Feb 8, 2016
honestly with hindsight darius’s overdose is so fcking painful
seen from T1
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from Malaysia
seen from India
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Estonia
seen from Russia
seen from Italy
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Nigeria
seen from Maldives
seen from Türkiye
seen from China
honestly with hindsight darius’s overdose is so fcking painful
10. Better Off Broken
The story in which a typical, angst-ridden teenager leads a nation in rebellion.
PRELUDE , 01, 02, 03, 04, 05, 06, 07, INTERLUDE 01, 08, 09, INTERLUDE 02
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THREE MONTHS OUT, AND I’M FINALLY REALIZING I have never seen Katie’s PreGames interview with Donny. Asher blocked the screen the whole time she was onstage, so I couldn’t watch it live. And, for obvious reasons, I haven’t watched much TV since my return from the Arena. Considering I have less than twelve hours until our little “council” reconvenes to hear President McAvoy’s decision on whether Katie stays or goes, I’m feeling a little nostalgic. So I fire up the DigiScreen, curl up with an extra pillow in my arms, and flick through the footage on file.
Even though I’ve seen her in person plenty of times, the sight of her dolled up in that mint lace tube dress, covered in silver body glitter, and sparkling like a diamond still hits me like a freight train. Her descent onto the stage is so well-controlled that she seems to glide. She moves slowly, shoulders back, chest out, chin down, full of authority and purpose. She does not turn to survey the audience until she’s lowered herself into the chair opposite her colorfully-sequined host. Even then, she doesn’t so much look at them as through them. Her gaze almost feels like a phasing ghost: like a cool breeze separating the molecules of my body so that the spirit can pass through. A shiver travels down the length of my spine.
“So, Katie,” Donny begins, attempting to call the attention of both Katie and the crowd back to him. Katie doesn’t acknowledge him – just picks a spot in the distance and stares it down. Donny swallows. “Your entrance into the Games has caused some controversy in District 1. You’re the first Career to volunteer before the age of 22 in over a decade. Just couldn’t wait to have your day in the sun, could you?”
Katie rolls her eyes. “You could do with a few less days in the sun, Donny.” She squints as the thought occurs to her, “Or not. Leather never does go out of style.”
A few of the audience members chuckle. They’re hesitant, like they’re not sure if they’re allowed to enjoy jokes at Donny’s expense. Donny saves them from embarrassment by unleashing a cackle. The mirth in his features is only skin deep. “Believe me, there was no sun involves in the making of this tan. You understand me, right, folks?” He waggles his eyebrows at the audience, winning himself back into their favor. Or… trying to. Katie doesn’t even quantify his quip with an eye-roll. Donny returns his attention to her. “How do you respond to the criticism that you’ve broken a precedent in place since the beginning of the Hunger Games?”
A joyless laugh punches out of Katie. “It’s also precedent for us to watch every year as twenty-four children slaughter each other for sport.” For the first time all night, she turns to look directly at Donny. “Some traditions are better off broken.”
Donny grinds his teeth. It’s a small gesture, barely perceptible, but it’s enough for the audience at home to know that he’s struggling to regain control of the discussion. “So you’re not concerned that, as some of your critics have pointed out, you haven’t been training as long as some of your fellow Careers? You’re not worried that you may not be prepared to face the physical and mental challenges of the Arena?”
Katie’s diamonds of eyes narrow to slits. “It’s funny you’re asking me that, and not any of my competitors.” Relaxing her face, Katie brushes her hair back behind her shoulders. “But, to answer your question, I was trained by one of the most sought-after mentors in the Districts. A couple of townies with pitchforks and knives don’t scare me.”
Donny nods in a mockery of solemnity – as if he could possibly understand. All traces of laughter have gone from his face when he says, “It is a shame that your mentor – the legend, Matthew Lewis – couldn’t be here to see you compete.” Donny bows his head. “He was taken from us too soon.”
Maybe it’s a trick of the light, or maybe it’s a trick of the color contacts put in to accentuate the flecks of silver in her eyes, but for a second, I swear I see the glint of a tear on Katie’s face. As soon as it’s there, it’s gone again – so quickly that even someone watching as intensely as I would miss it. “I’d like to think he’d be proud to see his two protégées fighting together.” The ghost of another tear flickers across her eyes. “I think, given my and Jarrod’s history, he’d understand that it had to be this way.”
Sometimes, I forget Katie’s mastery of doublespeak. It takes moments like these – moments where the live studio audience thought she meant that she and Jarrod were allies, and that they had teamed up to honor their fallen mentor. Moments where, with hindsight, I know otherwise. The vengeful god flashes before my eyes one more time. Jarrod’s words ring in my ears: “You bitches put me here.”
Bitches, plural.
All of us had assumed. We just lumped the pair of them together: the two youngsters ruined by Andy. But they were never together. They weren’t allies. They weren’t even friends.
I wonder – what did Jarrod do to her? What did he do to earn her wrath?
Donny blows right past the comment related to Lewis, snatches the Jarrod string, and pulls. “It is rather interesting, how you, your District mate Jarrod, and Andrea Boyle have all ended up volunteering for the same Hunger Games. Do you and Jarrod plan on seeking revenge against Andy?” He turns to face the audience. “For those who don’t know, Tribute Andrea Boyle from District 12 used to live with Jarrod and Katie in the Capitol. Andrea is the reason Katie and Jarrod were removed from the Capitol and forced into the Districts.”
Donny’s ability to play all angles never ceases to amaze me. That’s probably how he got his job: he’s able to keep the people satisfied, while simultaneously distracting them from the true evil. Bait them with gossip about petty issues from the Districts, ignore the fact that the Capitol is preparing twenty-four youths as sacrificial lambs.
