#apparently there was ribbon exchange panel so that’s why there was so much ribbons

[kitnightowl]

I was attending kumoricon this weekend and I keep thinking the large amount of cosplayers I’ve seen with long trails of ribbons hanging off their badges. Like I’m talking full on roll up of ribbons they were collecting this weekend, i even ran into a chilchuck cosplayer who had so much that they had to use one of those black paperclip things to hold them.

[prfoundlysuperengineer]

Wrong Club

Jenny was given a glass tied with a neat little red ribbon. The liquid inside the cup itself looked a fiery, glowing orange, almost giving it the appearance of magma. Jeremy accepted his own glass, following along with the others in the crowd as they all raised it up in preparation for the toast.

A knot suddenly rose in Jenny’s throat as she began feeling the alcohol from her previous shots. The young woman hesitated for a second as she realized something was happening that she was not prepared for. Nothing left to do, she lifted her glass along with the others.

Everyone’s eyes were turned on the man who was, apparently, having a birthday. Despite his drunkenness, he patiently waited for everyone to be given a shot before he lifted his own cup. “Th- thank you alllll, verymuch!” he slurred. “Hai deval!” he cheered. Jeremy yelled the cheers back, and Jenny muttered incoherently in attempt to keep up the facade, and suddenly everyone was drinking. Freezing in sudden drunken shock as everyone began eating their cups and tying bows, she watched out of the corner of her eye as Jeremy swallowed the shot, slipped the ribbon from the glass, and held the cup in his teeth while he retied the ribbon with his fingers. He was halfway through the retied knot before he seemed to realize that Jenny may not have participated in a traditional Cassian birthday shot before. His eyes widened, he shoot her a look - glass still in his teeth as he tried to show her what he was doing.

She shot a rare, fleeting look of panic back at Jeremy. What the hell was she supposed to be doing?

Jeremy’s knot now tied, he made a hasty grab for the ribbon on her glass - quickly undoing the bow. He shoved his own knot into her hands as she downed the contents of her glass, and scrambled to tie the new bow on time. He managed, juuust fast enough to snag the glass out of his teeth and drop the bow inside. He watched Jenny to make sure she was doing the same with her bow.

To their advantage, the birthday crowd was politely drunk enough to not notice the awkward exchange. Everyone whooped and hollered. Jeremy, relieved, shot Jenny a reckless grin and joined in. Jenny laughed and offered up her own whoop with the others. They had gotten away with it! A new song kicked in to reverberate through the Dominion only club, and ‘Helen’ leaned to ‘Jemias’ to whisper something.

Neither of them noticed the draken at the end of the bar, who was now storming forward, vibrant eyes trained on Jenny. The draken roughly grabbed the wrist of Jenny’s that was holding her glass and spun her to face him. “I knew it! I could smell it on you,” he growled loudly, startling most of the crowd that had huddled around the bar, including a now very-wide-eyed Jeremy. The draken pulled Jenny closer and sniffed the air around her in demonstration.

Jeremy meanwhile hastily stepped forward even as the eyes of the gathering at the bar remained fixed on the commotion. “Hey hey! You get your fuckin’ hands off her!”

Jenny tensed and for the moment resisted the urge to not hit the draken. She instead moved to pull away, twisting her wrist sharply in attempt to break it's grasp. “Hoooold it, big guy. Let’s not ruin the atmosphere.”

The draken’s grip only tightened, and he ended his sniffling with a loud snort. “You are the one inviting ruin, Exile,” he spat, baring sharp teeth. He pulled her close enough that Jenny could smell his breath.

Adopting a drunken, saucy smirk, Jenny took the glass from her caught fist and handed it off to a passing drink bot. “Good job, cutie!” she praised, losing the practiced Cassian accent and giving a rich chuckle. There was no bluffing their way out now. “Now why don’ we take this outside t’ talk like adults. Unless ya gotta find yer purse t’ get a breath mint first.”

Jeremy’s mouth drops open a little. In contrast to Jenny, his confidence seemed shaken, but still he stepped forward, trying to get himself between Jenny and the Draken. “She doesn’t mean that,” he assured. “You don’t mean that,” he turned to Jenny with smile that was both nervous and panicked.

The draken snarled. He did not release Jenny, but used his free arm to attempt to backhand Jeremy away.

