Chapter Text
I look down in the vain hope that I will see my shoes and watch as a fine layer of ash settles on the leather.
My line of sight is partially obstructed by the bulge in my abdomen.
Where I am 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?
I cannot exactly say what I had expected, coming to District 12, but I had thought – I had hoped –
Well, I had thought there would be something left of home.
Almost nothing remains of District 12.
Four months ago the Capitol's firebombs obliterated the poor coal miners' houses in the Seam, the shops in the town, and even the Justice Building.
The only area that escaped incineration was the Victor's Village.
Perhaps this has been done so that 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…
At the thought of them, I lift my head.
There are twenty of them deployed to the ground, to guard me, all wearing that familiar white uniform.
The closest Peacekeeper catches my eye. He sneers.
He is a tall man, but his face is plain, hidden behind a face-protecting plate of plastic.
A gun hangs from his shoulder.
He repositions it as I stare for a little too long. The sneer turns into a disapproving frown.
I give an innocuous smile in return and walk towards the gravel path that leads into town.
Many of my guard jump into action at my move.
They hurry along to keep a protective formation around me.
Their insistence on keeping me completely surrounded amuses me.
Where would I go? How could I run?
No one is coming for me.
Not when there are at least a dozen invisible Capitol hovercrafts hanging over our heads.
District 13 may not even know we're in District 12 at all. Might not even consider the thought that Snow would ever let me venture so far from his lair. They would view this as a costly and pointless journey, given the amount of effort my guard must show and that there's absolutely no intelligence to be gained.
I glace up at the hovercrafts.
Before landing, I had asked if they would film this. The Head Peacekeeper had assured me that there were no orders given to propagate our trip, but I still feel suspicious.
Why else would Snow insist on me seeing what remains of District 12?
It could be a veiled threat, of course. A reminder of his power. Perhaps as a pretend olive branch.
It has been four months since the end of the Quarter Quell games.
Two months I spent in a coma.
The most recent two months I have spent alone, confined to my hospital-like room in the Capitol. I see a revolving number of doctors, Peacekeepers, and Snow himself, but never outsiders.
Perhaps this unprompted trip to District 12 is because President Snow wished to remind me that there is a war afoot.
As if I would forget that while I suffered in his company that my loved ones and my allies were fighting for their lives.
Or perhaps they no longer live at all.
On the path to town there are the remains of those who tried to flee. Some corpses were incinerated entirely. Others, probably overcome by the smoke, had 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 them. And you. And you.
I may not have dropped the firebombs. I may not have given the order, but it was because of my involvement in the rebellion that President Snow chose to target my home district.
I pause in my walk to catch my breath.
The smell of corpses makes me want to vomit – and I do.
I rush over to a pile of bricks and lose my lunch.
“Are you alright?” A soft male voice reaches me through the headset I was forced to wear.
I take a steadying breath and adjust the headset before replying. “Just morning sickness.”
Over the last few weeks I’ve grown significantly larger, and the baby has undeniably done so as well.
I could not claim to be an expert on pregnancy but having the constant attention of Capitol doctors has assured me of the fact that all was going well despite the coma. The troubling symptoms and the constant discomfort I found from pregnancy were of no concerns to them. All Snow needed was the child to remain viable.
How else could he blackmail me?
Perhaps he has purposefully waited for me to be so far along to bring me to District 12 just because he knew me escaping the Peacekeepers and running would be impossible.
Perhaps he has been waiting to propagate me so that my debut appearance will have the full effect of a pregnant belly.
I have no idea how the war or rebellion is fairing. I have no idea if my family died in the firebombing.
Four months since I saw Johanna thrown over the edge of the ravine by Gloss.
Four months since I saw Finnick and Beetee's attempt to save her.
Four months since I saw that final glimpse of Peeta's terrified face.
Snow never told me who survived from the arena.
I only know who he has in custody: myself, Johanna, and Enorbaria.
Peeta could have died four months ago.
A sudden and viscous rush of tears comes to my eyes. I fight them back, afraid that I am being filmed.
I trudge through town, and inevitably find myself in the untouched Victor’s Village.
I enter my old victor’s house and hate the sound that the Peacekeeper’s boots make on the hardwood floors as they follow me in.
I find myself opening the closet in the hallway, where my father’s old hunting jacket hangs. I am surprised it is still there, but I am not sure where I expected it to be. I pull it out and put it on without thinking. I find the familiar texture comforting.
There are dishes and rotting food sitting out in the kitchen and on the dining room table, as if the family had been about to have dinner. There are a few too many places set around the table for it to have just been Prim and Mom. Perhaps the Hawthorne’s had been visiting the day of the bombing. Perhaps that meant they survived.
I take this information as a comfort.
After wandering my house for any further clues or traces of my loved ones, and finding nothing, I inevitably walk towards Peeta’s victor house across from mine.
As I near it, I pick up my pace. I rush up the front steps and enter, then immediately turn, lock the door, and listen to the Peacekeeper pounding furiously at the wood as I run up the stairs.
"Katniss," the headset sounds, in a burst of static, "if you don't unlock the door, I'll order them to shoot it open. Snow has given specific orders not to let you out of sight."
"I'll only be a minute," I say, clutching the handrail of the stairs. "I'm not doing anything wrong…”
The Head Peacekeeper sighs. "How do I know you are not lying?"
"You don't," I tell him.
A few minutes later, the knocking has stopped, and no one enters from the backdoor.
I stand in front of Peeta’s closed bedroom door.
The last time I was here I was drunk and the Quarter Quell had just been announced. Peeta had comforted me. I wanted to laugh now at the absurdity of that night. Our argument. Our fanciful flight into the woods. The glade we had sat in. The arrow I had shown him. The kisses we had shared.