Katie hesitates before she answers. It’s only last the tiniest fraction of a second, but Katie never hesitates. She either pauses deliberately, or she answers immediately. There are no hesitations – not unless something has truly shaken her. But the words to cover come quickly. “I’m sure Andy knows that she should stay far away from me.”
Again, hindsight is everything. While the live audience hears those words and translates, “I will destroy her,” I hear differently. I hear, “She’s better off without me.”
“Well, good luck, Katie,” Donny wraps up the interview. “I’m sure we’re all dying to see how this unfolds.”
Katie stares at him. The kind of stare that says, “You will be dying in a minute.” What she actually says is much more pleasant. “Thank you for having me.”
Donny reaches out to shake her hand when she rises, but she does not acquiesce. She strides off the stage, as powerfully and gracefully as before. But there’s something slightly off about her. Something rigid. Something bristled. Something I wouldn’t have noticed if I watched this during filming, back when I had no idea she still cared.
I watch that bristled, spiteful girl disappear from the stage, and I remember her. I remember seeing her earlier today, before she took out the nurse, and I’m sure that Katie’s still in there. I’m sure that Katie still cares.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
NONE OF US WALK IN EXPECTING TO SEE HER THERE, flanking President McAvoy with her arms crossed. She doesn’t move an inch – not even to twitch – when I enter the council room. Lady Boyle’s already frowning and shaking her head. “What is she doing here,” the Lady spits in Katie’s direction. “I thought I made myself clear: I want her gone.”
Katie does not react. McAvoy raises his hands in front of him, trying to placate my mother. “Mrs. Boyle, if you could please take your seat with the rest of us, we have more important matters to discuss.”
“More important than that security threat standing around like a free woman?”
“She is a free woman, Mrs. Boyle.” McAvoy sounds tired. The bags under his eyes are visible and dark. Looks like I wasn’t the only person losing sleep over this decision. “We liberated her from the regime torturing her in the Capitol. As such, it is our responsibility to ensure that Miss Lenley does not fall back into Winsor’s hands. Miss Lenley feels the same way, and has agreed to house arrest, with a full security detail. She has also expressed to me that she has no intention of pursuing your daughter any further.”
I look at Katie. Katie stares straight ahead, not moving a muscle. Somewhere off to the side, Darius clears his throat.
“Now that you all know, I would ask Mr. and Mrs. Boyle to please vacate the room.” McAvoy carries on in President voice. “The real war council needs the space.”
Sir has to drag my mom out of the room, and she still doesn’t stop whining. After they leave, Maggie shuffles in, accompanied by a handful of soldiers in uniform. I turn to McAvoy. “What’s this about? You’ve never let me sit in on war councils before.”
McAvoy doesn’t look at me. He jerks his chin toward Maggie. “You tell her.”
“The situation in District 3 escalated.” Though Maggie’s looking at me, she’s using her loud, “address the crowd” voice. “The rebellion tried to take the armament factory. Peacekeepers holed up inside. They’ve taken regular blue-collar workers hostage. The rebellion has set up a scrambler over the District, so it’s a no-fly zone. The Capital can’t send air support, which – thank god – means no bombs. Unfortunately, it also means we can’t land our choppers inside the District. We’re planning a drop outside the wall.”
My heart squeezes in my chest. “And you’re letting me go?”
Maggie shrugs. “It’s gonna be dangerous, but everyone saw how close you were with Leo.”
Another throat clear from Darius. Maggie ignores him and keeps talking. “We figured the public should see you fighting for your own, like you promised. Plus, you won’t be alone. Asher, you get to come. And I’ll be there to protect you.”
“As will I.”
The sound of her voice startles all of us in our seats. We turn, as if with one head, toward Katie. Maggie rises from her chair. She doesn’t even look at Katie – only at McAvoy. “You’re sending her with us?”
Cue the infamous McAvoy eye-roll. “Miss Lenley was trained by one of the greatest fighters this country has ever seen. She has proven herself to be more than capable.”
“She’s a trained killer,” Maggie snaps. “Not a trained soldier.”
“She is standing right here!” Katie’s voice echoes through the room, silencing everyone immediately. Maggie shrinks back into her chair. Katie surveys the room. She draws a deep breath.
“Look – I’m not stupid. I know no one in here trusts me.” Her eyes catch mine for a second. “But I also know that moping around under house arrest isn’t going to inspire your confidence either. You have to understand: I didn’t know what this was yesterday morning. I didn’t understand that this is the home of the rebellion. All I saw was another nurse coming at me with another needle, and I panicked.”
Katie looks down at her hands. For the first time, I see them loose, and I see them trembling.
“I did what I was taught: I protected myself first. Even though I shouldn’t have.” She pauses, dabbing her eye. “I messed up. I’ve messed up a lot of things. But this?”
She raises her head. Her eyes glisten. “This is my chance to make amends.” She swallows. “I want to help. And I’m willing to go through trial by fire with this drop to prove it.”
And old feeling stirs to life in my gut: an old magnetic pull, tingling under my skin, drawing me to her. I want to run to Katie. I want to wrap my arms around her and kiss her hair and forgive her again and again and again. Lucky for me, President McAvoy interrupts before I follow through on that urge.
“Given the amount of protection we’ll be sending with Andy, and given that Miss Lenley is, realistically, the lowest threat to Andy’s safety on this mission, I’ve already cleared Miss Lenley for action.”
Maggie looks up to glower at him. He inclines his head toward her. “This is not up for negotiation.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
DARIUS MAKES A BOLD MOVE and approaches me in public. Or maybe it’s not so bold, because we’re in the lunch line, and he expects I won’t make a scene in front of other people. He’s right, of course, but that doesn’t mean that the whole time he tries to talk to me, I don’t imagine backhanding him across the face. The conversation starts with his muttered greeting of, “Andy.”