Jenny tensed as the draken raised his hand to strike Jeremy. Her free hand flashed forward to punch the draken in the throat… and did absolutely nothing as it struck a ridge of hardened scale.

Jeremy deftly dodged the fist, and with an unanticipated amount of grace, dipped around behind the draken. Thinking quickly, he raised a boot and kicked the draken in the back of the knee. The draken’s leg buckled and he let out a humorously surprised, and undoubtedly furious snarl.

Stumbling as she found herself suddenly free, Jenny leapt forward without a second thought to slam her fist into the drakens face as he turned on Jeremy. This time her punch actually did something, and she ignored the sting of her scraped knuckles in favor of the triumph she felt as the draken staggered from the hit. “Jer, slip! Go!”

It didn’t take much prompting. The moment he heard Jenny’s words Jeremy stood himself up, took in a breath, shot the draken a nasty little gesture and a toothy smile, and let himself be tugged into the Void. It had been a while - enough so that Jeremy was a little surprised to still find greenish tendrils following behind him as he dashed back around to the place that would allegedly be behind the draken. And then… he lingered, not daring to run until he knew Jenny was following.

Jenny shot a finger gun at the birthday boy and vanished after Jeremy. Stumbling into a run as she hit the Void, an extra swirl of the golden light and electric sparks fell from her in a flurry, and she reached a hand for him as she dashed for the hatch. “Let’s get outta here!”

His hand clasped tightly around hers, his run began with a drunken sort of stumble before yanking her in the direction of the hatch - or rather, the direction he thought the hatch was in. He wasn’t sure, and the blood rushing through his veins only seemed to usher the alcohol through his system faster. Suddenly he was rather dizzy. “Ffffuck - which friggin’ way was it?” he asked, trying not to sound panicked.

Jenny fumbled after him, reaching out her free hand hand to push aside something that wasn’t there. “Follow the wall! Follow the wall! The wall will show us!”

Though normally his navigation of the Void was careful and calculated, the same couldn’t be said for how he did it drunk. Free hand slapping against the wood panels once they approached the wall, they skirted along it together. It seemed like they were going an awfully long way. “Shouldn’t we have hit it by now?” he called out, way more loudly than he needed to seeing as they were no longer technically ‘in the bar’.

“Keep going!” she called back just as loudly, kicking awkwardly at the wall as they went to be helpful. “It’ll be 'ere! If you find… a big dent! In the wall! There are stars – stairs! There are things that go up!”

Despite himself, Jeremy chuckled at Jenny’s words. “I know! Up is definitely what we want, I just -” Any ghost of a smile dropped as he heard a sound. Hand still on the wall, he spun. He wasn’t even quite sure what he heard, if he heard anything at all. Uneasily he ignored it and turned back, hand smacking at the next panel. “It’s got to be somewhere…” he strained to think through the drunken haze. “The Void just… put it in a different place.”

Jenny stared at him in awed disbelief. “Can it do tha’? I didn’t know the Void could do that!” She then followed the wall further, whistling as she went. “Damn, my hand hurts! Here hatch! C'mon Void, we just wanna leave the nice club! Heeeere hatch, hatch, hatch! Uugh! Why are draken faces so hard?!”

“Shiiit, did you hurt yourself?” he was distracted from their mission a little too easily. He turned to make a gentle examination of her hand, fingers quickly massaging at her palm as he examined it for… he wasn’t sure. “We’ll get it looked at if we gotta,” he assured, speaking in a confused mash of both accents. “But we need to find the door. Maybe shit got flipped - inverted! Inside bits always go funnier than outside bits!” he explained as though he was being perfectly clear.

She giggled as he inspected her hand. “You-hooo said bits!” Three of her knuckles were scratched from impact with the draken’s scales. “But door! Door, door. Yes it’s… down and in. You’re so smart.” She squinted her eyes and looked around and pointed to the far side of the room where a shadow of a hall showed. “Ooh! I see it! Jeremy!” She tugged on his hand and headed that way as a distant sound that might have been a screech echoed from their right beyond the confines of the bunker.

The screech made him flinch. His hand tightened around Jenny’s, perhaps almost a little too hard, and he turned their pace into a jog. His heart was pounding, he felt so dizzy, and suddenly several sharp sounds popped off behind them. The air seemed to ripple around them as bullets whizzed past them. “Shit! Shit shit!” Jeremy cursed. He didn’t bother turning around, just picked up his pace and led their jog into an all out run for the door.

