankrupted our District," Finnick says, sounding just as overwhelmed. "Some other Districts must be helping. They're weapon-proof suits, Katniss. Only a headshot would take them out and look, look at the survivors. No shooters left."
It's the first time Finnick's used my name, his hope overwhelming his brain. My heart stutters. I won't be sleeping well now, I know. I'd barely dared to hope, and now- Now it seemed like this might work. The whole rebellion took flight in my brain, spinning out into all its wondrous possibilities. The world alight. The world free.
And then it feels like the world is crashing down around me when all the survivors so far get a quote about them from a loved one... apart from ours. "Mrs. Everdeen remained impossible to find for a comment following the tragic illness which led to death of her remaining daughter, Katniss. Mr. Mellark's family refused to comment."
So they were pretending I was dead. I swallowed. My mother might even be dead. It surprised me how much I did care, but I cared more about Prim. As far as I think my heart was concerned, Mother died with Father down in the mine. She'd been about as present as a ghost after the explosion.
Finnick claps me on the shoulder. I can see from his face he's still thinking about Annie. I nod at him, determined.
We can do this.
We can set the world free.
We have to.
In order to take the Capitol by surprise, they cannot drop us off in the middle of the arena, even though they have some District 3 past Victor called Beetee who's worked out how to take the forcefield down. Haymitch gets misty-eyed at that part of the briefing.
I was right. I barely slept. But the training—although short—has not worn me out. I feel strong. I feel capable of anything. I am not going into the arena as tribute. I am going in as the Mockingjay.
Seriously. Finnick's continued nickname of Mockingjay for me had made Paylor and the woman who she was really working under decide that it was as good a working name as any. I was a symbol of freedom, and what better symbol than a bird who the Capitol hadn't intended to survive in the first place?
Paylor's superior is a slush-coloured woman called Coin who makes me feel a little uneasy so thank goodness I'd met Paylor first, because I'm struck with the sensation I might have gone ahead and shot Coin And the way everyone interacts with Coin is a little too much like people act around President Snow for my liking. I'd have been dead in a heartbeat.
I am wearing my District 12 clothes still. There was talk about dressing me up, maybe even as a Mockingjay, but artifice is the Capitol's speciality, not ours. We are truthful. We are the heart of the country and the heart of everything that matters to people. I am a simple District 12 girl with the strength of truth and justice behind me.
We were not born to be slaves to the Capitol. We were born to be free. To make our own choices, our own lives. The punishment of the Games—of our whole lives of servitude—has been going on too long.
"Look at you," Haymitch says, as I repeat some of the words Coin has given me to learn, "Miss. Rebellion herself." He pats me awkwardly on the shoulder. "Stay alive, kid."
"You too," I say, eyeballing the bottle in his hand.
He looks back at me sadly and just nods. I turn to Paylor. "I'm ready," I tell her.
"You're never ready for the arena," Finnick tells me.
"Cheerful," I say.
"Always." Finnick grins.
There's a couple of faces I recognise in the soldiers coming down with us, some other past Victors. They're tense. Coming back into the arena, deliberately, it must be like walking voluntarily into Snow's grasping, vengeful fingers. They're all decked in black but they do not hide their faces, even though should we fail completely, the Capitol will use our faces as a warning. My stomach flips. What right do we have to decide the fate of the whole Districts? Last time District 13 was annihilated for our sins. There's something mocking in Coin's face when I say that in desperation, and I settle down.
This is still Prim's best chance. The weapon-proof suits were not a gift to save my baby sister. They were a sign. We're just Districts, but we have the power to save people too. We give you this, so you can give us freedom. If I did not do this, there's every chance the Districts who sent Prim and Peeta those suits would kill them for the betrayal of trust. If we do not succeed, the Capitol will punish whoever sent them especially.
"Come on, Mockingjay, it could be worse," Finnick says, as we arrange ourselves in the vacuum tubes to be deposited in the arena. If Beetee's invention works. Or we could all be fried on the way in and that's the end of everything.
"How?" I mutter, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. My feet are sore from all the training, but pain doesn't matter. Prim, I think. Prim.
"You could be doing this without me. Imagine it. All this work and you're deprived from the joy of seeing my face," Finnick says, deadpan.
I'm smiling as the tubes take us away.
The arena is even more terrible in person.
As some of the soldiers around me shoot out places we know from watching the footage of the game so far hold cameras, I can't help but think about what it must be like to be here. Dying. Killing.
Boggs came down with us. He's holding a small screen thing like Haymitch had. "We've got the frequencies of the tributes. Four left now."
"Four?" My stomach twinges.
"Cato from District 2. Thresh, District 11. And Peeta and Prim, District 12," Boggs reads from the display. I try and think about who was alive this morning when we watched the footage. There were eight. "Rue from District 11 was caught in a snare. Speared by a boy from District 1. Thresh took him out, deliberately chased him by the look of things, and a girl named Clove from District 2. There was a girl from District 5..." His head flew up from the reader. "It's attributing the death to Prim Everdeen."
"What?" My fingers tremble as I notch my first arrow into the bow, ready to use it if I have to. I think of six-foot broad-shouldered Thresh. Would one arrow take him down? Would I be able to? Or would I be able to save him too? Talk sense into him? Yes, I think fiercely. He was large but his eyes were kind.
"Nightlock berries," Boggs reads. "The feed here says 5 was stealing food from everyone. Your sister must have accidentally gathered Nightlock berries. They're poisonous. They can kill within a minute of ingesting even one."
"Wow," Finnick breathes. His trademark golden trident flashes in the sun bearing down between the heavy trees of this arena, and he looks up, shielding his eyes. "Little sis is quite the killer."