“Did you not get the memo?” I pick up an apple and bite into it. I don’t swallow before continuing. “We’re not speaking.”
“You got what you wanted,” he retorts “Katie’s allowed to stay.”
“But you didn’t back me up.” I turn on him, eyes flashing. “You wanted to kick her out of another District.”
“I still do.” The warning in my eyes doesn’t seem to faze him. “Andy, she’s dangerous.”
“She’s lost, Darius.” I turn from him and slide my tray down the buffet. “And she’s hurt.”
He rolls his whole head. “Don’t tell me you believed that bullshit in the council room today.” His words stun me like a slap to the face. “Andy, you told me yourself: she’s a master manipulator. She will say anything and become anyone she needs to to get what she wants. And right now, what she wants is you, dead.”
It’s my turn to roll my head toward him. “So you think the bullshit with the nurse was the real her? When she was clearly scared out of her mind and struggling to gain the upper hand?”
“She was never scared,” Darius growls. “And no, I don’t think that bullshit was the real Katie, either. The real Katie was the one that leaped out of her bed and across the room while drugged half to hell just to strangle you.”
I start to say something – start to formulate some kind of retort, even though one doesn’t immediately jump to the front of my mind – but then I notice everyone around us come to a complete standstill. Everyone stops what they’re doing to turn toward the door at the other end of the cafeteria, where the lunch line begins. Katie is there, flanked on all sides by uniformed guards minimum three times her size. She doesn’t even have to look for me: when she looks up, her eyes are already on me. The chill I felt watching her interview returns.
Darius clears his throat a final time, calling my attention to him. “See,” he says. “You know I’m right.”
That moment when you panic and push your true love off a roof because he kissed you.
why does everyone whisper dramatically. like really.
Andy: *whispers* you overdosed
Darius: *buffering face* who are you?
06. Somewhere Dark
The story in which a typical, angst-ridden teenager leads a nation in rebellion.
AUTHOR’S NOTE :: Sorry this is late af. Break time’s over.
PRELUDE , 01, 02, 03, 04, 05
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SOMEWHERE IN BETWEEN KISSES, I LOSE MYSELF – step outside myself and wander somewhere dark. Somewhere cool and quiet – somewhere I am a creature of instinct and feeling, not logic and reason. I’m not at all sure what’s happened until I crash back into my body in the middle of the night. I snap upright, suddenly aware of the softness of the mattress beneath me and coldness of air against my bare skin. My heart drops into my stomach even before I turn my head and see him there, sprawled beside me across the bed. His charcoal waves spill over the pillow like molten lava. His eyes are closed, his jaw loose and hanging, his bare chest rising and falling in the shallow breaths of a man asleep. Though he’s lying on his back, I catch glimpses of them: thin, angry pink slices in his shoulders. My chest tightens. My heart is ground into powder herbs in a mortar. Images flood my mind: images I’ve spent the past two and a half years burying in the deepest recesses of my mind. Images of black hair and white skin and red sheets and blood flooding porcelain tiles. My stomach churns. Bile rises in the back of my throat.
I cannot be here. Not in this bed, not in this room.
Gathering the comforter to cover me, I stumble out of bed, out the door, and down the hallway. I make it maybe five steps before my knees give out and I collapse into the wall. I slide down the concrete, land on top of my legs, and immediately double over. The tears don’t wait for me to hit the floor and hide my face – they’re already coming, pouring out of me like a bursting dam and soaking the comforter.
I thought I was getting better. I thought I’d found purpose. I thought I had a reason to live again. But me leading this revolution isn’t me taking back my power. It’s me atoning for sins that cannot be atoned. Jarrod’s screams are still in my ears, still ringing. “You put me here. IT WAS YOUR IDEA. YOU COULD HAVE CALLED IT OFF AT ANY TIME. BUT YOU DIDN’T.” And he was right.
If I hadn’t gone through with Katie’s plan two years ago, if I had just stood up for myself, I wouldn’t have ended up in District 12. Katie and Jarrod never would’ve been evicted from the Capitol. Katie never could’ve been Reaped. She would never have had to fight in the Hunger Games. She never would’ve died. Asher Rinehart never would’ve slit his own throat to protect me. He never would’ve fallen into the Capitol’s clutches, giving his all to save a girl who couldn’t even save herself, let alone him.
But it’s more than that. I’ve been surviving on the knowledge that I’m changing things. That the world is getting better because of me. But every time I open my mouth, one of my friends gets tortured. Ordinary people take up arms against a force that they can never defeat. Innocent people get brave – too brave. They get themselves killed.
And the hospital. All those people. Those two girls. That wouldn’t have happened if not for me. President Winsor would never go so far as to bomb a hospital if it weren’t for me. Everyone treats me like I’m some kind of savior, but I’m not. I open my mouth, and I speak the warrant for another person’s death. I’m not the messiah everyone’s been waiting for.
I’m the executioner.
The bedroom door creaks open behind me. He calls my name. The call’s followed by quick, soft footsteps until he’s crouching beside me. I feel the familiar weight and warmth of his hand on my back. Thankfully, Darius has the clarity of mind to shrug into his pajamas before coming after me. His eyes are still swollen with tiredness. He rubs one with his free hand while caressing my back with the other. I turn, hiding behind my hair, trying my damnedest not let him see me like this – like the emotional wreck that I am, but he won’t let me get away. He bows his head against mine and speaks softly. “Andy. It’s okay.”