Jenny sprinted with him, eyes wide as several bullets came within inches of hitting her before hitting an invisible wall that shimmered blue and sparked gold at each impact. Realizing in her drunken stupor what was happening, she pushed Jeremy ahead of her towards the way up to make sure he wasn’t hit. “Shit! Fuck! Dammit! Fun killers! Climb! Climb!”

His free hand went for one of his pistols, but he didn’t take it out of his holster. Shooting was a bad choice, running was way better. Nearly tripping as he was pushed forward, Jeremy was swallowed into the shadow of the hallway that would lead them upward. Now, he turned - he needed to make sure Jenny was behind him, but he was quickly distracted by the three blurred shapes that were running towards them across the room. The crack of gunfire sounded again - so loud in the enclosed space, and he grabbed for Jenny to pull her inside the hall with him.

Jenny stumbled against Jeremy, and there was an oily shimmer as the shield that encased her slipped around him as well. “I’m 'ere! I’m 'ere!” She assured him, clinging to his arm as they made a drunken dash for the ladder at the end of the hall, and glanced back at the running shapes. “Go up! Go up! They can’t hit me so I’ll follow b'hind t’ cover yer back!”

He didn’t like it, but there was little time to argue. Hands leaving her to find the rungs behind him, Jeremy slid from the shield and up the ladder as he heard the vicious metallic tings of bullets missing their marks. Whether it was due to lack of sobriety, or due to the Void’s adaptation of the bar, the climb seemed long, and exceedingly dark. His arms were tired, and suddenly he found his head colliding with the hatch at the top. Lightning went off behind his eyes and he let out a sharp yelp - he simply hadn’t seen it coming.

Jenny climbed as fast as she could to keep up with him. The further they went the harder it was to grip the bar and the shooting left a ring in her ears. But several bullets fell useless after hitting the shield behind her and it spurred her on. She jumped at his yep and leaned a little to try and peer past him. “Jer? What’s wrong? Ya okay?”

“Fine!” he called down below him, voice wavering slightly. “The hatch! I found the hatch!” his hands groped upward and he swung the door open with a forceful push and a loud grunt. Golden light spewed through the opening, and Jeremy let out a little whine  as his eyes strained to adjust. The sound of bullets starting up again, Jeremy scrambled through the hole and reached back behind him to help Jenny up.

Scrambling up after him, Jenny grasped his hand and let him haul her up the rest of the way. As soon as she was out she turned and with all her inebriated might she slammed the hatch shut. “Shit, tha’ was close! We better haul ass outta 'ere.”

Drunkenly stumbling, recklessly skirting through the plains of the Void until they were both out of breath, Jenny and Jeremy did indeed haul ass out of there. Still within the relative safety of the Void, Jeremy in particular slowed to a halt as they rounded a dully glowing brick building. He bent, resting his hands on his knees as he gasped for air. “Shit,” he panted, voice cracking. “Shit I’m bad at running.”

Jenny skidded to a stop, breathing heavily but seeming as if she could keep going. “Ooph! Hell,” she huffed between breaths, glancing behind them with a teetering lean to make sure they weren’t being followed. “Can’ be good a’ e'erthin’,” she finished with a wink. “Ya ain’ shot are ya?”

Jeremy performed an ancillary pat down of himself as he continued to bend over. “No, I don’t think so,” he panted. “Are you? How are you?” He looked back at her, hands reaching out for hers.

Jenny stumbled a step towards him, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath. “I’m – fine! I’m in one piece,” she breathed, offering out her hands. “Ya were – You were amazin’! I didn’ know ya could pull a stunt like tha’.”

Taking her hands in his own, he looked her over quickly, eyes not knowing where to settle. He turned one of her hands over, noting the scrapes on her knuckles. “Just working with what I had,” he answered through his breaths as he started to chuckle. “Fucking shit, did you punch him?” He blurted out the question with a mix of elation and disbelief.

“Yeah, I punched him!” she replied with a rich, breathless laugh as if it had really been the only solution. “Twice, actually! Holy shit, I can’ b'lieve we got away with it!”

“Shit!” a delighted laugh escaped him, “Dude I’ve never punched a Draken, no one like - ever does that!” His breath continued to buckled with laughter and he leaned against the brick, pulling her with him into a hug. His head was spinning and he didn’t care. “Fuck, I love you,” he half-sighed, half-laughed.