I open the door, some small piece of me hoping to find Peeta inside.
All I find is his neatly made bed, abandoned easels, and the canvases filling most of the walls of various Hunger Game related scenes.
Soft sunlight falls between the white curtains hanging over the window.
I hesitate only a moment before I sit on his bed.
One of my hands moves across the top blanket.
Oh, Peeta… what am I going to do?
What would you do?
I leave a note on the desk. I agonize myself over what to write. I don’t know if anyone will ever find it.
I simply write: I’m sorry.
There is nothing else I can offer.
I do not sign it. If he finds it, he will know.
Once I exit the house, I motion to the Peacekeepers that I wish to return to the hovercraft.
There's no use staying. No reason I should agonize my conscience any longer.
One of the hovercrafts lands in the Meadow. The sun is setting behind it.
I drag my feet inside the hovercraft, walking over to the window to watch as the district grows smaller the higher that we get. When it's just a blur of trees, I turn away, tearing the headset off. I toss the piece of plastic at the nearest Peacekeeper, and he barely catches it.
My last wisps of hope that the rebels would somehow take advantage of my return to the devastated district evaporates.
Head Peacekeeper Leon waits to offer me my seat.
Lights from a control panel illuminates the underside of his jaw and the wide brim of his hat, leaving his eyes in shadow. It makes him seem empty, obedient, and hollow. A playing piece.
As I sit, there's a tremble running in my hands that I am helpless to stop.
"Any other stops you'd like to make?" Leon asks me after minutes of thunderous silence.
The control panel lights flicker.
Is he taunting me?
"No," I say. "This was enough."
"Enough to convince you the rebellion needs to be stopped?" he retorts.
I force myself to remain outwardly calm.
“What rebellion?” I say, feigning pleasant ignorance.
To my surprise, Leon simply sighs and takes the gun strap off his shoulder, ducking his head beneath it, and props the thing against the control panel. It's almost as if he were showing a sign of surrender.
It is not necessarily out of character for the man – but I could not claim to know him well, even if I have spent quite a bit of time with Head Peacekeeper Leon these last two months.
Leon is the head of my security. While the other Peacekeepers change frequently, he is always the one in charge. The one I meet with and who debriefs me when I am being moved to a different place or room. If I understand correctly, his duty is twofold – prevent me from escape and from suicide.
"How are you feeling?" Leon asks me.
I glance up at him, noting his straight nose and brown hair cut in the neat military style: short in back and a bit longer over the forehead.
"Fine."
One of Leon’s arms swings around the back of his seat, and when it comes out, he's holding out a handkerchief.
"You're sweating,” he says, offering it to me.
I wipe my face with it, glad for the excuse to hide my expression.
Despite his gentle tone and considerate manners, I feel deceived by him.
Leon is the Capitol through and through. A child that grew up there, trained to hate the districts and to think us savage and uncivil people who deserve to die in the Hunger Games. Even more, a Peacekeeper, who whips those that he decides deserves it.
I hate this game of pretending to care – pretending as if we ever would or could be acquaintances.
He is perhaps the youngest Head Peacekeeper I have ever met.
I wonder if President Snow has specifically chosen this man to interact with me.
An envoy, of sorts. A spy. A ploy.
Everything in the Capitol feels like a ploy.
I would think the pregnancy was a ploy if my belly has not consistently been growing these last few months.
A beeping sound starts to emit from Leon. Leon picks up a small device, presses a few things and holds it up to his ear.
After a few moments, to whoever is on the other side of communication, Leon says, "No, of course. She's fine."
Am I?
Almost as if he heard my thoughts, Leon's piercing green eyes flash to mine.
He's overlooking my person.
“A jacket,” he says.
“What?” I ask.
"You didn't take anything else with you, did you?" he asks me.
"No."
One of his eyebrows arches. "You're certain? I don't want to have to search you."
"What are you afraid I took?"
Leon motions another Peacekeeper forward.
“Search the jacket.”
I want to fight them over it, but decided it is not worth the effort.
I remove the hunting jacket begrudgingly.
“There’s nothing,” says the Peacekeeper.
Leon repeats this over the communicator, then nods the jacket back to me. I put it back on, but it no longer feels comforting, but suffocating. This jacket does not belong in the Capitol. I will likely lose it there; and it will never be seen again. The short-term comfort it gives me is not worth that.
Leon exits the room to continue his phone conversation.
I suppose it is possible that I may have picked up some rebel microphone or spying instrumentation. I can see why they searched me, but how could I ever have organized something like that? Especially if I hardly know a thing about District 13. How could someone have known I would pick up this jacket? If there was someone who could predict that, it would have been my family. If the jacket had been planted, then that meant they were alive. Perhaps this paranoia of theirs is founded and only serves to confirm my family’s wellbeing.
The sky beyond the hovercraft's window steadily grows darker the farther we go and the heavier my limbs begin to feel.
I am nodding off between nightmares in the dim control room when Leon returns.
Leon comes to sit beside me, picking up his gun and slinging it back over his chest.
I watch the stars and moon overhead beginning to blur as the hovercraft picks up in speed.
"We're landing in five minutes," Leon says. "Better wake up quick, because Snow's waiting for you.”
“What happened?” I ask, instantly wide awake. “Did something happen while we were gone?”
Leon does not answer.
“Was it District 13?" I ask.
Leon's lips press into a tight line.
"Yes,” he says. “It was District 13."
"Peeta?" I whisper, barely able to say his name aloud.
Leon glances at me from the corner of his eye.
He does not say anything, but he gives his head the smallest of nods.
Peeta is alive.