“No!” The sob punches out of me with more volume than I intended. I force a breath and hold it for a few seconds before I continue. “Nothing is okay. Everyone’s dead because of me. And everyone who isn’t dying for me is getting hurt by me.”
He casts down his gaze, considering this a moment. Then, a soft chuckle parts his lips. “I don’t know if I count, but you haven’t hurt me yet.”
“Oh, please.” The words are out before I can stop them. They drip with venom. “What do you think just happened? Do you think that was some kind of declaration of love, and now we’ll run into the sunset together?” I turn my head and stare a hole in the wall. “I needed someone. You were there. That’s all.”
“Like you needed someone last night?” He doesn’t hesitate. His answer’s already there, like he knew which open wound I would strike for before I took my blow. “You didn’t need someone to talk to about Asher, or your reservations about the plan – you had someone. You have Maggie. I’m sure you went to her first. But she couldn’t give you what you needed. Otherwise, you never would’ve come to me.”
“You don’t know what I need!” I spit, grinding my teeth. I refuse to look at him – to fall victim to those burning hazel eyes that have weakened my resolve every time.
“You need strength.”
His voice drops even softer, barely above a whisper.
“You’ve been relying on your own since Leo died, and it’s gotten you far. So far.” He wets his lips. “But one person cannot take on an entire world alone. Not even you.”
I pivot even farther into the wall, burrowing my face into it. I want to start singing – anything to drown out the truth in what he’s saying. Anything to stop myself from needing him – even wanting him – at my side. “I’m not alone,” I argue. “You said it yourself. I have people. I have Maggie. And Ethan. And Aaron.”
“Andy, you sleep alone.” His hand is heavy on my shoulder, his breath warm on my neck. “You live alone. You’ve cut yourself from your family. You’re retreating further and further inside of yourself. Right now, you’re running away from me.”
Right there, stuck between a Darius and a hard place, I see it. If I turn any further into the wall, I’ll prove his point. So I draw a breath, gather my courage, and turn back to him. Back to those hazel fires, quietly burning.
“Let me help you.” He cups my face in his hand. Something about his touch feels beyond familiar – as if, when the universe was created, we were forged from the dust of the same star. As if we were made, after billions and billions of years of smiles and laughter and heartbreaks and tears, to find our way here. He rubs his thumb across my cheek. “If you need strength, take mine.”
A lock breaks inside my chest. Every part of me seems to reach for him at once, with such force that I cannot stop myself. I fling my arms around him and bury my face in his bosom. And then, I dissolve. Everything – every doubt, every fear, every last piece of self-loathing – pours of me through these tears. His arms tighten around me. He lifts me up, clean off the floor, and carries me back to the bed. When he lays me down, he settles in beside me, and for the rest of the night, he does not let go.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“You missed training.” Maggie slams her tray down on the table as she sits on the bench across from me. It’s Wednesday, so her plate boasts a short stack of chocolate chip pancakes: the most involved breakfast we here in 13 ever eat. I look up at her and shrug.
“I overslept.”
She stares at me in a moment of disbelief. “Andy. You don’t sleep.”
I do when I’m wrapped up in Darius Hart.
The thought startles me. I jump a little in my seat, then immediately bow my head to hide the flush in my cheeks. “I was really tired after 8 yesterday,” I say lamely. Then, I risk a glance up at her from under my lashes. A goofy grin is already stretching the corners of her mouth. I snap immediately into wide-eyed defense mode. “What? Those helicopter rides don’t make you a little sleepy?”
“Not the kind of sleepy I need to blush about!” Maggie leans in. “Spill it, Boyle. What the hell’d you get up to last night.”
Since I’m on an “open up and let people in” kick, I start to tell her. From the beginning, even. From the day we met in the sick house and I saved him from a drug overdose and he nearly vomited all over my shoes. I’m already creating this whole romantic comedy out of it in my head – despite the fact that the real story isn’t that romantic and isn’t at all comedic – but I don’t get the chance. Because Asher Rinehart, in his dazzling white suit, appears in medium close up on the gigantic screen over Maggie’s head.
Any shred of happiness in my body dries up, leaving my insides to shrivel.
“People of Panem.”
His voice rings through the cafeteria, bringing everyone to silence.
Something looks off about him today. He’s lost some of his golden brown marshmallow tan. When I squint, I notice the red circling his eyes. And when I squint even harder, I can see – buried under layers of foundation that some Capitol make-up artist tried her hardest to match to his skin – traces of black and purple on the bridge of his nose and the inside of his right eye.
My internal organs suddenly feel as though they’re turning inside out.
“You may have heard that yesterday, a hospital in District 8, full of sick patients and orphaned children, was bombed. You also may have seen a televised message from Andrea Boyle, insisting to you that President Winsor ordered the bombing. It is true that we have Peacekeepers on the ground in that District, but they are to do their jobs. They are there to restore and maintain the peace.”
His eyes flash. The muscles in his face seem to clench.
“President Winsor does not believe the people are the enemy. Her cabinet would never allow such action to be taken against her citizens – her farmers, her textile workers, her engineers, her scientists, her doctors and healers… her people.”
I straighten. More to myself than anyone, I pray, “Asher, no.”
“President Winsor believes Andy Boyle and the rebel army alone are the enemy. She and her cabinet have no interest in taking innocent lives. So ask yourselves this: Why was Andy Boyle outside a hospital on the outskirts of the District, so far away from the current conflict, at the exact moment a bomb struck?”
I shake my head. “Asher, no.”
“The rebel army has resorted to framing President Winsor and her cabinet for this attack.”
My jaw drops.
“We’ve also intercepted information about a second attack.”
My brain does an instant one-eighty from “how could she” to “what the hell.” I immediately look to Maggie, asking with wide eyes and furrowed brows if there was a field mission planned that I didn’t know about.