Everything was a wonderful, golden haze… but then again they were in the Void. Huffing an elated chuckle she gladly leaned against him and returned the embrace. “I love you too,” she replied, beaming as she rested her face against his chest. “Ugh, how much alcohol was in all tha’? I’m so-hohoho drunk,” she practically giggled.

"Really? You mean all that excitement didn’t sober you up?” Jeremy asked in mock disbelief. He too, was quite drunk, and now that they had stopped running it was just a matter of getting the world to stop tilting. Still holding on to Jenny, he slowly began to slide down the wall. “How… How long… We should slip back, I think,” he suggested while trying to keep his thoughts in order.

“Ya think… ya think it’s safe to?” she wondered. “Did we e'en run tha’ far?” Jenny lifted her head from him as he scooted down the wall to look around at the glowing dimension.

“I don’t… I don’t know,” he was still trying to gulp air into his lungs as he slid further down, knees starting to bend. He let her go just enough that he wasn’t actively dragging her down with him, though his arms stayed hugged around her as he went. Soon enough he was resting in a crouch, back against the wall, arms wrapped around Jenny’s legs as he rested his head against her hips. “It feels like we’ve been in here so long. Can we just stay?”

Jenny smiled, looking down at Jeremy as she combed his hair back. “Not we – We shouldn’, not too much longer, anyways,” she mumbled, fumbling her words. “Let’s rest another minute b'fore goin’ a few more blocks 'n  fadin’ back, eh?”

“Mmmkay,” he agreed easily, attempting to both nod against her and lean into the touch of her fingers at the same time. His eyes closed. For several moments he slipped into a contented silence, and had one not known any better, they could have perhaps wondered if Jeremy had managed to pass out while still being wrapped around her legs. “Thank you,” he finally said, voice muffled due to the fact that his face was pressed against her thigh.

Jenny’s eyes had also somehow managed to drift shut. A fact which surprised her when she opened them to look down at Jeremy. Her hands continued combing through his hair, though she lifted one to press against the wall to steady herself as she swayed. “Wha’ ya thankin’ me for?” she asked in a soft, drunkenly thick murmur.

His eyes closed again and he sighed contentedly, arms squeezing her a little tighter. “For this. For you,” he mumbled out. “Just thank you.”

A tender smile on her lips, she kept her hand on the wall to steady herself as the other combed through his hair to rest at the back of his head. “Yer welcome, Jeremy.” Her eyes closed again for a moment before she suddenly shook her head to open them. "C'mon. Let’s get goin’. Fallin’ asleep against a wall in a Dominion town ain half as good as yer bed.”

“Oh fuck, home sounds so nice,” he moaned, the concept seeming to relax him further. He didn’t move. “Can we get pizza?” Though his eyes stayed closed his eyebrows skewed a little in an accompanying plea.

Jenny smirked, and a delighted laugh erupted from her. “Yeah, we’ll ge’ all the cubacon an’ pineapple pizza! 'n taco pizza, 'n tha’ macaroni pizza.” She grinned and reached down to pull at his arm. “Let’s go home. Bu’ ya gotta get up first. I can’t carry ya.”

[readbookywooks]