The anger boils through me and I grit my teeth. I desperately want to shove Finnick, but Haymitch has been one at me repeatedly for the last couple of days. My impulsiveness is what got me entangled in this revolution. I should really try my best not to get tangled in it.
My heart is breaking, though. Just a little. Does Prim know she killed the girl? Prim won't survive this. She might survive the game, but killing a person... Prim cries when I bring home dead squirrels, even though she knows we have to eat. Prim cries when she steps on a bug.
"We have to get her," I say. "Now."
"Definitely a plan," one of the soldiers says at the back. "We can't have got all the cameras. We have to run."
I don't understand what he means, until I see them—a flock of Mockingjays hurtling through the trees in the direction that—according to Bogg's screen—is way away from the Cornucopia, where Peeta and Prim seem to be hiding out.
Something's coming our way. Something birds are frightened of.
We start running, the same way the Mockingjays went. Panic runs through my veins. Have they been throwing things like this at Prim? How many nightmares has she had to run from for these past two days?
"Beetee," Finnick yells into the earpiece he's wearing, "they're manipulating the arena. Can you get us a path through to Prim?"
There's a buzz which might be affirmative, might not be. Finnick reaches over and takes Bogg's screen, effortlessly doing something to the display as we hurtle through the undergrowth. The air smells tart, acidic, and that's when I realise—there's a wall of fire moving towards us.
The world transforms to flame and smoke as the uniform wall of fire marches towards us. Somewhere up above in a clinical room, the Gamemakers are creating this spectacle. I wonder if they have been told it is a tribute gone astray, or if this is a regular thing to do to intruders, or if all the Gamemakers are in on the truth from the start? That this Game, more than most, has been manipulated heavily from the start.
Burning branches crack from trees, falling in showers of sparks at our feet. Rabbits and deers break free of the treeline now, hurrying through the underbush faster than we can. Our boots catch on roots, on fallen tree limbs, and the heat is bad, but worse is the smoke that barrels through. I pull the top of my shirt over my nose. I run swiftly, my quiver of arrows banging against my back. Everyone is choking from the smoke. A soldier near to me stumbles and I drop to help her up, finally recognising her in this moment. Johanna Mason. So many Districts, so many Victors, all working together—this can't be ruined now.
She's hurt. I put my arm around her and we run, our faces cut with branches that materialise from the grey haze with no warning, and we have to hurdle over a burning log. The adrenaline and our combined power take us over it. I wonder if I could have managed the same, scared, alone. If my clothes set on fire too, I do not know how I would have reacted.
The Games teach people how to react in circumstances no one should know how to deal with.
It only takes minutes for my throat and nose to burn. The choking turns to coughing, and my lungs feel like someone is cooking them. Each breath is searing pain. One of the soldiers nearby vomits painfully. Finnick drops back and hauls the soldier over his back, vomit spraying over his shoulders. We know we have to keep moving, even if we're moving in the wrong direction.
The air is filled with coughing and crackling. Finnick won't be able to hear above it. The smoke is starting to be too thick. I'm starting to think Beetee won't be able to get us in the right direction when the first fireball blasts into a rock in the path ahead, and the wall of fire shifts direction.
Beetee hasn't been able to tell us where to go, but he's using the fire—much like the Gamemakers—to force us in the right direction.
Except he musn't have full control, because there's a hiss and one of the fireballs smacks into one of the soldiers, blasting them right into the marching wall of fire. I struggle in the direction but Johanna, still under my arm, hisses, "Are you an idiot? He's dead. We knew that was a cost coming in. We've got to keep going, or it's all been for nothing."
She's right. Remaining still is death—not just ours. Of the revolution. There's another hiss and Johanna and I share a look and take off, running in the path Beetee is clearing up for us. Finnick's just behind us. We lose another soldier as the third fireball becomes a pillar of fire where Johanna and I had just been standing.
Time almost loses meaning as we frantically keep heading forwards. Some fireballs come straight at us—some direct us a certain way. We don't know which is which. We wait for the hiss and dive out of the way. We lose a couple more soldiers. I don't know their names, and that's the thought that's lodged in my head when we come stumbling out into some sort of a clearing.
Even though there's bound to be a thousand cameras pointed at us, Finnick forces us on. The wall of fire continues to chase us, until the very end of the treeline. As we all stumble out into the grass, looking behind in horror at the shimmering wall of heat, the canon sounds.
Twice.
My heart leaps into my mouth and I'm shouting, screaming some of the obscenities Haymitch taught me up into the sky. Let the Capitol get this. Let them see my defiance. I do not care. I think of Prim and Peeta burning, of it being my fault. The heat was searing. Even those suits wouldn't have stopped them from boiling alive.
"Mockingjay," Finnick says, and then slaps me. I still, and fall silent, looking at him desperately. My eyes communicate what my burned throat cannot handle. If this was Annie, would you not do the same?
The sadness on his face says, yes, and more.
"They're fine," Finnick says. "See?" He tilts the screen towards me. "They're only over in the next clearing."
"You mean where those dogs are going," Johanna Mason says. I watched her year in the Games. She came across as weak—until she showed it was an act and she was strong, all along. To voluntarily join this revolution, you did have to be strong. I felt unworthy to be standing amongst them. I was selfish. I was foolish. I was... thinking about myself when Johanna had said something about dogs.
"They're not dogs," Finnick says, and starts running again, "they're muttations."
I let out another of Haymitch's choicer swear words and follow. This is where I can be of best hope to Prim.
And we are.
When the muttations, another cruel creation of the Gamemakers up there in their control room, realise that they're being picked off from behind, they swerve from their intended easier prey of Peeta and Prim, but it's too late.
