Mockingjay: Chapters 1–5

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.

It was my arrow, aimed at the chink in the force field surrounding the arena, that brought on this firestorm of retribution.

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 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.

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.

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.

They have a whole team of people to make me over, dress me, write my speeches, orchestrate my appearances—as if that doesn’t sound horribly familiar—and all I have to do is play my part.

Despite serious reservations, I had to forgive Finnick for his role in the conspiracy that landed me here.

There was already a substantial underground facility here, developed over centuries to be either a clandestine refuge for government leaders in times of war or a last resort for humanity if life above became unlivable.

The Capitol had another nuclear arsenal out west, but it couldn’t attack 13 without certain retaliation.

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.

They’re so frugal with things here, waste is practically a criminal activity.

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.

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.

War footage. Propaganda. Replaying the bombings of District 12. An ominous message from President Snow.

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?

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.

Since I can neither join in the rebels’ outrage nor counter it, I decide the best thing to do is clear out.

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.

District 13 confiscated my tube of skin ointment for use in the hospital, and my bow and arrows because only guards have clearance to carry weapons.

“I think we should continue the current romance. A quick defection from Peeta could cause the audience to lose sympathy for her,” says Plutarch.

I can see her tallying the cost of my ultimatum, weighing it against my possible worth.

Only one person could have designed the outfit, at first glance utterly utilitarian, at second a work of art.

We think that it might be best to build you, our rebel leader, from the outside...in. That is to say, let’s find the most stunning Mockingjay look possible, and then work your personality up to deserving it!

“Punishing my prep team’s a warning,” I tell her. “Not just to me. But to you, too. About who’s really in control and what happens if she’s not obeyed. If you had any delusions about having power, I’d let them go now.

The tributes were necessary to the Games, too. Until they weren’t,” I say. “And then we were very disposable—right, Plutarch?”

Either because the prep team’s incapacitated or I’m too on edge, Plutarch releases me from Mockingjay duties for the rest of the day.

Coin calls the audience to attention and tells them I have consented to be the Mockingjay, provided the other victors—Peeta, Johanna, Enobaria, and Annie—will be granted full pardon for any damage they do to the rebel cause.

But in return for this unprecedented request, Soldier Everdeen has promised to devote herself to our cause.

Another power player who has decided to use me as a piece in her games, although things never seem to go according to plan. First there were the Gamemakers, making me their star and then scrambling to recover from that handful of poisonous berries. Then President Snow, trying to use me to put out the flames of rebellion, only to have my every move become inflammatory.

But she has been the quickest to determine that I have an agenda of my own and am therefore not to be trusted.

Beauty Base Zero turns out to be what a person would look like if they stepped out of bed looking flawless but natural. It means my nails are perfectly shaped but not polished. My hair soft and shiny but not styled. My skin smooth and clear but not painted. Wax the body hair and erase the dark circles, but don’t make any noticeable enhancements.

It’s no simple job getting me back to Beauty Base Zero, even with the elaborate arsenal of products, tools, and gadgets Plutarch had the foresight to bring from the Capitol.

The covert glances and quiet murmurs I usually evoke are nothing compared to the reaction brought on by the sight of my bizarre-looking prep team.

Checking the schedules printed on our forearms is just a preliminary step. We also have fingerprint, retinal, and DNA scans, and have to step through special metal detectors.

The variety of arrows—razor sharp, incendiary, explosive—turn the bow into a multipurpose weapon.

But Fulvia’s right in my face, describing a battle I’ve just been in, and how my comrades-in-arms are all lying dead around me, and how, to rally the living, I must turn to the camera and shout out the line!

“People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice!”

Finally, the intercom crackles and Haymitch’s acerbic laugh fills the studio. He contains himself just long enough to say, “And that, my friends, is how a revolution dies.”