Сьюзен Коллинз - Mockingjay

Tigris’s shop sits about five blocks from the City Circle and Snow’s mansion. We’re in easy walking distance through a zone in which the pods are deactivated for the residents’ safety. We have disguises that, perhaps with some embellishments from Tigris’s furry stock, could get us safely there. But then what? The mansion’s sure to be heavily guarded, under round-the-clock camera surveillance, and laced with pods that could become live at the flick of a switch.

«What we need is to get him out in the open,» Gale says to me. «Then one of us could pick him off.»

«Does he ever appear in public anymore?» asks Peeta.

«I don’t think so,» says Cressida. «At least in all the recent speeches I’ve seen, he’s been in the mansion. Even before the rebels got here. I imagine he became more vigilant after Finnick aired his crimes.»

That’s right. It’s not just the Tigrises of the Capitol who hate Snow now, but a web of people who know what he did to their friends and families. It would have to be something bordering on miraculous to lure him out. Something like…

«I bet he’d come out for me,» I say. «If I were captured. He’d want that as public as possible. He’d want my execution on his front steps.» I let this sink in. «Then Gale could shoot him from the audience.»

«No.» Peeta shakes his head. «There are too many alternative endings to that plan. Snow might decide to keep you and torture information out of you. Or have you executed publicly without being present. Or kill you inside the mansion and display your body out front.»

«Gale?» I say.

«It seems like an extreme solution to jump to immediately,» he says. «Maybe if all else fails. Let’s keep thinking.»

In the quiet that follows, we hear Tigris’s soft footfall overhead. It must be closing time. She’s locking up, fastening the shutters maybe. A few minutes later, the panel at the top of the stairs slides open.

«Come up,» says a gravelly voice. «I have some food for you.» It’s the first time she’s talked since we arrived. Whether it’s natural or from years of practice, I don’t know, but there’s something in her manner of speaking that suggests a cat’s purr.

As we climb the stairs, Cressida asks, «Did you contact Plutarch, Tigris?»

«No way to.» Tigris shrugs. «He’ll figure out you’re in a safe house. Don’t worry.»

Worry? I feel immensely relieved by the news that I won’t be given—and have to ignore—direct orders from 13. Or make up some viable defense for the decisions I’ve made over the last couple of days.

In the shop, the counter holds some stale hunks of bread, a wedge of moldy cheese, and half a bottle of mustard. It reminds me that not everyone in the Capitol has full stomachs these days. I feel obliged to tell Tigris about our remaining food supplies, but she waves my objections away. «I eat next to nothing,» she says. «And then, only raw meat.» This seems a little too in character, but I don’t question it. I just scrape the mold off the cheese and divide up the food among the rest of us.

While we eat, we watch the latest Capitol news coverage. The government has the rebel survivors narrowed down to the five of us. Huge bounties are offered for information leading to our capture. They emphasize how dangerous we are. Show us exchanging gunfire with the Peacekeepers, although not the mutts ripping off their heads. Do a tragic tribute to the woman lying where we left her, with my arrow still in her heart. Someone has redone her makeup for the cameras.

The rebels let the Capitol broadcast run on uninterrupted. «Have the rebels made a statement today?» I ask Tigris. She shakes her head. «I doubt Coin knows what to do with me now that I’m still alive.»

Tigris gives a throaty cackle. «No one knows what to do with you, girlie.» Then she makes me take a pair of the fur leggings even though I can’t pay her for them. It’s the kind of gift you have to accept. And anyway, it’s cold in that cellar.

Downstairs after supper, we continue to rack our brains for a plan. Nothing good comes up, but we do agree that we can no longer go out as a group of five and that we should try to infiltrate the president’s mansion before I turn myself into bait. I consent to that second point to avoid further argument. If I do decide to give myself up, it won’t require anyone else’s permission or participation.

We change bandages, handcuff Peeta back to his support, and settle down to sleep. A few hours later, I slip back into consciousness and become aware of a quiet conversation. Peeta and Gale. I can’t stop myself from eavesdropping.

«Thanks for the water,» Peeta says.

«No problem,» Gale replies. «I wake up ten times a night anyway.»

«To make sure Katniss is still here?» asks Peeta.

«Something like that,» Gale admits.

There’s a long pause before Peeta speaks again. «That was funny, what Tigris said. About no one knowing what to do with her.»

«Well,we never have,» Gale says.

They both laugh. It’s so strange to hear them talking like this. Almost like friends. Which they’re not. Never have been. Although they’re not exactly enemies.

«She loves you, you know,» says Peeta. «She as good as told me after they whipped you.»

«Don’t believe it,» Gale answers. «The way she kissed you in the Quarter Quell…well, she never kissed me like that.»

«It was just part of the show,» Peeta tells him, although there’s an edge of doubt in his voice.

«No, you won her over. Gave up everything for her. Maybe that’s the only way to convince her you love her.» There’s a long pause. «I should have volunteered to take your place in the first Games. Protected her then.»

«You couldn’t,» says Peeta. «She’d never have forgiven you. You had to take care of her family. They matter more to her than her life.»

«Well, it won’t be an issue much longer. I think it’s unlikely all three of us will be alive at the end of the war. And if we are, I guess it’s Katniss’s problem. Who to choose.» Gale yawns. «We should get some sleep.»

«Yeah.» I hear Peeta’s handcuffs slide down the support as he settles in. «I wonder how she’ll make up her mind.»

«Oh, that I do know.» I can just catch Gale’s last words through the layer of fur. «Katniss will pick whoever she thinks she can’t survive without.»

A chill runs through me. Am I really that cold and calculating? Gale didn’t say, «Katniss will pick whoever it will break her heart to give up,» or even «whoever she can’t live without.» Those would have implied I was motivated by a kind of passion. But my best friend predicts I will choose the person who I think I «can’t survive without.» There’s not the least indication that love, or desire, or even compatibility will sway me. I’ll just conduct an unfeeling assessment of what my potential mates can offer me. As if in the end, it will be the question of whether a baker or a hunter will extend my longevity the most. It’s a horrible thing for Gale to say, for Peeta not to refute. Especially when every emotion I have has been taken and exploited by the Capitol or the rebels. At the moment, the choice would be simple. I can survive just fine without either of them.

In the morning, I have no time or energy to nurse wounded feelings. During a predawn breakfast of liver pâté and fig cookies, we gather around Tigris’s television for one of Beetee’s break-ins. There’s been a new development in the war. Apparently inspired by the black wave, some enterprising rebel commander came up with the idea of confiscating people’s abandoned automobiles and sending them unmanned down the streets. The cars don’t trigger every pod, but they certainly get the majority. At around four in the morning, the rebels began carving three separate paths—simply referred to as the A, B, and C lines—to the Capitol’s heart. As a result, they’ve secured block after block with very few casualties.