Ten of us survived the fire. There are 22 muttations. They are terrible dogs, with human-looking eyes and numbers on their collars. Probably to make Prim think about the dogs all representing the tributes that were dead instead of her. Prim is sentimental like that.
I take out six of them before they even get close. Finnick shows easily when they get closer why he was a master with his trident. The muttations are no match for us all. Johanna takes out the last one, which was headed towards me, and we look at each other.
"They're on the Cornucopia," Finnick says, "this way."
We run. Even though I am hurt and aching from the fire, it doesn't feel hard. I know I am running to Prim. I'm coming to save her, just like I promised I would. Everything's worked out, somehow. Prim and Peeta are free, and then we can free everyone else. We can ban the Hunger Games and make the Capitol people work too, and we can share what we have. No one has to die at all in the future, not for anything other than old age and the illnesses we can't cure yet.
I scream Prim's name as we come onto the field, but she doesn't respond. I can see two figures on the Cornucopia. Maybe there was something that meant they couldn't hear me. I scream Prim's name louder, but something cuts me off.
A single canon shot.
"NO!"
I hurtle forwards now, running faster, faster. Breaking away from the group. There is strength in me that I don't understand and I climb up the Cornucopia's shiny golden side without even knowing how my desperate feet are finding purchase on its slip-smooth surface.
My legs give out when I find Peeta standing there dully, his hand stretched out towards Prim's prone body.
At first I think Peeta's done it. Peeta's killed my little girl. Killed my Prim. But then I notice the way Peeta's sleeves are rolled up, and the deep cuts in Peeta's wrist. I notice the blood dripping down his arms, the paleness of his face. The pool of blood he's standing in.
And I notice the berry stain around Prim's mouth.
I drop to her in horror, putting my hand over her small, open mouth. There's still warmth in her.
"Prim?"
Prim's eyes flutter, and I jolt. There's still hope. If we can heal her, if we can just- "I couldn't," Prim says, "I just couldn't- I couldn't- Someone died from me, Katniss, someone- Not Peeta too. Not for me. I couldn't-"
And then she dies, in my arms.
When I look up, Peeta sinks to the ground. Finnick's already hurtling up onto the Cornucopia's horn, bandaging Peeta's wrists. Peeta tried to kill himself to save Prim, and Prim...
Prim must have kept the Nightlock berries she accidentally killed the District 5 girl with. And the guilt from that, and seeing Peeta try and kill himself to keep her alive, it had been too much. Too much for my glorious, wonderful Prim.
I am broken. I am fury.
Above our head is a tremendous sound. There has been a death, of course, and a hovercraft must come and take the dead body away before the Victor can be crowned.
Normally they wait til the body's alone, unsurrounded. Hovercrafts can hurt people too close to them. The Capitol want to hurt me.
There is nothing they can do to me that hasn't already been done.
I lay Prim's body on the ground and pull out my arrows. I do not need to be Beetee, an electric genius, to guess where to hit to hurt this thing.
I draw the string back and start shooting my arrows at the hovercraft. One after another. I do not need impulsiveness or luck. One arrow has to strike a fuel source eventually.
The eighth one does. The Hovercraft teeters and falls, crashing down into the arena in flames.
I am cold. I am revenge. I am merciless.
I know there's a camera at the mouth of the cornucopia. I lift Prim in my arms and slide down the Cornucopia. I land steadily. I walk to the camera and face it.
"My name," I say, "is Katniss Everdeen. I am a District 12 girl. But you're going to know me better as the Mockingjay, President Snow. Today we've hit out at you. Today, the Districts turn against you. We're tired of being your slaves. We are not your puppets. And you might try and turn against us, but..." I glance back.
Behind me, the Hovercraft is still burning. I stand in its glow, a terrible silhouette. I look across at Finnick and he is grinning, tight and fierce. Johanna stands next to him. We're united in our grief, and in our rage.
"Just remember.... My sister Prim. She was a Girl on Fire. But now I've caught alight too. Others will too. You can try and burn us down, but remember... If we burn - you burn with us!"
Nestled in my arms, it's almost like Prim is just asleep. Another Hovercraft comes down, but this one is ours. Its metal belly is painted with a white Mockingjay. My stomach clenches, burning with anger, as I turn away from the camera.
"Where do we start?" I say.
Finnick's face is still alight. I've woken something in him. The same thing that's awake in me. "District 13 was never destroyed." His voice is loud so the microphones will pick it up. If the Capitol haven't cut off the broadcast, everyone will know this new fact. And they'll know exactly how far from indomitable the Capitol really is. "Maybe we'll start there."
News that would have surprised me before just tastes bitter in my mouth. "Okay," I say.
I lie Prim on the ground, and shoot out the camera with my last arrow. She's dead, but so is Katniss Everdeen along with her, an innocent girl from District 12.
I am the Mockingjay.
And the Capitol is going down.
~
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
Maya Angelou
Part Two
We land in a clearing in what I think is District 7 from the herd of cows scattered in a nearby field. Several of the men and women from the hovercraft come down, and Haymitch and I are told to run with them, to keep by the tree line, and they would let us know when to stop.
Haymitch swears, and says he needs a drink. One of the men passes him a flask. It turns out to be water. Haymitch sprays some of it over me in surprised disgust before eyeballing the guy and swigging some of it down. "I'm going to get the DTs soon. You'd better top me up or it'll be like lugging an incontinent child around."
The guy promptly lets Haymitch keep the water flask, an unhappy expression to his face.
I stay by Haymitch's side as we start running. The ground and the trees are so much different here to watch I'm used to. The leaves are not the right shade of green. Haymitch is breathing hard after just a couple of minutes. He looks pale.
"Alcohol withdrawal," he pants, wasting air, "has the same symptoms as someone 800 metres above sea level. But you wouldn't know that feeling, would you?"
