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Mockingjay

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by Dar on September 21st, 2010 at 02:55 pm
Love it! Couldn't put it down!
by billy bob joe on June 18th, 2012 at 02:14 pm
mocking jay
by billy bob joe on June 18th, 2012 at 02:14 pm
mocking jay
by hfd on June 18th, 2012 at 02:16 pm
hi
by hfd on June 18th, 2012 at 02:16 pm
hi
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Mockingjay

by: Mary, 273 pages

mockingjay

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MOCKINGJAY
SUZANNE COLLINS
SCHOLASTIC PRESS / NEW YORK
For Cap, Charlie, and Isabel
CONTENTS
COVER
DEDICATION

PART I
“THE ASHES”
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
PART II
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“THE ASSAULT”
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
PART III
“THE ASSASSIN”
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27

EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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COPYRIGHT
PART I
“THE ASHES”
1
I stare down at my shoes, watching as a fine layer of ash settles on the worn leather. This is where the
bed I shared with my sister, Prim, stood. Over there was the kitchen table. The bricks of the chimney,
which collapsed in a charred heap, provide a point of reference for the rest of the house. How else could
I orient myself in this sea of gray?
Almost nothing remains of District 12. A month ago, the Capitol’s firebombs obliterated the poor coal
miners’ houses in the Seam, the shops in the town, even the Justice Building. The only area that escaped
incineration was the Victor’s Village. I don’t know why exactly. Perhaps so anyone forced to come here
on Capitol business would have somewhere decent to stay. The odd reporter. A committee assessing the
condition of the coal mines. A squad of Peacekeepers checking for returning refugees.
But no one is returning except me. And that’s only for a brief visit. The authorities in District 13 were
against my coming back. They viewed it as a costly and pointless venture, given that at least a dozen
invisible hovercraft are circling overhead for my protection and there’s no intelligence to be gained. I had
to see it, though. So much so that I made it a condition of my cooperating with any of their plans.
Finally, Plutarch Heavensbee, the Head Gamemaker who had organized the rebels in the Capitol, threw
up his hands. “Let her go. Better to waste a day than another month. Maybe a little tour of Twelve is just
what she needs to convince her we’re on the same side.”
The same side. A pain stabs my left temple and I press my hand against it. Right on the spot where
Johanna Mason hit me with the coil of wire. The memories swirl as I try to sort out what is true and what
is false. What series of events led me to be standing in the ruins of my city? This is hard because the
effects of the concussion she gave me haven’t completely subsided and my thoughts still have a tendency
to jumble together. Also, the drugs they use to control my pain and mood sometimes make me see things.
I guess. I’m still not entirely convinced that I was hallucinating the night the floor of my hospital room
transformed into a carpet of writhing snakes.
I use a technique one of the doctors suggested. I start with the simplest things I know to be true and
work toward the more complicated. The list begins to roll in my head….
My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. My home is District 12. I was in the Hunger
Games. I escaped. The Capitol hates me. Peeta was taken prisoner. He is thought to be dead. Most
likely he is dead. It is probably best if he is dead….
“Katniss. Should I come down?” My best friend Gale’s voice reaches me through the headset the rebels
insisted I wear. He’s up in a hovercraft, watching me carefully, ready to swoop in if anything goes amiss.
I realize I’m crouched down now, elbows on my thighs, my head braced between my hands. I must look
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on the verge of some kind of breakdown. This won’t do. Not when they’re finally weaning me off the
medication.
I straighten up and wave his offer away. “No. I’m fine.” To reinforce this, I begin to move away from my
old house and in toward the town. Gale asked to be dropped off in 12 with me, but he didn’t force the
issue when I refused his company. He understands I don’t want anyone with me today. Not even him.
Some walks you have to take alone.
The summer’s been scorching hot and dry as a bone. There’s been next to no rain to disturb the piles of
ash left by the attack. They shift here and there, in reaction to my footsteps. No breeze to scatter them. I
keep my eyes on what I remember as the road, because when I first landed in the Meadow, I wasn’t
careful and I walked right into a rock. Only it wasn’t a rock—it was someone’s skull. It rolled over and
over and landed faceup, and for a long time I couldn’t stop looking at the teeth, wondering whose they
were, thinking of how mine would probably look the same way under similar circumstances.
I stick to the road out of habit, but it’s a bad choice, because it’s full of the remains of those who tried to
flee. Some were incinerated entirely. But others, probably overcome with smoke, escaped the worst of
the flames and now lie reeking in various states of decomposition, carrion for scavengers, blanketed by
flies.I killed you, I think as I pass a pile.And you. And you .