2 Are there Capitol hoverplanes speeding in to blow us out of the sky? As we travel over District 12, I watch anxiously for signs of an attack, but nothing pursues us. After several minutes, when I hear an exchange between Plutarch and the pilot confirming that the airspace is clear, I begin to relax a little. Gale nods at the howls coming from my game bag. "Now I know why you had to go back." "If there was even a chance of his recovery." I dump the bag onto a seat, where the loathsome creature begins a low, deep-throated growl. "Oh, shut up," I tell the bag as I sink into the cushioned window seat across from it. Gale sits next to me. "Pretty bad down there?" "Couldn't be much worse," I answer. I look in his eyes and see my own grief reflected there. Our hands find each other, holding fast to a part of 12 that Snow has somehow failed to destroy. We sit in silence for the rest of the trip to 13, which only takes about forty-five minutes. A mere week's journey on foot. Bonnie and Twill, the District 8 refugees who I encountered in the woods last winter, weren't so far from their destination after all. They apparently didn't make it, though. When I asked about them in 13, no one seemed to know who I was talking about. Died in the woods, I guess. From the air, 13 looks about as cheerful as 12. The rubble isn't smoking, the way the Capitol shows it on television, but there's next to no life aboveground. In the seventy-five years since the Dark Days - when 13 was said to have been obliterated in the war between the Capitol and the districts - almost all new construction has been beneath the earth's surface. There was already a substantial underground facility here, developed over centuries to be either a clandestine refuge for government leaders in time of war or a last resort for humanity if life above became unlivable. Most important for the people of 13, it was the center of the Capitol's nuclear weapons development program. During the Dark Days, the rebels in 13 wrested control from the government forces, trained their nuclear missiles on the Capitol, and then struck a bargain: They would play dead in exchange for being left alone. The Capitol had another nuclear arsenal out west, but it couldn't attack 13 without certain retaliation. It was forced to accept 13's deal. The Capitol demolished the visible remains of the district and cut off all access from the outside. Perhaps the Capitol's leaders thought that, without help, 13 would die off on its own. It almost did a few times, but it always managed to pull through due to strict sharing of resources, strenuous discipline, and constant vigilance against any further attacks from the Capitol. Now the citizens live almost exclusively underground. You can go outside for exercise and sunlight but only at very specific times in your schedule. You can't miss your schedule. Every morning, you're supposed to stick your right arm in this contraption in the wall. It tattoos the smooth inside of your forearm with your schedule for the day in a sickly purple ink. 7:00 - Breakfast. 7:30 - Kitchen Duties. 8:30 - Education Center, Room 17. And so on. The ink is indelible until 22:00 - Bathing . That's when whatever keeps it water resistant breaks down and the whole schedule rinses away. The lights-out at 22:30 signals that everyone not on the night shift should be in bed. At first, when I was so ill in the hospital, I could forgo being imprinted. But once I moved into Compartment 307 with my mother and sister, I was expected to get with the program. Except for showing up for meals, though, I pretty much ignore the words on my arm. I just go back to our compartment or wander around 13 or fall asleep somewhere hidden. An abandoned air duct. Behind the water pipes in the laundry. There's a closet in the Education Center that's great because no one ever seems to need school supplies. They're so frugal with things here, waste is practically a criminal activity. Fortunately, the people of 12 have never been wasteful. But once I saw Fulvia Cardew crumple up a sheet of paper with just a couple of words written on it and you would've thought she'd murdered someone from the looks she got. Her face turned tomato red, making the silver flowers inlaid in her plump cheeks even more noticeable. The very portrait of excess. One of my few pleasures in 13 is watching the handful of pampered Capitol "rebels" squirming as they try to fit in. I don't know how long I'll be able to get away with my complete disregard for the clockwork precision of attendance required by my hosts. Right now, they leave me alone because I'm classified as mentally disoriented - it says so right on my plastic medical bracelet - and everyone has to tolerate my ramblings. But that can't last forever. Neither can their patience with the Mockingjay issue. From the landing pad, Gale and I walk down a series of stairways to Compartment 307. We could take the elevator, only it reminds me too much of the one that lifted me into the arena. I'm having a hard time adjusting to being underground so much. But after the surreal encounter with the rose, for the first time the descent makes me feel safer. I hesitate at the door marked 307 , anticipating the questions from my family. "What am I going to tell them about Twelve?" I ask Gale. "I doubt they'll ask for details. They saw it burn. They'll mostly be worried about how you're handling it." Gale touches my cheek. "Like I am." I press my face against his hand for a moment. "I'll survive." Then I take a deep breath and open the