"You do?"
He looks a little sad for a moment. "Most of the arenas are quite high up," he wheezes, like it's just a fact, no emotion attached to it at all, but he wouldn't waste his breath on something without any meaning. "It's okay for the Districts who are used to the altitude, but the outlying Districts to the East..."
"We have some mountains," I offer, ducking my head under some branches so I can keep to Haymitch's side.
He grunts.
It takes us a long time to reach our apparent destination, and Haymitch isn't kidding about these DTs or whatever it is he called them. He's shaking and breathing much too hard for someone just simply out of shape. He looks terrible as we're led into the back of a large warehouse.
The building is clinical, reflective steel panels all over the wall, the like of which I've only ever seen on TV in glimpses of the Capitol. We have no use for metal sheeting like this in District 12, although now I think about it, I guess I've seen some houses outside of the Seam which use them on the roofing. The whole place has a funny smell which takes me a moment to place, until I recall it from home. From all the times someone has lain bleeding on our table.
Blood. The smell crawls up my nostrils. I am gripped by the feeling that I don't want this to be the last thing Prim smells. She deserves flowers and freshly-baked bread and freedom. Haymitch then asks in a low mutter if I'm okay. Considering how he's faring, his skin drained white, his eyes swollen and dull, I must look dreadful.
Then we're ushered into a room filled with a people in beds. Patients. There's a woman in the corner who looks up when she comes in. She has dark brown eyes, puffy with fatigue. She looks like she's in her early thirties.
"Commander Paylor of Eight," one of the men leading us says, moving into a salute that his men follow. I stay stood, uneasily not moving. Haymitch breaks out the most shit-eating grin I've ever seen him pull.
She looks much too young to be a Commander. She draws up to us with smart, regimented steps. Up close I can see that one shoulder is dropped. She's been injured. Has there already been fighting? But we've not heard about it.
No, of course, the Capitol would keep it secret that people had already been protesting. I look around at the patients and the couple of women who are dressed in District 7 overalls who are moving between them, applying poultices to injuries. They're healers like my mother, then. The injuries range from bloodied faces to an amputation in a bed closer to us. There's been a lot of fighting, then.
When I look back to Paylor, she's looking me up and down like I'm a sack of potatoes she's unhappy with. "This is her?"
There's an authority to her voice which, at least, makes me realise why she's a Commander even though she's so young. She sounds disappointed.
"I could say the same about you," I say, sounding far braver than I feel. I am disappointed. If this is the leader of this so-called rebellion, I start to think maybe it's not a good idea. I'm closer to the Capitol now than I was. Getting to Prim on my own is still an—albeit possibly stupid—option.
Paylor laughs. "Okay, I see the spark." She pushes her lips together and looks me over again. "We should get her training with the others."
A man behind me gives me a shove, and I glare and refuse to move. "Hey, come on, not without a bit of an explanation as to what's going on here. I know I'm just a kid from District 12 who wants her sister back, but I'm not stupid. How do I know you're not just going to shove me into a room, or turn me over to the Capitol, or-"
"You don't know," one of the men says, sounding quite amiable about it.
"Boggs," Paylor says, with a sigh. She looks at me, and talks about me like I'm not there. "She does have a right to know."
"A right to know what?" I demand.
Haymitch steps forward, still sweating even though it's cold in this steel building. "I'll try and house train her," Haymitch promises, "but the girl's been through an emotional ringer. If you want a figurehead to lead the cause, it doesn't hurt to get her on your side. A little information won't hurt, and if the Capitol get to her, she wouldn't last long enough to tell them anything useful. And if you brought us to a fundamental piece in the revolution puzzle, well, that makes you all kinds of not smart, not her."
Paylor makes a whistling sound between her teeth. "Fine. Come with me."
She jerks her head. I throw an uncertain look at Haymitch and he tilts his head, meaning clearly, follow. I do. When I look back, Haymitch has already snatched a bottle of white spirits from one of the shelves. I wince. That stuff is meant for cleaning wounds and it tastes particularly unpleasant. I know. Mother keeps a bottle of it around, and I went through a phase of tasting every one of her remedies to make sure Mother couldn't kill herself with any of them while I was out.
Paylor jerks her head at one of the men, who hurries up with a portable screen and some wires with some complicated equipment that Paylor snaps into the wall with a collection of sighs which show she'd really rather be using her time more usefully than interacting with an impulsive sixteen year old.
"This is this year's official footage of the Reaping," Paylor says, pushing the last piece of equipment into place. She sounds a lot like a teacher when she says, "Tell me what's different about it."
I swallow and watch it, desperate to see who else might be the one to hurt Prim. There's been a worse thought, deep in the back of my mind, that if it's the Victor who kills her, then the Victor would live, and taking out a Victor would hurt the Capitol too. I don't think I should voice this thought. Not because I am ashamed for thinking it, although that's true too, but because these people might think it's a good idea.
I am much too impulsive when it comes to plan-making. Haymitch is right.
The Reapings are cut together seamlessly, moving from one District to the next. District 1 and 2 take the longest. They have the most complicated volunteer process. Then it's rapid from then on, moving from face to face to face until they all blur into one impossibly strong, fast, determined tribute intent on mowing Prim down in the most horrible way.
When they get to District 12, it's not smooth. It's not seamless. It's jumpy, badly edited. I put my hands to my mouth in realisation. They've edited me out, and I made too much of a stir. I was too obvious.
"People noticed something happened in District 12," Paylor says, as the screen blossoms into an advertisement of the Hunger Games. Coming soon. "The Districts that could get hold of the footage have been passing it around. Your volunteering has spread like wildfire in those Districts. The Districts that couldn't get hold of it, like District 7 at first-" She nods around the room. "They assumed District 12 had an uprising."