Because I did. It was my arrow, aimed at the chink in the force field surrounding the arena, that brought
on this firestorm of retribution. That sent the whole country of Panem into chaos.
In my head I hear President Snow’s words, spoken the morning I was to begin the Victory Tour.
“Katniss Everdeen, the girl who was on fire, you have provided a spark that, left unattended, may grow
to an inferno that destroys Panem.” It turns out he wasn’t exaggerating or simply trying to scare me. He
was, perhaps, genuinely attempting to enlist my help. But I had already set something in motion that I had
no ability to control.
Burning. Still burning,I think numbly. The fires at the coal mines belch black smoke in the distance.
There’s no one left to care, though. More than ninety percent of the district’s population is dead. The
remaining eight hundred or so are refugees in District 13—which, as far as I’m concerned, is the same
thing as being homeless forever.
I know I shouldn’t think that; I know I should be grateful for the way we have been welcomed. Sick,
wounded, starving, and empty-handed. Still, I can never get around the fact that District 13 was
instrumental in 12’s destruction. This doesn’t absolve me of blame—there’s plenty of blame to go
around. But without them, I would not have been part of a larger plot to overthrow the Capitol or had the
wherewithal to do it.
The citizens of District 12 had no organized resistance movement of their own. No say in any of this.
They only had the misfortune to have me. Some survivors think it’s good luck, though, to be free of
District 12 at last. To have escaped the endless hunger and oppression, the perilous mines, the lash of our
final Head Peacekeeper, Romulus Thread. To have a new home at all is seen as a wonder since, up until
a short time ago, we hadn’t even known that District 13 still existed.
The credit for the survivors’ escape has landed squarely on Gale’s shoulders, although he’s loath to
accept it. As soon as the Quarter Quell was over—as soon as I had been lifted from the arena—the
electricity in District 12 was cut, the televisions went black, and the Seam became so silent, people could
hear one another’s heartbeats. No one did anything to protest or celebrate what had happened in the
arena. Yet within fifteen minutes, the sky was filled with hoverplanes and the bombs were raining down.
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It was Gale who thought of the Meadow, one of the few places not filled with old wooden homes
embedded with coal dust. He herded those he could in its direction, including my mother and Prim. He
formed the team that pulled down the fence—now just a harmless chain-link barrier, with the electricity
off—and led the people into the woods. He took them to the only place he could think of, the lake my
father had shown me as a child. And it was from there they watched the distant flames eat up everything
they knew in the world.
By dawn the bombers were long gone, the fires dying, the final stragglers rounded up. My mother and
Prim had set up a medical area for the injured and were attempting to treat them with whatever they
could glean from the woods. Gale had two sets of bows and arrows, one hunting knife, one fishing net,
and over eight hundred terrified people to feed. With the help of those who were able-bodied, they
managed for three days. And that’s when the hovercraft unexpectedly arrived to evacuate them to
District 13, where there were more than enough clean, white living compartments, plenty of clothing, and
three meals a day. The compartments had the disadvantage of being underground, the clothing was
identical, and the food was relatively tasteless, but for the refugees of 12, these were minor
considerations. They were safe. They were being cared for. They were alive and eagerly welcomed.
This enthusiasm was interpreted as kindness. But a man named Dalton, a District 10 refugee who’d
made it to 13 on foot a few years ago, leaked the real motive to me. “They need you. Me. They need us
all. Awhile back, there was some sort of pox epidemic that killed a bunch of them and left a lot more
infertile. New breeding stock. That’s how they see us.” Back in 10, he’d worked on one of the beef
ranches, maintaining the genetic diversity of the herd with the implantation of long-frozen cow embryos.
He’s very likely right about 13, because there don’t seem to be nearly enough kids around. But so what?
We’re not being kept in pens, we’re being trained for work, the children are being educated. Those over
fourteen have been given entry-level ranks in the military and are addressed respectfully as “Soldier.”
Every single refugee was granted automatic citizenship by the authorities of 13.
Still, I hate them. But, of course, I hate almost everybody now. Myself more than anyone.
The surface beneath my feet hardens, and under the carpet of ash, I feel the paving stones of the square.
Around the perimeter is a shallow border of refuse where the shops stood. A heap of blackened rubble
has replaced the Justice Building. I walk to the approximate site of the bakery Peeta’s family owned.
Nothing much left but the melted lump of the oven. Peeta’s parents, his two older brothers—none of
them made it to 13. Fewer than a dozen of what passed for District 12’s well-to-do escaped the fire.
Peeta would have nothing to come home to, anyway. Except me…
I back away from the bakery and bump into something, lose my balance, and find myself sitting on a