“According to their sources, the planes have just left.”
Maggie appears just as confused as I am. She shakes her head at me. I look back at Asher on the screen, pleading with him for answers.
“In twenty minutes, they will bomb District 13.”
04. More Pressing Matters
The story in which a typical, angst-ridden teenager leads a nation in rebellion.
PRELUDE , 01, 02, 03
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
THIS CANNOT BE REAL. It can’t be. Asher’s dead. I watched him die. I watched blood cascade from the wound in his neck, the one that is now nothing more than a beige scar just below his jawline. The person on the screen right now can’t possibly be Asher, because I saw the real Asher convulse on the snow as the life force drained out of him. The only explanation I can make any sense of is: I’m dreaming. This must be a dream. It’s a new kind of dream, and of a variety that I’ve never had before – most of my dreams are just memories from the Arena – but it’s a dream. The real Capitol would not save Asher’s life, and even if they did, the real Asher would never speak on camera in favor of them. Not the gold-hearted softie from District 12. I can’t bear to watch my subconscious degrade his memory like this. I need to wake myself up. So I slap myself across the face with all the force I can muster. But I don’t awaken.
I’m still on the bench in the cafeteria. Asher’s still talking on the TV. Ethan and Maggie and a few other diners around us are staring. My cheek stings.
“You all may be wondering, how is this possible?” Asher chuckles. Actually chuckles. His head tips forward, his sun-kissed bangs swinging into his face in the same way they used to. “And who could blame you. You all probably saw me cut my own throat on national television.”
I take in his fancy white suit, his stylishly coiffed hair – all of the details that no longer look like Asher. As he reads off whatever fabrication the Capitol screenwriters have planned for him, I depart from my body and float off somewhere dark.
“Well, lucky for me, my sense of self-preservation took over. The cut wasn’t deep. I missed my carotid artery and went into catatonic shock, leaving me unable to stand, move, or speak – hence all the bleeding and flailing. As Andrea was medivacked out of the Arena, a team of emergency respondents landed on site to attend to me. President Winsor and the medical staff agreed that, given Andrea’s mental instability and my close friendship with her during the latter half of the Games, it would be best to keep me alive for her sake. I wasn’t in a stable condition myself, either, so I wasn’t able to visit her during her own recovery and Victory interview. I never got the chance to talk to her, before her psychotic break. If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak to her now.”
I look up, trying to focus my eyes on the figment on screen. He’s lit up like an angel, looking strong and healthy and clean. He leans forward, closer to the camera, filling more of the shot with his face. He stares directly through the lens, until I can feel his gaze like an insect crawling along the surface of my skin.
“Cappy?” he says. Softly. Sweetly.
An invisible knife stabs through my chest. Under my breath, I plead, “No.”
“Cappy, I know you’re out there somewhere, watching. I know you’ve got a new team looking out for you, telling you what to do.”
I stare a hole through the concrete floor.
“I bet they’re telling you your fight isn’t over yet – that you’ve still got monsters to slay.”
Squeeze my eyes shut. Breathe, “No.”
“The monsters are dead, Andy.”
Shake my head. “No.”
“But I’m alive. I made it.”
Cover my face with one hand. “No…”
“And I want you to come home to me.”
“NO!”
I leap to my feet. My hands swing backward, beyond my control, knocking my dinner tray and sending it sliding across the table. It strikes Ethan, spilling pasta down his front, but I find no joy in the occurrence. I’m not sure I’ll be able to laugh again. Of all the thoughts whizzing around my mind, three stand out. One, Asher is very much alive. Two, the Capitol has him, and three: he needs me. I have to find President McAvoy. Now. Abandoning my friends and my food, I turn on my heel and storm out of the cafeteria. Maggie scrambles after me, calling. “Andy – wait! Where are you going?”
Without turning to look at her, I answer, “We have to go get him.”
Her eyebrows knot themselves like shoe laces. “Go get who?”
I don’t answer her. I bang furiously on the elevator call button until the metal box permits me entry, then slam furiously on the button marking the bottom floor. Maggie squeezes in after me, as the door is closing. She fires another question that I don’t even hear, let alone answer, and after that, she stops asking. We ride in heated silence, the very air around us seeming to buzz with electricity. Then, the elevator releases us with a “ding!” I don’t wait for Maggie to catch up: I tear through the war room, grab hold of the handle of McAvoy’s office door, and yank the door open wide.
McAvoy raises his head, sees me, and rolls his eyes. “What is it this time, Andrea? You know you’ve got to start scheduling appointments like everyone else.”
“Asher’s alive.” I slam my hands on McAvoy’s desk and surrender my weight to it. “He’s in the Capitol. We have to send a team. We have to go get him.”
“If you’re referring to the clip that aired a minute ago, I have to say, your friend Mr. Rinehart seems quite content where he is.” McAvoy returns his attention to the folder of papers on his desk. “Besides, we’ve already lent you a whole detail of men for your appearance in 8 tomorrow. Mr. Rinehart does not appear to be in any immediate danger, and frankly, there are more pressing matters for our soldiers to attend to.”
Oh.
The raid in 8 tomorrow. The rioting District, where I’m supposed to make an appearance, fight alongside the rioters, and show my support.
That’s why the Capitol saved him.
Not specifically because of that plan – they couldn’t know about that; we just devised it today – but because Winsor knew this would happen. She must’ve sensed from that last day in the Arena that I would not stop – that I will never stop – until she and her entire cabinet are dead. That’s why she had guns at my parents’ heads. That’s why she’d had Peacekeepers posted on high alert the day of my Victory interview. She must’ve had a hunch that, in spite of all those things, I’d survive. Or, even if she didn’t have any such hunch, she had a contingency plan.