"But-" My mind is whirring. "There's no news of 12 being punished. If they think that-"
"They think the Capitol is weak. Allowing protest. Almost five Districts are currently in the midst of protests. There's been a lot of casualties. In three of those, the Capitol has tried to sneak out the footage. I am correct in that you saw your sister's interview?"
I nod. I remember Caesar asking Prim about me volunteering. "It's too late," I say, remembering how quickly Prim was taken from the stage. "They think the Capitol is just covering it up so they can quietly take out the problem." I turn to Paylor. "Tell me. How much are they punishing Prim for what she did?"
Paylor's expression is tight, and then she sees something in my face that resonates with her, because she sags a little. "Very little food, from what I can gather. We have a man on the inside. A stylist. He's been sneaking her food when he can. The other tributes are being encouraged to bully both 12 tributes. And Peeta Mellark was given a 12 as his training score this morning."
"That's too early," I say, "that's not enough time. There's still a week of training left, at least."
"Not now. They've moved it up a week." Paylor shakes her head. "The Games start tomorrow."
"A 12 though," I say, "that's good, right, it-" I trail off. Realising what it means. "It's a punishment. They'll all be after him now. We have to go. We have to go now."
Paylor sighs. "It's going to take us 2 days to get surreptitiously to the arena. By that time, the Games will be mostly over."
Something behind my eyes spark, and I nearly get an arrow fully notched to a bow when someone grabs me, holding my arms behind my back. I turn angrily to see District 4's shining victor, Finnick Odair, holding me down. He's just as beautiful up close as he is on TV, and I feel rage and fury. I want to destroy his perfect, stupid face. Behind that handsome mask is the eyes of a killer. I want to tear his throat out with my teeth, like that District 2 winner did, once upon a time. My teeth are not sharpened, but they will do.
"Stop struggling, Mockingjay," Finnick says, looking at the gold pin I attached to my jacket to keep it safe. "I'm not the enemy."
"Let me go," I snarl.
"There's definitely fire in the family," Finnick says to Paylor. There's laughter in his tone. Of course there would be. Everyone knows how popular Finnick Odair is. They say he has a girl in every District. "Relax. Prim's got protection. My District's sponsoring them. She'll have food, water, weapons. She'll last the two days. We won't get there in time if you hold us all up."
I glare, struggle, and still. Someone yanks my bow and arrows away from me, and I smooth myself down, glaring at them both.
"And you don't have a choice," Paylor says, grimly. "We were going to use Finnick as our symbol, but I think you at the head, with Finnick following, is a much stronger image to show to the Capitol and the Districts. But we can still use Finnick and I can lock you up in the brig until this is all over. Of course, then there'd be no one in the arena with a reason to root for your little sister. No one to take that special care to ensure she doesn't get accidentally hurt by one of our own."
I glare, but I have no arguments left.
"Take her," Paylor says to Finnick.
"With pleasure," Finnick purrs, in his golden, honey-toned voice.
"Get her ready for the arena," Paylor says.
"Nothing ever gets you ready for the arena," Finnick says, in such a haunting tone I think somehow I've misunderstood him. But then he grabs hold of my elbow and I shake him off, anger boiling in my stomach. Finnick is a Victor. Did he feel anything when he killed his opponents? Maybe he killed someone's little sister. "Come on," he adds, in a gentler tone.
I look back desperately, but Haymitch just nods, go on. So I follow, feeling the hope for Prim's rescue fade out of me.
Like a Mockingjay flying away.
I don't know what I thought Paylor had meant by training, but not this. It's a boot camp. To my consternation we do not even get into a hovercraft until 24 hours have passed, and for most of those hours, apart from a short period of sleep time I get, I spend learning how to fight.
Finnick teaches me how to work against a trident. When he sees how I shoot, we move onto sword fighting. After my sleep, we move onto climbing, up a rudimentary sort of climbing wall.
And then we're transferred onto a hovercraft, and instead of being shoved into a small dark room like before, there's a large well-lit room in the back with what Finnick calls gym equipment. He hadn't heard of it either until the Games, but now he's a Victor, he makes sure to have access to it whenever possible, because the only way he can sleep after the Games is to know he can run.
He makes me run on a machine I have never seen the like of before, and joins me, jogging away at a much higher speed than I can manage. I am exhausted, but keep pushing. He tells me we'll have eight hours to rest before touching down in the arena, and I must sleep for as much of that as I can manage, because I will need to be strong.
We take a break and drink something for dinner that Finnick calls a protein shake "with added fat". It's tasteless but will make us stronger, he says.
"I never thought I'd go back into that arena for anything," Finnick says, as he pulls me back onto the running machine after a short rest. "Turns out that sometimes something ends up being worth more than all the terror. Something more than your own life."
He tells me without looking at me with such heartbreaking honesty about this girl, Annie. About how President Snow has sold him all over the twelve Districts, sold his body. In return, Snow has kept the girl Annie alive. Annie's mind got a bit jumbled in the arena, but Finnick's love for Annie—once he begins to talk about her—is so obvious that my heart jars.
I thought no one in the world would understand how badly I needed Prim back. I don't mind telling Finnick Odair that I am wrong. He smiles a sad, terrible smile, and says, "Thanks, Mockingjay."
He doesn't use my name, and soon Paylor and the rest of her people pick up on it. Mockingjay. I am no longer Katniss Everdeen, older sister, District 12 girl. I am the Mockingjay. Some of Paylor's soldiers side-eye me with such hope in their expressions that I am almost physically sick with terror.
What are they expecting from just a District 12 girl, not even old enough to work?