hunk of sun-heated metal. I puzzle over what it might have been, then remember Thread’s recent
renovations of the square. Stocks, whipping posts, and this, the remains of the gallows. Bad. This is bad.
It brings on the flood of images that torments me, awake or asleep. Peeta being tortured—drowned,
burned, lacerated, shocked, maimed, beaten—as the Capitol tries to get information about the rebellion
that he doesn’t know. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to reach for him across the hundreds and hundreds
of miles, to send my thoughts into his mind, to let him know he is not alone. But he is. And I can’t help
him.
Running. Away from the square and to the one place the fire did not destroy. I pass the wreckage of the
mayor’s house, where my friend Madge lived. No word of her or her family. Were they evacuated to the
Capitol because of her father’s position, or left to the flames? Ashes billow up around me, and I pull the
hem of my shirt up over my mouth. It’s not wondering what I breathe in, but who, that threatens to choke
me.
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The grass has been scorched and the gray snow fell here as well, but the twelve fine houses of the
Victor’s Village are unscathed. I bolt into the house I lived in for the past year, slam the door closed, and
lean back against it. The place seems untouched. Clean. Eerily quiet. Why did I come back to 12? How
can this visit help me answer the question I can’t escape?
“What am I going to do?” I whisper to the walls. Because I really don’t know.
People keep talking at me, talking, talking, talking. Plutarch Heavensbee. His calculating assistant, Fulvia
Cardew. A mishmash of district leaders. Military officials. But not Alma Coin, the president of 13, who
just watches. She’s fifty or so, with gray hair that falls in an unbroken sheet to her shoulders. I’m
somewhat fascinated by her hair, since it’s so uniform, so without a flaw, a wisp, even a split end. Her
eyes are gray, but not like those of people from the Seam. They’re very pale, as if almost all the color has
been sucked out of them. The color of slush that you wish would melt away.
What they want is for me to truly take on the role they designed for me. The symbol of the revolution.
The Mockingjay. It isn’t enough, what I’ve done in the past, defying the Capitol in the Games, providing
a rallying point. I must now become the actual leader, the face, the voice, the embodiment of the
revolution. The person who the districts—most of which are now openly at war with the Capitol—can
count on to blaze the path to victory. I won’t have to do it alone. They have a whole team of people to
make me over, dress me, write my speeches, orchestrate my appearances—as ifthat doesn’t sound
horribly familiar—and all I have to do is play my part. Sometimes I listen to them and sometimes I just
watch the perfect line of Coin’s hair and try to decide if it’s a wig. Eventually, I leave the room because
my head starts to ache or it’s time to eat or if I don’t get aboveground I might start screaming. I don’t
bother to say anything. I simply get up and walk out.
Yesterday afternoon, as the door was closing behind me, I heard Coin say, “I told you we should have
rescued the boy first.” Meaning Peeta. I couldn’t agree more. He would’ve been an excellent
mouthpiece.
And who did they fish out of the arena instead? Me, who won’t cooperate. Beetee, an older inventor
from 3, who I rarely see because he was pulled into weapons development the minute he could sit
upright. Literally, they wheeled his hospital bed into some top secret area and now he only occasionally
shows up for meals. He’s very smart and very willing to help the cause, but not really firebrand material.
Then there’s Finnick Odair, the sex symbol from the fishing district, who kept Peeta alive in the arena
when I couldn’t. They want to transform Finnick into a rebel leader as well, but first they’ll have to get
him to stay awake for more than five minutes. Even when he is conscious, you have to say everything to
him three times to get through to his brain. The doctors say it’s from the electrical shock he received in
the arena, but I know it’s a lot more complicated than that. I know that Finnick can’t focus on anything in
13 because he’s trying so hard to see what’s happening in the Capitol to Annie, the mad girl from his
district who’s the only person on earth he loves.
Despite serious reservations, I had to forgive Finnick for his role in the conspiracy that landed me here.
He, at least, has some idea of what I’m going through. And it takes too much energy to stay angry with
someone who cries so much.
I move through the downstairs on hunter’s feet, reluctant to make any sound. I pick up a few
remembrances: a photo of my parents on their wedding day, a blue hair ribbon for Prim, the family book
of medicinal and edible plants. The book falls open to a page with yellow flowers and I shut it quickly
because it was Peeta’s brush that painted them.
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What am I going to do?
Is there any point in doing anything at all? My mother, my sister, and Gale’s family are finally safe. As for
the rest of 12, people are either dead, which is irreversible, or protected in 13. That leaves the rebels in
the districts. Of course, I hate the Capitol, but I have no confidence that my being the Mockingjay will
benefit those who are trying to bring it down. How can I help the districts when every time I make a