Asher Rinehart is her contingency plan.
“I can’t go to District 8.” I relent, stepping away from the desk.
McAvoy’s head pops back up. He arches an eyebrow at me. “What do you mean?”
“I can’t fight with the rioters in District 8. Winsor will kill him.”
McAvoy opens his mouth and stares at me. Then, cocking his head to the side, he slowly slides his chair back and rises to standing. “Andrea, joining the rioters was your idea.” He props his hands on the desk this time, leaning across it to get as close to my face as the hulking piece of furniture will allow. “You can’t back out of it now.”
“Why not?” I raise my own eyebrow in answer. “If it’s my plan, I can call it off.”
“No – no, you can’t!” McAvoy jabs his pointer finger repeatedly into the desktop as he speaks. “These people are counting on you. They’re looking to you to lead them! You can’t withdraw your guns for one guy. Not when there are families and mothers and fathers and wives and children putting their necks on the line because you’ve inspired them to.”
Reality hits me like a slap in the face.
As much as it sucks to admit, McAvoy has a point.
“But this isn’t one guy!” I argue weakly. “This is Asher.”
McAvoy heaves a sigh. He eases off the desk and softens. “You’re right. It’s Asher. He’s your friend. I get it. But now that they’ve shown him on film saying how gracious Winsor is to have spared him his life, they can’t kill him. Especially not to get back at you.” McAvoy folds his arms across his chest. “It’s kind of like the stunt you pulled at the end of the Games. The Capitol couldn’t shut you up, because, in order to do so, they would have to kill you and prove your point. Only, this time around, they’ve put themselves in this position. You didn’t force them into it.”
My heart rate descends back to normal. Everything the president’s saying makes sense. Now that the whole country has seen Asher talk about Winsor’s grace and mercy, the whole country would question Winsor for going back on her word. It’s still a bit of a risk, and it’s not one I entirely trust Winsor not to take, but it does make it easier for me to proceed with the mission as planned. Just to satisfy my conscience, I prod, “But in the end, when we do finally invade the Capitol… you’ll spare him, right?” I squint at President McAvoy. “Asher gets to live?”
After a moment’s consideration, McAvoy’s mouth softens into a small smile. “I’m not the politician who slaughters the bystanders.”
Taking that as a yes, I turn and edge toward the door.
“Andrea!” McAvoy’s voice halts me in my tracks. “I assume that means we’re still on for tomorrow?”
I look over my shoulder at him and nod. “I guess so.” As the thought occurs to me, I turn back to him. “But if anything happens to Asher because of this, I’m holding you responsible.”
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I sit bolt upright and gasp awake after an onslaught of fresh nightmares. These aren’t the old visions of arena horrors. They’re images of the giant ax plunging into Darius’s back, and of Asher in his nice white suit, tied to a chair. In the dream, someone’s standing over Asher in the chair, lashing him with knives until that nice white suit is soaked red with blood. Then, the figure turns away from his convulsing body and lowers the hood concealing its face.
It’s me.
That’s what brings me here, gulping greedy mouthfuls of air while my heart takes off faster than Usain Bolt. I peel back the bedsheets and get up.
Maggie’s room is at the opposite end of the bunker, obstructed from my hallway by three right-hand turns. She’s still groggy with sleep when she answers my knock, rubbing her eyes with one hand and stifling a yawn with the other. She sweeps the yawn hand through her dark curls as she says, “What’s wrong, babe?”
“I don’t think I can do this.”
I’m whimpering. I hate myself for whimpering.
“What if they kill him?”
She leans against the door frame. “Andy….” She wets her lips, avoiding my eyes. “You’re gonna hate me for saying this, but if they do, that’s war.” She gives the point a second to land, and it does – like a bullet in my gut. “We can’t exactly give up everything we’ve worked for to save the life of this one guy.”
I step back, staring straight ahead.
“Andy –” She reaches out to me. I recoil from her touch.
“No,” I say, and I nod. “No, you’re right.”
I turn and retreat down the hall. She calls after me for a few seconds, then seems to realize she’s in a bunker wing and people are sleeping soundly all around us. I hold my breath as I scan the doors, counting the numbers in my head. I have to hold my breath – have to tense everything up so that I don’t crumple into a pile in the middle of the hallway. When I find the door I’m after, I wrap three times. He answers on the second, but I continue to hit the door as it opens. I’m so caught up in the momentum that I go in for a fourth knock, and he has to catch my hand in his. He starts to say, “Andy, what’s–” but I’m already falling face-first into his chest. Onto the front of Darius’s shirt, I empty myself of tears.
He stands rigid for a few seconds. Then, a strong arm wraps around me, pulling me into him.
“They’re gonna kill him, Darius,” I choke between sobs. “They’re gonna kill him because of me.”
“Shhh, sh, sh, no.” His breath whisks at my hair. “Don’t you see? They kept him alive because of you.”
“But if I speak tomorrow…”
“Asher is the only weapon the Capitol has right now to combat you. As long as we have the cable hack, they’re going to need Asher alive to try and spin whatever you have to say. Winsor’s hoping for this. She wants you to get scared and back down. But Andy. If you back off – if you stop publicizing the rebellion – it takes Asher out of the spotlight, and Winsor will have every excuse to dispose of him quietly.”
Each word hits me with its own slap. Even though they all make sense – even though everything he’s saying makes sense – I can’t help but be struck by the underlying implications. We’re not having a tender moment where I’m being vulnerable and Darius is caring. We’re having another moment where I bare my soul and Darius protects the rebellion. And I’ve played into it yet again.
Shaking him off me, I step backward and dry my eyes. “I guess that’s that, huh.”
