Сьюзен Коллинз - Mockingjay

My fingers encircle a blackberry and pluck it from its stem. I roll it gently between my thumb and forefinger. Suddenly, I turn to him and toss it in his direction. «And may the odds—» I say. I throw it high so he has plenty of time to decide whether to knock it aside or accept it.

Gale’s eyes train on me, not the berry, but at the last moment, he opens his mouth and catches it. He chews, swallows, and there’s a long pause before he says «—beever in your favor.» But he does say it.

Cressida has us sit in the nook in the rocks, where it’s impossible not to be touching, and coaxes us into talking about hunting. What drove us out into the woods, how we met, favorite moments. We thaw, begin to laugh a little, as we relate mishaps with bees and wild dogs and skunks. When the conversation turns to how it felt to translate our skill with weapons to the bombing in 8, I stop talking. Gale just says, «Long overdue.»

By the time we reach the town square, afternoon’s sinking into evening. I take Cressida to the rubble of the bakery and ask her to film something. The only emotion I can muster is exhaustion. «Peeta, this is your home. None of your family has been heard of since the bombing. Twelve is gone. And you’re calling for a cease-fire?» I look across the emptiness. «There’s no one left to hear you.»

As we stand before the lump of metal that was the gallows, Cressida asks if either of us has ever been tortured. In answer, Gale pulls off his shirt and turns his back to the camera. I stare at the lash marks, and again hear the whistling of the whip, see his bloody figure hanging unconscious by his wrists.

«I’m done,» I announce. «I’ll meet you at the Victor’s Village. Something for…my mother.»

I guess I walked here, but the next thing I’m conscious of is sitting on the floor in front of the kitchen cabinets of our house in the Victor’s Village. Meticulously lining ceramic jars and glass bottles into a box. Placing clean cotton bandages between them to prevent breaking. Wrapping bunches of dried flowers.

Suddenly, I remember the rose on my dresser. Was it real? If so, is it still up there? I have to resist the temptation to check. If it’s there, it will only frighten me all over again. I hurry with my packing.

When the cabinets are empty, I rise to find that Gale has materialized in my kitchen. It’s disturbing how soundlessly he can appear. He’s leaning on the table, his fingers spread wide against the wood grain. I set the box between us. «Remember?» he asks. «This is where you kissed me.»

So the heavy dose of morphling administered after the whipping wasn’t enough to erase that from his consciousness. «I didn’t think you’d remember that,» I say.

«Have to be dead to forget. Maybe even not then,» he tells me. «Maybe I’ll be like that man in ‘The Hanging Tree.’ Still waiting for an answer.» Gale, who I have never seen cry, has tears in his eyes. To keep them from spilling over, I reach forward and press my lips against his. We taste of heat, ashes, and misery. It’s a surprising flavor for such a gentle kiss. He pulls away first and gives me a wry smile. «I knew you’d kiss me.»

«How?» I say. Because I didn’t know myself.

«Because I’m in pain,» he says. «That’s the only way I get your attention.» He picks up the box. «Don’t worry, Katniss. It’ll pass.» He leaves before I can answer.

I’m too weary to work through his latest charge. I spend the short ride back to 13 curled up in a seat, trying to ignore Plutarch going on about one of his favorite subjects—weapons mankind no longer has at its disposal. High-flying planes, military satellites, cell disintegrators, drones, biological weapons with expiration dates. Brought down by the destruction of the atmosphere or lack of resources or moral squeamishness. You can hear the regret of a Head Gamemaker who can only dream of such toys, who must make do with hovercraft and land-to-land missiles and plain old guns.

After dropping off my Mockingjay suit, I go straight to bed without eating. Even so, Prim has to shake me to get me up in the morning. After breakfast, I ignore my schedule and take a nap in the supply closet. When I come to, crawling out from between the boxes of chalk and pencils, it’s dinnertime again. I get an extra-large portion of pea soup and am headed back to Compartment E when Boggs intercepts me.

«There’s a meeting in Command. Disregard your current schedule,» he says.

«Done,» I say.

«Did you follow it at all today?» he asks in exasperation.

«Who knows? I’m mentally disoriented.» I hold up my wrist to show my medical bracelet and realize it’s gone. «See? I can’t even remember they took my bracelet. Why do they want me in Command? Did I miss something?»

«I think Cressida wanted to show you the Twelve propos. But I guess you’ll see them when they air,» he says.

«That’s what I need a schedule of. When the propos air,» I say. He shoots me a look but doesn’t comment further.

People have crowded into Command, but they’ve saved me a seat between Finnick and Plutarch. The screens are already up on the table, showing the regular Capitol feed.

«What’s going on? Aren’t we seeing the Twelve propos?» I ask.

«Oh, no,» says Plutarch. «I mean, possibly. I don’t know exactly what footage Beetee plans to use.»

«Beetee thinks he’s found a way to break into the feed nationwide,» says Finnick. «So that our propos will air in the Capitol, too. He’s down working on it in Special Defense now. There’s live programming tonight. Snow’s making an appearance or something. I think it’s starting.»

The Capitol seal appears, underscored by the anthem. Then I’m staring directly into President Snow’s snake eyes as he greets the nation. He seems barricaded behind his podium, but the white rose in his lapel is in full view. The camera pulls back to include Peeta, off to one side in front of a projected map of Panem. He’s sitting in an elevated chair, his shoes supported by a metal rung. The foot of his prosthetic leg taps out a strange irregular beat. Beads of sweat have broken through the layer of powder on his upper lip and forehead. But it’s the look in his eyes—angry yet unfocused—that frightens me the most.

«He’s worse,» I whisper. Finnick grasps my hand, to give me an anchor, and I try to hang on.

Peeta begins to speak in a frustrated tone about the need for the cease-fire. He highlights the damage done to key infrastructure in various districts, and as he speaks, parts of the map light up, showing images of the destruction. A broken dam in 7. A derailed train with a pool of toxic waste spilling from the tank cars. A granary collapsing after a fire. All of these he attributes to rebel action.

Bam!Without warning, I’m suddenly on television, standing in the rubble of the bakery.

Plutarch jumps to his feet. «He did it! Beetee broke in!»

The room’s buzzing with reaction when Peeta’s back, distracted. He has seen me on the monitor. He tries to pick up his speech by moving on to the bombing of a water purification plant, when a clip of Finnick talking about Rue replaces him. And then the whole thing breaks down into a broadcast battle, as the Capitol tech masters try to fend off Beetee’s attack. But they are unprepared, and Beetee, apparently anticipating he would not hold on to control, has an arsenal of five- to ten-second clips to work with. We watch the official presentation deteriorate as it’s peppered with choice shots from the propos.

Plutarch’s in spasms of delight and most everybody is cheering Beetee on, but Finnick remains still and speechless beside me. I meet Haymitch’s eyes from across the room and see my own dread mirrored back. The recognition that with every cheer, Peeta slips even farther from our grasp.