Finnick sees the terror in my face and distracts me with footage from the game. There is not much of Peeta and Prim. The Capitol are editing them out as much as possible. My heart leaps every time there's a cannon blast. Sometimes the Games last for weeks, but this batch of tributes are being mown down. The District 11 girl Rue even claims a victim as I watch, dropping a nest of trackerjackers down on some Careers. I force myself to watch. Even 12 year olds are turned into killers for the games. Prim. Her heart would not survive killing someone. We note down where cameras where in the most popular locations of the Games, so we can take out any that might announce our advance too soon.
Before it is time for me to try and sleep, Prim and Peeta make it into the Final 8. The Capitol are forced to show some footage of them. I let out a holler and nearly stumble from the weight-training thing Finnick's pushed me onto. They're both wearing metallic suits that cover them up to the neck.
"What is that?"
"They would have bankrupted our District," Finnick says, sounding just as overwhelmed. "Some other Districts must be helping. They're weapon-proof suits, Katniss. Only a headshot would take them out and look, look at the survivors. No shooters left."
It's the first time Finnick's used my name, his hope overwhelming his brain. My heart stutters. I won't be sleeping well now, I know. I'd barely dared to hope, and now- Now it seemed like this might work. The whole rebellion took flight in my brain, spinning out into all its wondrous possibilities. The world alight. The world free.
And then it feels like the world is crashing down around me when all the survivors so far get a quote about them from a loved one... apart from ours. "Mrs. Everdeen remained impossible to find for a comment following the tragic illness which led to death of her remaining daughter, Katniss. Mr. Mellark's family refused to comment."
So they were pretending I was dead. I swallowed. My mother might even be dead. It surprised me how much I did care, but I cared more about Prim. As far as I think my heart was concerned, Mother died with Father down in the mine. She'd been about as present as a ghost after the explosion.
Finnick claps me on the shoulder. I can see from his face he's still thinking about Annie. I nod at him, determined.
We can do this.
We can set the world free.
We have to.
In order to take the Capitol by surprise, they cannot drop us off in the middle of the arena, even though they have some District 3 past Victor called Beetee who's worked out how to take the forcefield down. Haymitch gets misty-eyed at that part of the briefing.
I was right. I barely slept. But the training—although short—has not worn me out. I feel strong. I feel capable of anything. I am not going into the arena as tribute. I am going in as the Mockingjay.
Seriously. Finnick's continued nickname of Mockingjay for me had made Paylor and the woman who she was really working under decide that it was as good a working name as any. I was a symbol of freedom, and what better symbol than a bird who the Capitol hadn't intended to survive in the first place?
Paylor's superior is a slush-coloured woman called Coin who makes me feel a little uneasy so thank goodness I'd met Paylor first, because I'm struck with the sensation I might have gone ahead and shot Coin And the way everyone interacts with Coin is a little too much like people act around President Snow for my liking. I'd have been dead in a heartbeat.
I am wearing my District 12 clothes still. There was talk about dressing me up, maybe even as a Mockingjay, but artifice is the Capitol's speciality, not ours. We are truthful. We are the heart of the country and the heart of everything that matters to people. I am a simple District 12 girl with the strength of truth and justice behind me.
We were not born to be slaves to the Capitol. We were born to be free. To make our own choices, our own lives. The punishment of the Games—of our whole lives of servitude—has been going on too long.
"Look at you," Haymitch says, as I repeat some of the words Coin has given me to learn, "Miss. Rebellion herself." He pats me awkwardly on the shoulder. "Stay alive, kid."
"You too," I say, eyeballing the bottle in his hand.
He looks back at me sadly and just nods. I turn to Paylor. "I'm ready," I tell her.
"You're never ready for the arena," Finnick tells me.
"Cheerful," I say.
"Always." Finnick grins.
There's a couple of faces I recognise in the soldiers coming down with us, some other past Victors. They're tense. Coming back into the arena, deliberately, it must be like walking voluntarily into Snow's grasping, vengeful fingers. They're all decked in black but they do not hide their faces, even though should we fail completely, the Capitol will use our faces as a warning. My stomach flips. What right do we have to decide the fate of the whole Districts? Last time District 13 was annihilated for our sins. There's something mocking in Coin's face when I say that in desperation, and I settle down.
This is still Prim's best chance. The weapon-proof suits were not a gift to save my baby sister. They were a sign. We're just Districts, but we have the power to save people too. We give you this, so you can give us freedom. If I did not do this, there's every chance the Districts who sent Prim and Peeta those suits would kill them for the betrayal of trust. If we do not succeed, the Capitol will punish whoever sent them especially.
"Come on, Mockingjay, it could be worse," Finnick says, as we arrange ourselves in the vacuum tubes to be deposited in the arena. If Beetee's invention works. Or we could all be fried on the way in and that's the end of everything.
"How?" I mutter, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. My feet are sore from all the training, but pain doesn't matter. Prim, I think. Prim.
"You could be doing this without me. Imagine it. All this work and you're deprived from the joy of seeing my face," Finnick says, deadpan.
I'm smiling as the tubes take us away.
The arena is even more terrible in person.
As some of the soldiers around me shoot out places we know from watching the footage of the game so far hold cameras, I can't help but think about what it must be like to be here. Dying. Killing.
Boggs came down with us. He's holding a small screen thing like Haymitch had. "We've got the frequencies of the tributes. Four left now."
"Four?" My stomach twinges.
"Cato from District 2. Thresh, District 11. And Peeta and Prim, District 12," Boggs reads from the display. I try and think about who was alive this morning when we watched the footage. There were eight. "Rue from District 11 was caught in a snare. Speared by a boy from District 1. Thresh took him out, deliberately chased him by the look of things, and a girl named Clove from District 2. There was a girl from District 5..." His head flew up from the reader. "It's attributing the death to Prim Everdeen."