door. My mother and sister are home for 18:00 - Reflection, a half hour of downtime before dinner. I see the concern on their faces as they try to gauge my emotional state. Before anyone can ask anything, I empty my game bag and it becomes 18:00 - Cat Adoration. Prim just sits on the floor weeping and rocking that awful Buttercup, who interrupts his purring only for an occasional hiss at me. He gives me a particularly smug look when she ties the blue ribbon around his neck. My mother hugs the wedding photo tightly against her chest and then places it, along with the book of plants, on our government-issued chest of drawers. I hang my father's jacket on the back of a chair. For a moment, the place almost seems like home. So I guess the trip to 12 wasn't a complete waste. We're heading down to the dining hall for 18:30 - Dinner when Gale's communicuff begins to beep. It looks like an oversized watch, but it receives print messages. Being granted a communicuff is a special privilege that's reserved for those important to the cause, a status Gale achieved by his rescue of the citizens of 12. "They need the two of us in Command," he says. Trailing a few steps behind Gale, I try to collect myself before I'm thrown into what's sure to be another relentless Mockingjay session. I linger in the doorway of Command, the high-tech meeting/war council room complete with computerized talking walls, electronic maps showing the troop movements in various districts, and a giant rectangular table with control panels I'm not supposed to touch. No one notices me, though, because they're all gathered at a television screen at the far end of the room that airs the Capitol broadcast around the clock. I'm thinking I might be able to slip away when Plutarch, whose ample frame has been blocking the television, catches sight of me and waves urgently for me to join them. I reluctantly move forward, trying to imagine how it could be of interest to me. It's always the same. War footage. Propaganda. Replaying the bombings of District 12. An ominous message from President Snow. So it's almost entertaining to see Caesar Flickerman, the eternal host of the Hunger Games, with his painted face and sparkly suit, preparing to give an interview. Until the camera pulls back and I see that his guest is Peeta. A sound escapes me. The same combination of gasp and groan that comes from being submerged in water, deprived of oxygen to the point of pain. I push people aside until I am right in front of him, my hand resting on the screen. I search his eyes for any sign of hurt, any reflection of the agony of torture. There is nothing. Peeta looks healthy to the point of robustness. His skin is glowing, flawless, in that full-body-polish way. His manner's composed, serious. I can't reconcile this image with the battered, bleeding boy who haunts my dreams. Caesar settles himself more comfortably in the chair across from Peeta and gives him a long look. "So...Peeta...welcome back." Peeta smiles slightly. "I bet you thought you'd done your last interview with me, Caesar." "I confess, I did," says Caesar. "The night before the Quarter Quell...well, who ever thought we'd see you again?" "It wasn't part of my plan, that's for sure," says Peeta with a frown. Caesar leans in to him a little. "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." Peeta's fingers trace the upholstered pattern on the arm of the chair. "But other people had plans as well." Yes, other people had plans,I think. Has Peeta guessed, then, how the rebels used us as pawns? How my rescue was arranged from the beginning? And finally, how our mentor, Haymitch Abernathy, betrayed us both for a cause he pretended to have no interest in? In the silence that follows, I notice the lines that have formed between Peeta's eyebrows. He has guessed or he has been told. But the Capitol has not killed or even punished him. For right now, that exceeds my wildest hopes. I drink in his wholeness, the soundness of his body and mind. It runs through me like the morphling they give me in the hospital, dulling the pain of the last weeks. "Why don't you tell us about that last night in the arena?" suggests Caesar. "Help us sort a few things out." Peeta nods but takes his time speaking. "That last night...to tell you about that last night...well, first of all, you have to imagine how it felt in the arena. 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. 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." My body breaks out in a sweat at the memory. My hand slides down the screen and hangs limply at my side. Peeta doesn't need a brush to paint images from the Games. He works just as well in words. "Once you're in the arena, the rest of the world becomes very distant," he continues. "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," says Caesar. "Oh, no. It costs a lot more than your life. To murder innocent people?" says Peeta. "It costs everything you are." "Everything you are,"  repeats Caesar quietly. A hush has fallen over the room, and I can feel it spreading across Panem. A nation leaning in toward its screens. Because no one has ever talked about what it's really like in the arena before. Peeta goes on. "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 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." "You were too caught up in Beetee's plan to electrify the salt lake," says Caesar. "Too busy playing allies with the others. I should have never let them separate us!" Peeta bursts out. "That's when I lost her." "When you stayed at the