He frowns down at me. “What?”
“I have to keep rebelling to save his life.” I glare up at him. “It couldn’t have worked out better if you planned it.”
His eyebrows weave themselves more and more tightly together as he searches for words. “Do you still think I–”
“Shut up, Darius.” I lace the words with enough venom that he does. He even flinches. “Stop making excuses and shut up.”
I turn on my heel and start to walk away, but then, I realize I’m not finished. I spin back around.
“You’re all hypocrites, the lot of you. You, Ethan, McAvoy – you lure yourselves to sleep at night by telling yourselves that you’re better than Winsor and hers because you’ve aligned yourselves on the ‘right’ side. And yeah, maybe at first, you were better. But now that you’ve come this far, you can’t stop yourselves for anything, even if ‘anything’ means putting more innocent people at risk. And the funny thing is, every time I try to bring this up to one of you, you all defend yourselves by feeding me some bullshit about people dying in war and sacrificing lives for the greater good. But, y’know, none of these people asked to be sacrificed.
“Soldiers are one thing, but Asher’s not a soldier.”
A lump swells in the back of my throat. I have to swallow, to force it down.
“He’s just a kid.”
I find the strength to look Darius directly in the eyes.
“And he’s already done more than enough for you.”
I can’t feel proud of those words, even as I’m walking away and Darius is too stunned to retort. They haven’t changed anything. I still have to speak in District 8 tomorrow, and I still won’t get a wink of sleep.
02. Symptoms of Panic
The story in which a typical, angst-ridden teenager leads a nation in rebellion.
PRELUDE , 01
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THIRTY MINUTES LATER, we’rein a television studio I didn’t know about. I’m not too surprised to discoverit, though, considering District 13 has kept its entire underground existence a secret for the better part of 74 years. I’m on this hollow plywood platform with my back to a green screen. Bright lights shine in my face, all but blinding me to the three-camera set up, the waist-height window behind them, and the control room full of people behind that. White text is temporarily frozen in place in a screen above the middle camera. The teleprompter waits patiently for its cue to scroll. On the opposite side of the Plexiglas, an over-the-hill gentleman with weathered, tan skin and a gray ponytail down to his waist sits at the soundboard. Ethan’s next to him at the switchboard, frowning at a computer monitor. President McAvoy hovers behind Ethan, his hands in his pockets. Maggie hangs back from the rest of the group, peeling her eyes away from the monitor every now and again to flash me an encouraging smile or thumbs up. Ethan reaches over to a small microphone set up on the desk and presses an invisible button. When he speaks into the mic, his voice echoes through the studio. “Alright, Andy. We’re ready to go when you are.”
“I just have to read off the screen, right?” I try to pass it off like my knees aren’t shaking and my heart isn’t thundering in my chest. I’ve never exactly been a class-A public speaker. “How hard can it be?”
“Fair enough. I’ll cue you in.” He leans away from the mic. “Quiet on set! Camera, rolling. Sound?”
“Speeding,” chimes Ponytail Dude.
“This is Andy Boyle in Capitol Promo Spot one, scene one, take one. Action!” Ethan inclines his head to me.
My mouth dries up instantly. My fingers begin to twitch. My eyes blink uncontrollably. A lump crops up in the back of my throat. I strain to swallow it, clear my throat, and lick my lips. I draw a deep breath, forcing myself to focus on the words that are still frozen, waiting patiently for me to tell them to move. They start to blur. I squint at them. I open my mouth to speak, but the sound of room noise fills the studio speakers.
“Still rolling.” Ethan’s voice echoes in the tight space. “Andy, relax. Just say it like you’re talking to me. Or Maggie. Like you’re saying these words to a friend. You’re doing fine.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and give myself a good shake. I can do this. I’ve been on camera without these kinds of nerves before. Granted, I was either a) fighting for my life, b) holding Asher’s hand, or c) answering questions for Donny and feeding off his energy, but if I can do the interviews, I can do this. I just need to stop psyching myself out. Opening my eyes again, I sight the teleprompter. “Citizens of the Capitol,” I read, “You may recognize me. Three and a half months ago, you saw me win the 74th Hunger Games. You probably waited to see me on your screens again in the Victory Tour. Some of you may even have wondered what happened to me when I didn’t show. Well, I’m here to tell you: the rebellion is very real, and I have joined it. And if you’ve been paying attention – if you’ve seen what I have – you’ll join, too.
“Earlier today, you saw the broadcasted execution of an innocent woman. Every year, you gather around your TV sets and watch twenty-four innocent children fight each other for the life they have every right to for the sheer act of having been born. Lives like Marissa Kent’s, like mine, and Margret Vasquez’s, and Asher Rinehart’s, and Leo Thermopolus’s, and many, many others should not have to be earned. The Capitol does not get to pick and choose who deserves to live and die.
“You may be asking yourself, ‘I’m just one person: what can I do?’ Well, I’m just one person – one person from the Capitol, like you – and look what I’ve done! And now you know: you are not alone. There are others of us out there. One person joins another, and together, we become many. We become legion. And when we are legion?”
The teleprompter calls for a dramatic pause.
“The odds are always in our favor.”
There’s a second of silence in the studio. Then, the microphone clicks back on. Scanning the faces of the control room dwellers, I try to gauge their reactions. Everyone’s stone-faced, so I venture to ask, “How was it?”
Maggie tilts her head to the side. Ponytail dude glances at Ethan, who stares straight at me with a blank face. McAvoy turns to Ethan as well, pursing his lips. When Etan doesn’t say anything, McAvoy finds my gaze. “Can we try that one more time? It seemed like it missing something.”
“They’re not her words.”