"What?" My fingers tremble as I notch my first arrow into the bow, ready to use it if I have to. I think of six-foot broad-shouldered Thresh. Would one arrow take him down? Would I be able to? Or would I be able to save him too? Talk sense into him? Yes, I think fiercely. He was large but his eyes were kind.
"Nightlock berries," Boggs reads. "The feed here says 5 was stealing food from everyone. Your sister must have accidentally gathered Nightlock berries. They're poisonous. They can kill within a minute of ingesting even one."
"Wow," Finnick breathes. His trademark golden trident flashes in the sun bearing down between the heavy trees of this arena, and he looks up, shielding his eyes. "Little sis is quite the killer."
The anger boils through me and I grit my teeth. I desperately want to shove Finnick, but Haymitch has been one at me repeatedly for the last couple of days. My impulsiveness is what got me entangled in this revolution. I should really try my best not to get tangled in it.
My heart is breaking, though. Just a little. Does Prim know she killed the girl? Prim won't survive this. She might survive the game, but killing a person... Prim cries when I bring home dead squirrels, even though she knows we have to eat. Prim cries when she steps on a bug.
"We have to get her," I say. "Now."
"Definitely a plan," one of the soldiers says at the back. "We can't have got all the cameras. We have to run."
I don't understand what he means, until I see them—a flock of Mockingjays hurtling through the trees in the direction that—according to Bogg's screen—is way away from the Cornucopia, where Peeta and Prim seem to be hiding out.
Something's coming our way. Something birds are frightened of.
We start running, the same way the Mockingjays went. Panic runs through my veins. Have they been throwing things like this at Prim? How many nightmares has she had to run from for these past two days?
"Beetee," Finnick yells into the earpiece he's wearing, "they're manipulating the arena. Can you get us a path through to Prim?"
There's a buzz which might be affirmative, might not be. Finnick reaches over and takes Bogg's screen, effortlessly doing something to the display as we hurtle through the undergrowth. The air smells tart, acidic, and that's when I realise—there's a wall of fire moving towards us.
The world transforms to flame and smoke as the uniform wall of fire marches towards us. Somewhere up above in a clinical room, the Gamemakers are creating this spectacle. I wonder if they have been told it is a tribute gone astray, or if this is a regular thing to do to intruders, or if all the Gamemakers are in on the truth from the start? That this Game, more than most, has been manipulated heavily from the start.
Burning branches crack from trees, falling in showers of sparks at our feet. Rabbits and deers break free of the treeline now, hurrying through the underbush faster than we can. Our boots catch on roots, on fallen tree limbs, and the heat is bad, but worse is the smoke that barrels through. I pull the top of my shirt over my nose. I run swiftly, my quiver of arrows banging against my back. Everyone is choking from the smoke. A soldier near to me stumbles and I drop to help her up, finally recognising her in this moment. Johanna Mason. So many Districts, so many Victors, all working together—this can't be ruined now.
She's hurt. I put my arm around her and we run, our faces cut with branches that materialise from the grey haze with no warning, and we have to hurdle over a burning log. The adrenaline and our combined power take us over it. I wonder if I could have managed the same, scared, alone. If my clothes set on fire too, I do not know how I would have reacted.
The Games teach people how to react in circumstances no one should know how to deal with.
It only takes minutes for my throat and nose to burn. The choking turns to coughing, and my lungs feel like someone is cooking them. Each breath is searing pain. One of the soldiers nearby vomits painfully. Finnick drops back and hauls the soldier over his back, vomit spraying over his shoulders. We know we have to keep moving, even if we're moving in the wrong direction.
The air is filled with coughing and crackling. Finnick won't be able to hear above it. The smoke is starting to be too thick. I'm starting to think Beetee won't be able to get us in the right direction when the first fireball blasts into a rock in the path ahead, and the wall of fire shifts direction.
Beetee hasn't been able to tell us where to go, but he's using the fire—much like the Gamemakers—to force us in the right direction.
Except he musn't have full control, because there's a hiss and one of the fireballs smacks into one of the soldiers, blasting them right into the marching wall of fire. I struggle in the direction but Johanna, still under my arm, hisses, "Are you an idiot? He's dead. We knew that was a cost coming in. We've got to keep going, or it's all been for nothing."
She's right. Remaining still is death—not just ours. Of the revolution. There's another hiss and Johanna and I share a look and take off, running in the path Beetee is clearing up for us. Finnick's just behind us. We lose another soldier as the third fireball becomes a pillar of fire where Johanna and I had just been standing.
Time almost loses meaning as we frantically keep heading forwards. Some fireballs come straight at us—some direct us a certain way. We don't know which is which. We wait for the hiss and dive out of the way. We lose a couple more soldiers. I don't know their names, and that's the thought that's lodged in my head when we come stumbling out into some sort of a clearing.
Even though there's bound to be a thousand cameras pointed at us, Finnick forces us on. The wall of fire continues to chase us, until the very end of the treeline. As we all stumble out into the grass, looking behind in horror at the shimmering wall of heat, the canon sounds.
Twice.
My heart leaps into my mouth and I'm shouting, screaming some of the obscenities Haymitch taught me up into the sky. Let the Capitol get this. Let them see my defiance. I do not care. I think of Prim and Peeta burning, of it being my fault. The heat was searing. Even those suits wouldn't have stopped them from boiling alive.
"Mockingjay," Finnick says, and then slaps me. I still, and fall silent, looking at him desperately. My eyes communicate what my burned throat cannot handle. If this was Annie, would you not do the same?
The sadness on his face says, yes, and more.
"They're fine," Finnick says. "See?" He tilts the screen towards me. "They're only over in the next clearing."