lightning tree, and she and Johanna Mason took the coil of wire down to the water," Caesar clarifies. "I didn't want to!" Peeta flushes in agitation. "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 can only remember bits and pieces. Trying to find her. Watching Brutus kill Chaff. Killing Brutus myself. I know she was calling my name. Then the lightning bolt hit the tree, and the force field around the arena...blew out." "Katniss blew it out, Peeta," says Caesar. "You've seen the footage." "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," Peeta snaps back. "All right. It just looks suspicious," says Caesar. "As if she was part of the rebels' plan all along." Peeta's on his feet, leaning in to Caesar's face, hands locked on the arms of his interviewer's 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?" He's yelling now. "She didn't know, Caesar! Neither of us knew anything except that we were trying to keep each other alive!" Caesar places his hand on Peeta's chest in a gesture that's both self-protective and conciliatory. "Okay, Peeta, I believe you." "Okay." Peeta withdraws from Caesar, pulling back his hands, running them through his hair, mussing his carefully styled blond curls. He slumps back in his chair, distraught. Caesar waits a moment, studying Peeta. "What about your mentor, Haymitch Abernathy?" Peeta's face hardens. "I don't know what Haymitch knew." "Could he have been part of the conspiracy?" asks Caesar. "He never mentioned it," says Peeta. Caesar presses on. "What does your heart tell you?" "That I shouldn't have trusted him," says Peeta. "That's all." I haven't seen Haymitch since I attacked him on the hovercraft, leaving long claw marks down his face. I know it's been bad for him here. District 13 strictly forbids any production or consumption of intoxicating beverages, and even the rubbing alcohol in the hospital is kept under lock and key. Finally, Haymitch is being forced into sobriety, with no secret stashes or home-brewed concoctions to ease his transition. They've got him in seclusion until he's dried out, as he's not deemed fit for public display. It must be excruciating, but I lost all my sympathy for Haymitch when I realized how he had deceived us. I hope he's watching the Capitol broadcast now, so he can see that Peeta has cast him off as well. Caesar pats Peeta's shoulder. "We can stop now if you want." "Was there more to discuss?" says Peeta wryly. "I was going to ask your thoughts on the war, but if you're too upset..." begins Caesar. "Oh, I'm not too upset to answer that." Peeta takes a deep breath and then looks straight into the camera. "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..." says Caesar. "We can't fight one another, Caesar," Peeta explains. "There won't be enough of us left to keep going. If everybody doesn't lay down their weapons - and I mean, as invery soon - it's all over, anyway." "So...you're calling for a cease-fire?" Caesar asks. "Yes. I'm calling for a cease-fire," says Peeta tiredly. "Now why don't we ask the guards to take me back to my quarters so I can build another hundred card houses?" Caesar turns to the camera. "All right. I think that wraps it up. So back to our regularly scheduled programming." Music plays them out, and then there's a woman reading a list of expected shortages in the Capitol - fresh fruit, solar batteries, soap. I watch her with uncharacteristic absorption, because I know everyone will be waiting for my reaction to the interview. But there's no way I can process it all so quickly - the joy of seeing Peeta alive and unharmed, his defense of my innocence in collaborating with the rebels, and his undeniable complicity with the Capitol now that he's called for a cease-fire. Oh, he made it sound as if he were condemning both sides in the war. But at this point, with only minor victories for the rebels, a cease-fire could only result in a return to our previous status. Or worse. Behind me, I can hear the accusations against Peeta building. The wordstraitor ,liar , andenemy bounce off the walls. Since I can neither join in the rebels' outrage nor counter it, I decide the best thing to do is clear out. As I reach the door, Coin's voice rises above the others. "You have not been dismissed, Soldier Everdeen." One of Coin's men lays a hand on my arm. It's not an aggressive move, really, but after the arena, I react defensively to any unfamiliar touch. I jerk my arm free and take off running down the halls. Behind me, there's the sound of a scuffle, but I don't stop. My mind does a quick inventory of my odd little hiding places, and I wind up in the supply closet, curled up against a crate of chalk. "You're alive," I whisper, pressing my palms against my cheeks, feeling the smile that's so wide it must look like a grimace. Peeta's alive. And a traitor. But at the moment, I don't care. Not what he says, or who he says it for, only that he is still capable of speech. After a while, the door opens and someone slips in. Gale slides down beside me, his nose trickling blood. "What happened?" I ask. "I got in Boggs's way," he answers with a shrug. I use my sleeve to wipe his nose. "Watch it!" I try to be gentler. Patting, not wiping. "Which one is he?" "Oh, you know. Coin's right-hand lackey. The one who tried to stop you." He pushes my hand away. "Quit! You'll bleed me to death." The trickle has turned to a steady stream. I give up on the first-aid attempts. "You fought with Boggs?" "No, just blocked the doorway when he tried to follow you. His elbow caught me in the