Everyone’s heads whip around as Darius Hart emerges from the shadows at the back of the control booth. He peels off the closed door, arms wrapped around himself, and takes two strides into the room. He shrugs, like this revelation is the most obvious thing and we’re all stupid for not thinking of it first. “They’re not her words: it’s missing her spirit.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the words,” Ethan bristles. He turns his chair, angling himself toward Darius. “I wrote that script myself.”
“To appeal to what – the Capitol’s sentimentality?” Darius scoffs. “They’ve been watching District kids die for 74 years. They get emotional for a bit, thank God that nothing like that could ever happen to them, and move on. They’re not gonna all of a sudden hop on the revolution train because one Victor’s upset with them. Otherwise, this coup d’état would’ve happened already.” He waves his hands dismissively. “And anyway, this speech you’re feeding them sounds like a shallow echo of what she already said in the Arena. We need something fresh.”
Ethan takes a moment to digest everything Darius has thrown at him. Then, he swallows. “Okay… so I’ll write a new speech. It’ll take me, like, thirty minutes, tops.”
“Oh no, Capitol Baby.” Darius crosses the rest of the way to Ethan, planting himself in front of the chair. “You’re out of your depth with this one. You have no idea what it’s like in that arena, and you have no idea what it’s like in the Districts. If anyone’s going to relate that story in a language the Capitol can understand, it’s that girl right there.” He aims a finger at me.
All the symptoms of panic return in full force. “You want me to write my own speech?”
“I want you to improvise.”
“She’s not a trained actor!” Ethan flies out of his seat to get in Darius’s face. “How do you expect her to give a rousing speech from the top of her head?”
Seemingly impervious to Ethan’s attempts to intimidate him, Darius shrugs. “She’s done it before.”
“Those were spontaneous reactions to extreme circumstances,” Ethan lowers his voice to growl. “She doesn’t have the training necessary to reproduce those feelings here.”
Darius narrows his eyes. “Is there some way we play back a news reel for her to see?”
“Play it through the TV back there.” Ponytail dude enters the fray, pointing to the large black screen hanging next to Maggie on the wall.
Darius looks to Ponytail dude. “Roll camera. Keep it rolling until I tell you stop.”
Ethan glares at President McAvoy. “Are you just gonna sit back and let him direct my shoot?”
McAvoy watches the whole exchange with the same detached amusement he had in his office. He quiets Ethan with a raise of the hand. “Let’s just see what he does.”
“Camera’s rolling,” says ponytail dude. Ethan falls back into his seat, tossing his hands in defeat. Darius meanders over to the TV screen.
As he’s fiddling with it and scrolling through playback options, he turns to me and says, “Watch this. Whatever impulse you have afterward, say it to the camera.”
I’d be royally pissed off at him for forcing his way into the situation if I weren’t so petrified. I can’t shake this feeling that he’s going to play back one of the deaths from the Games – one of the deaths I can’t bear to watch without hyperventilating and dissolving into a pool of tears. But, the second the clip begins to play, the nerves melt. It’s the footage of Marissa’s execution. That’s when the lightbulbs go off. I know exactly what Darius is trying to do.
And I know exactly why it’s going to work.
As the screen goes black and the gunshots cease, I look into the camera lens and breathe deep.
“Hello, people of the Capitol,” I say. “Remember me?
“I bet you thought I was dead, didn’t you? That I died the night of my Victory interview. And then, you thanked god that would never happen to you. You thought you were safe, cooped up in your glass houses, surrounded by your pretty things. But you’re not safe – not anymore, not ever again.
“I was like you, once. Some of you know the story. I was born and raised in the Capitol, like you. And while the man who essentially raped me was moved to the most luxurious District outside your ‘great’ city, the only place you could find for me was the impoverished, half-starved District 12.
“Earlier today, you saw another one of your own – Marissa Kent – shot and killed like a dog in the street for doing her job.
“You think you’re safe just because you aren’t starving? Because you aren’t poor? Because you aren’t hungry? Because you were fortunate enough to be born inside some arbitrary geographical boundary?”
“I’m here to remind you that you are not. You will find no favor just because you are citizens of the Capitol. You will find no favor just because you can boast ignorance. President Winsor can get away with murdering any one of you. All she has to do is invent a reason. But do you know why she can get away with all of these things? Because the rest of you will return to your tea cakes and your caviar and say, ‘Thank God that isn’t me.’
“So what happens when it is you? What happens when you’re kneeling in the street, staring down a firing squad? Do you want people to turn away and thank their luck? Or do you want an army there, willing to fight and die to defend your freedom?”
I tilt my chin up.
“I am Andy Boyle. I stand with the rebel army.”
And back down.
“And I fight for you.”
Silence falls over the studio. McAvoy’s as stone-faced and impossible to read as ever. Ponytail dude, Ethan, and Maggie, are slack-jawed with awe. Darius gazes at me, his mouth the ghost of a smile, his eyes on fire.
Maggie breaks the silence by clapping her hands together. “Fuck yes!” She jumps into the air on the “fuck” and lands on the “yes.” Then, she sprints toward the studio door and lets herself in. She runs to the edge of the stage platform and throws her arms around my waist, squeeze me to her and rocking me from side to side. “That was amazing!”
As Maggie rocks me, I watch Don mutter to a disgruntled Ethan to drop in the text titles and get the clip ready for a 7PM run time. Ponytail dude looks up at the President. “I can see why you picked this girl up.” He steals a glance at me. “She’s feisty!” He swings his arm on the “feisty,” like an old timey cartoon.
McAvoy, his lips still firmly pressed into a line, gives me a single nod of approval. “She’s definitely something.”
By the time my gaze reaches Darius, his back is turned. He’s already leaving.