"You mean where those dogs are going," Johanna Mason says. I watched her year in the Games. She came across as weak—until she showed it was an act and she was strong, all along. To voluntarily join this revolution, you did have to be strong. I felt unworthy to be standing amongst them. I was selfish. I was foolish. I was... thinking about myself when Johanna had said something about dogs.
"They're not dogs," Finnick says, and starts running again, "they're muttations."
I let out another of Haymitch's choicer swear words and follow. This is where I can be of best hope to Prim.
And we are.
When the muttations, another cruel creation of the Gamemakers up there in their control room, realise that they're being picked off from behind, they swerve from their intended easier prey of Peeta and Prim, but it's too late.
Ten of us survived the fire. There are 22 muttations. They are terrible dogs, with human-looking eyes and numbers on their collars. Probably to make Prim think about the dogs all representing the tributes that were dead instead of her. Prim is sentimental like that.
I take out six of them before they even get close. Finnick shows easily when they get closer why he was a master with his trident. The muttations are no match for us all. Johanna takes out the last one, which was headed towards me, and we look at each other.
"They're on the Cornucopia," Finnick says, "this way."
We run. Even though I am hurt and aching from the fire, it doesn't feel hard. I know I am running to Prim. I'm coming to save her, just like I promised I would. Everything's worked out, somehow. Prim and Peeta are free, and then we can free everyone else. We can ban the Hunger Games and make the Capitol people work too, and we can share what we have. No one has to die at all in the future, not for anything other than old age and the illnesses we can't cure yet.
I scream Prim's name as we come onto the field, but she doesn't respond. I can see two figures on the Cornucopia. Maybe there was something that meant they couldn't hear me. I scream Prim's name louder, but something cuts me off.
A single canon shot.
"NO!"
I hurtle forwards now, running faster, faster. Breaking away from the group. There is strength in me that I don't understand and I climb up the Cornucopia's shiny golden side without even knowing how my desperate feet are finding purchase on its slip-smooth surface.
My legs give out when I find Peeta standing there dully, his hand stretched out towards Prim's prone body.
At first I think Peeta's done it. Peeta's killed my little girl. Killed my Prim. But then I notice the way Peeta's sleeves are rolled up, and the deep cuts in Peeta's wrist. I notice the blood dripping down his arms, the paleness of his face. The pool of blood he's standing in.
And I notice the berry stain around Prim's mouth.
I drop to her in horror, putting my hand over her small, open mouth. There's still warmth in her.
"Prim?"
Prim's eyes flutter, and I jolt. There's still hope. If we can heal her, if we can just- "I couldn't," Prim says, "I just couldn't- I couldn't- Someone died from me, Katniss, someone- Not Peeta too. Not for me. I couldn't-"
And then she dies, in my arms.
When I look up, Peeta sinks to the ground. Finnick's already hurtling up onto the Cornucopia's horn, bandaging Peeta's wrists. Peeta tried to kill himself to save Prim, and Prim...
Prim must have kept the Nightlock berries she accidentally killed the District 5 girl with. And the guilt from that, and seeing Peeta try and kill himself to keep her alive, it had been too much. Too much for my glorious, wonderful Prim.
I am broken. I am fury.
Above our head is a tremendous sound. There has been a death, of course, and a hovercraft must come and take the dead body away before the Victor can be crowned.
Normally they wait til the body's alone, unsurrounded. Hovercrafts can hurt people too close to them. The Capitol want to hurt me.
There is nothing they can do to me that hasn't already been done.
I lay Prim's body on the ground and pull out my arrows. I do not need to be Beetee, an electric genius, to guess where to hit to hurt this thing.
I draw the string back and start shooting my arrows at the hovercraft. One after another. I do not need impulsiveness or luck. One arrow has to strike a fuel source eventually.
The eighth one does. The Hovercraft teeters and falls, crashing down into the arena in flames.
I am cold. I am revenge. I am merciless.
I know there's a camera at the mouth of the cornucopia. I lift Prim in my arms and slide down the Cornucopia. I land steadily. I walk to the camera and face it.
"My name," I say, "is Katniss Everdeen. I am a District 12 girl. But you're going to know me better as the Mockingjay, President Snow. Today we've hit out at you. Today, the Districts turn against you. We're tired of being your slaves. We are not your puppets. And you might try and turn against us, but..." I glance back.
Behind me, the Hovercraft is still burning. I stand in its glow, a terrible silhouette. I look across at Finnick and he is grinning, tight and fierce. Johanna stands next to him. We're united in our grief, and in our rage.
"Just remember.... My sister Prim. She was a Girl on Fire. But now I've caught alight too. Others will too. You can try and burn us down, but remember... If we burn - you burn with us!"
Nestled in my arms, it's almost like Prim is just asleep. Another Hovercraft comes down, but this one is ours. Its metal belly is painted with a white Mockingjay. My stomach clenches, burning with anger, as I turn away from the camera.
"Where do we start?" I say.
Finnick's face is still alight. I've woken something in him. The same thing that's awake in me. "District 13 was never destroyed." His voice is loud so the microphones will pick it up. If the Capitol haven't cut off the broadcast, everyone will know this new fact. And they'll know exactly how far from indomitable the Capitol really is. "Maybe we'll start there."
News that would have surprised me before just tastes bitter in my mouth. "Okay," I say.
I lie Prim on the ground, and shoot out the camera with my last arrow. She's dead, but so is Katniss Everdeen along with her, an innocent girl from District 12.
I am the Mockingjay.
And the Capitol is going down.
~
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
Maya Angelou
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Brava!
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You know what this needs now? A sequel. Where are they gonna go from here? There's a lot more work ahead of the rebellion. I'd love to see how they play the next moves in this chess game... *puppy eyes* Please?