move, it results in suffering and loss of life? The old man shot in District 11 for whistling. The crackdown
in 12 after I intervened in Gale’s whipping. My stylist, Cinna, being dragged, bloody and unconscious,
from the Launch Room before the Games. Plutarch’s sources believe he was killed during interrogation.
Brilliant, enigmatic, lovely Cinna is dead because of me. I push the thought away because it’s too
impossibly painful to dwell on without losing my fragile hold on the situation entirely.
What am I going to do?
To become the Mockingjay…could any good I do possibly outweigh the damage? Who can I trust to
answer that question? Certainly not that crew in 13. I swear, now that my family and Gale’s are out of
harm’s way, I could run away. Except for one unfinished piece of business. Peeta. If I knew for sure that
he was dead, I could just disappear into the woods and never look back. But until I do, I’m stuck.
I spin on my heel at the sound of a hiss. In the kitchen doorway, back arched, ears flattened, stands the
ugliest tomcat in the world. “Buttercup,” I say. Thousands of people are dead, but he has survived and
even looks well fed. On what? He can get in and out of the house through a window we always left ajar
in the pantry. He must have been eating field mice. I refuse to consider the alternative.
I squat down and extend a hand. “Come here, boy.” Not likely. He’s angry at his abandonment.
Besides, I’m not offering food, and my ability to provide scraps has always been my main redeeming
quality to him. For a while, when we used to meet up at the old house because we both disliked this new
one, we seemed to be bonding a little. That’s clearly over. He blinks those unpleasant yellow eyes.
“Want to see Prim?” I ask. Her name catches his attention. Besides his own, it’s the only word that
means anything to him. He gives a rusty meow and approaches me. I pick him up, stroking his fur, then
go to the closet and dig out my game bag and unceremoniously stuff him in. There’s no other way I’ll be
able to carry him on the hovercraft, and he means the world to my sister. Her goat, Lady, an animal of
actual value, has unfortunately not made an appearance.
In my headset, I hear Gale’s voice telling me we must go back. But the game bag has reminded me of
one more thing that I want. I sling the strap of the bag over the back of a chair and dash up the steps to
my bedroom. Inside the closet hangs my father’s hunting jacket. Before the Quell, I brought it here from
the old house, thinking its presence might be of comfort to my mother and sister when I was dead. Thank
goodness, or it’d be ash now.
The soft leather feels soothing and for a moment I’m calmed by the memories of the hours spent
wrapped in it. Then, inexplicably, my palms begin to sweat. A strange sensation creeps up the back of
my neck. I whip around to face the room and find it empty. Tidy. Everything in its place. There was no
sound to alarm me. What, then?
My nose twitches. It’s the smell. Cloying and artificial. A dab of white peeks out of a vase of dried
flowers on my dresser. I approach it with cautious steps. There, all but obscured by its preserved
cousins, is a fresh white rose. Perfect. Down to the last thorn and silken petal.
And I know immediately who’s sent it to me.
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President Snow.
When I begin to gag at the stench, I back away and clear out. How long has it been here? A day? An
hour? The rebels did a security sweep of the Victor’s Village before I was cleared to come here,
checking for explosives, bugs, anything unusual. But perhaps the rose didn’t seem noteworthy to them.
Only to me.
Downstairs, I snag the game bag off the chair, bouncing it along the floor until I remember it’s occupied.
On the lawn, I frantically signal to the hovercraft while Buttercup thrashes. I jab him with my elbow, but
this only infuriates him. A hovercraft materializes and a ladder drops down. I step on and the current
freezes me until I’m lifted on board.
Gale helps me from the ladder. “You all right?”
“Yeah,” I say, wiping the sweat off my face with my sleeve.
He left me a rose!I want to scream, but it’s not information I’m sure I should share with someone like
Plutarch looking on. First of all, because it will make me sound crazy. Like I either imagined it, which is
quite possible, or I’m overreacting, which will buy me a trip back to the drug-induced dreamland I’m
trying so hard to escape. No one will fully understand—how it’s not just a flower, not even just President
Snow’s flower, but a promise of revenge—because no one else sat in the study with him when he
threatened me before the Victory Tour.
Positioned on my dresser, that white-as-snow rose is a personal message to me. It speaks of unfinished
business. It whispers,I can find you. I can reach you. Perhaps I am watching you now.
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.
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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 until22:00—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 marked307 , 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.”
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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 for18:00—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 becomes18:00—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 for18:30—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.”
Page 10

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