nose," says Gale. "They'll probably punish you," I say. "Already have." He holds up his wrist. I stare at it uncomprehendingly. "Coin took back my communicuff." I bite my lip, trying to remain serious. But it seems so ridiculous. "I'm sorry, Soldier Gale Hawthorne." "Don't be, Soldier Katniss Everdeen." He grins. "I felt like a jerk walking around with it anyway." We both start laughing. "I think it was quite a demotion." This is one of the few good things about 13. Getting Gale back. With the pressure of the Capitol's arranged marriage between Peeta and me gone, we've managed to regain our friendship. He doesn't push it any further - try to kiss me or talk about love. Either I've been too sick, or he's willing to give me space, or he knows it's just too cruel with Peeta in the hands of the Capitol. Whatever the case, I've got someone to tell my secrets to again. "Who are these people?" I say. "They're us. If we'd had nukes instead of a few lumps of coal," he answers. "I like to think Twelve wouldn't have abandoned the rest of the rebels back in the Dark Days," I say. "We might have. If it was that, surrender, or start a nuclear war," says Gale. "In a way, it's remarkable they survived at all." Maybe it's because I still have the ashes of my own district on my shoes, but for the first time, I give the people of 13 something I have withheld from them: credit. For staying alive against all odds. Their early years must have been terrible, huddled in the chambers beneath the ground after their city was bombed to dust. Population decimated, no possible ally to turn to for aid. Over the past seventy-five years, they've learned to be self-sufficient, turned their citizens into an army, and built a new society with no help from anyone. They would be even more powerful if that pox epidemic hadn't flattened their birthrate and made them so desperate for a new gene pool and breeders. Maybe they are militaristic, overly programmed, and somewhat lacking in a sense of humor. They're here. And willing to take on the Capitol. "Still, it took them long enough to show up," I say. "It wasn't simple. They had to build up a rebel base in the Capitol, get some sort of underground organized in the districts," he says. "Then they needed someone to set the whole thing in motion. They needed you." "They needed Peeta, too, but they seem to have forgotten that," I say. Gale's expression darkens. "Peeta might have done a lot of damage tonight. Most of the rebels will dismiss what he said immediately, of course. But there are districts where the resistance is shakier. The cease-fire's clearly President Snow's idea. But it seems so reasonable coming out of Peeta's mouth." I'm afraid of Gale's answer, but I ask anyway. "Why do you think he said it?" "He might have been tortured. Or persuaded. My guess is he made some kind of deal to protect you. He'd put forth the idea of the cease-fire if Snow let him present you as a confused pregnant girl who had no idea what was going on when she was taken prisoner by the rebels. This way, if the districts lose, there's still a chance of leniency for you. If you play it right." I must still look perplexed because Gale delivers the next line very slowly. "Katniss...he's still trying to keep you alive." To keep me alive?And then I understand. The Games are still on. We have left the arena, but since Peeta and I weren't killed, his last wish to preserve my life still stands. His idea is to have me lie low, remain safe and imprisoned, while the war plays out. Then neither side will really have cause to kill me. And Peeta? If the rebels win, it will be disastrous for him. If the Capitol wins, who knows? Maybe we'll both be allowed to live - if I play it right - to watch the Games go on.... Images flash through my mind: the spear piercing Rue's body in the arena, Gale hanging senseless from the whipping post, the corpse-littered wasteland of my home. And for what? For what? As my blood turns hot, I remember other things. My first glimpse of an uprising in District 8. The victors locked hand in hand the night before the Quarter Quell. And how it was no accident, my shooting that arrow into the force field in the arena. How badly I wanted it to lodge deep in the heart of my enemy. I spring up, upsetting a box of a hundred pencils, sending them scattering around the floor. "What is it?" Gale asks. "There can't be a cease-fire." I lean down, fumbling as I shove the sticks of dark gray graphite back into the box. "We can't go back." "I know." Gale sweeps up a handful of pencils and taps them on the floor into perfect alignment. "Whatever reason Peeta had for saying those things, he's wrong." The stupid sticks won't go in the box and I snap several in my frustration. "I know. Give it here. You're breaking them to bits." He pulls the box from my hands and refills it with swift, concise motions. "He doesn't know what they did to Twelve. If he could've seen what was on the ground" - I start. "Katniss, I'm not arguing. If I could hit a button and kill every living soul working for the Capitol, I would do it. Without hesitation." He slides the last pencil into the box and flips the lid closed. "The question is, what are you going to do?" It turns out the question that's been eating away at me has only ever had one possible answer. But it took Peeta's ploy for me to recognize it. What am I going to do? I take a deep breath. My arms rise slightly - as if recalling the black-and-white wings Cinna gave me - then come to rest at my sides. "I'm going to be the Mockingjay."