#Plutarch I’m betting on you to get me girl out of there

[atelierlili]

I really hope that Katniss one day gets her exile lifted. Idk I think it’s so sad that she unwillingly gave up so much for the rebellion and she can’t even see or experience the new free Panem.

I want her to have a real victory tour with Peeta. Maybe they could have a proper one as a honeymoon trip 🥲

#on an other note #I hope Coin’s bullshit oneday comes to light and not swept under the rug #cause yeah that shit was a bad look #heartbreaking that Katniss had to be considered mentally unwell in court to save her for killing Coin #Plutarch I’m betting on you to get me girl out of there #everlark #katniss everdeen #thg #the hunger games

[katnissmellarkkk]

bookcomb for people kissing katniss on the cheek or forehead or nose. idk why I did this I just wanted to.

-

“Here, I’ll put it on your dress, all right?” Madge doesn’t wait for an answer, she just leans in and fixes the bird to my dress. “Promise you’ll wear it into the arena, Katniss?” she asks. “Promise?”

“Yes,” I say. Cookies. A pin. I’m getting all kinds of gifts today. Madge gives me one more. A kiss on the cheek. Then she’s gone and I’m left thinking that maybe Madge really has been my friend all along.”

-

Effie takes both of us by the hand and, with actual tears in her eyes, wishes us well. Thanks us for being the best tributes it has ever been her privilege to sponsor. And then, because it’s Effie and she’s apparently required by law to say something awful, she adds “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I finally get promoted to a decent district next year!”

Then she kisses us each on the cheek and hurries out, overcome with either the emotional parting or the possible improvement of her fortunes.

-

But I don’t get it. Well, I do get a second kiss, but it’s just a light one on the tip of my nose because Peeta’s been distracted. “I think your wound is bleeding again. Come on, lie down, it’s bedtime anyway,” he says.

-

Still clenching one of Cinna’s hands, I walk over and stand on the circular metal plate. “Remember what Haymitch said. Run, find water. The rest will follow,” he says. I nod. “And remember this. I’m not allowed to bet, but if I could, my money would be on you.”

“Truly?” I whisper.

“Truly,” says Cinna. He leans down and kisses me on the forehead. “Good luck, girl on fire.”

-

“Since when does it matter what I think?” says Haymitch. “Better take our places.” He leads me to the metal circle. “This is your night, sweetheart. Enjoy it.” He kisses me on the forehead and disappears into the gloom.

-

Just then, Effie Trinket arrives in a pumpkin orange wig to remind everyone, “We’re on a schedule!” She kisses me on both cheeks while waving in the camera crew, then orders me into position.

-

President Snow himself makes a surprise visit to congratulate us. He clasps Peeta’s hand and gives him an approving slap on the shoulder. He embraces me, enfolding me in the smell of blood and roses, and plants a puffy kiss on my cheek.

-

We sit, as we did last year, holding hands until the voice tells me to prepare for the launch. He walks me over to the circular metal plate and zips up the neck of my jumpsuit securely. “Remember, girl on fire,” he says, “I’m still betting on you.” He kisses my forehead and steps back as the glass cylinder slides down around me.

-

Plutarch crosses to me, laughing. “Where do you come up with this stuff? No one would believe it if we made it up!” He throws an arm around me and kisses me on the top of my head with a loud smack. “You’re golden!”

-

Gale’s not supposed to visit me, as he’s confined to bed with some kind of shoulder wound. But on the third night, after I’ve been medicated and the lights turned down low for bedtime, he slips silently into my room. He doesn’t speak, just runs his fingers over the bruises on my neck with a touch as light as moth wings, plants a kiss between my eyes, and disappears.

-

Gale catches my arm before I can disappear. “So that’s what you’re thinking now?” I shrug. “Katniss, as your oldest friend, believe me when I say he’s not seeing you as you really are.” He kisses my cheek and goes.

-

“Effie,” I say.

“Hello, Katniss.” She stands and kisses me on the cheek as if nothing has occurred since our last meeting, the night before the Quarter Quell. “Well, it looks like we’ve got another big, big, big day ahead of us. So why don’t you start your prep and I’ll just pop over and check on the arrangements.”

-

#thg #hunger games #Katniss everdeen #Peeta mellark #Gale Hawthorne #madge undersee #haymitch abernathy #effie trinket #bookcomb ♥️🔎

[delicatebluebirdruins]

The Hunger Games: Mockingjay

The Hunger Games; Catching Fire

Part One

- “I try to work out what is true and what is false”

- “I’m still not entirely convinced that I was hallucinating... the floor turning into a carpet of writhing snakes”.... nope

-- So many good quotes in this first chapter alone

- “Some walks you have to take alone”

-- I wonder who were the other Capitol rebels

-- Kat’s reaction to seeing Peeta on the screen breaks my heart

-- Poor Peeta

-- I love the imagery when Katniss says she’s going to be the Mockingjay, with her arms slightly raised as if she had wings

- Kat about the pearl holding it to her lips “It’s soothing a cool kiss from the giver himself” --- “a token it will make until I come home to you”

-- I love Katniss and Prim talking together

- Coin: want to present Gale as your new lover? Me: oi shut it

-- I always love Cinna’s sketchbook

-- I love the prep team’s interactions with Katniss... what happened to them after the series ended

- the prep team where punished because Octavia took a slice of bread

- Mrs Everdeen reading the pain on a person’s body

- I want a story about Greasy Sae

- Precious Posy... I want a story about Gale and his family like what happened to them all

- I am mad that the hummingbird room was cut in the film

- I love the bow Beetee designed for Katniss (I wonder what happened to it)

- Finnicks line being give to Effie kind of annoys me

- aww Katniss

- I love this scene for so many reasons but especially when the berries are mentioned and how they affected the different people

- I love Finnick so much

-- a big regret of mine was not being able to ask a teacher about why they were so shocked that Rue was cast as black... I was fifteen at the time  It doesn’t excuse me being quiet

But I was also a coward. I wasn’t even able to tell a teacher about the time a girl dry humped my head, I dropped something on the floor because she and her friends kept staring at me and laughing and I couldn’t look at them any longer so I had to duck down and when I did she got up and came over and I froze and well she grabbed my head and shoved her crotch onto the crown of my head whilst her friends laughed and the rest of class and teachers didn’t notice I have only told one person this story and that was last year

- Finnick Odair in his underwear

- I love Cressida and I want to know more about her

- I love the hospital scene for so many reasons

- Kat about the bombing: “I assumed, as usual, it was my presence that brought on punishment”

- I always love the fire is catching speech

- I love Katniss so much

- I wish we saw the tribute to the tributes videos

- I love Kat and Finnick having a meal together- though I still don’t understand why he wanted them to hide their knowledge of seeing Peeta

- I love Finnick and Kat “hunting” together

- The Hanging Tree: I never realised it was jabberjays in the “dead man called out to his love” and I hate the pop remix with a passion

- Katniss: “I could remember almost anything set to music after a round or two”

- Katniss speculating about the song is pretty spot on

- I dislike the kitchen kiss so much

- Peeta’s warning :(

Part 2

- I don’t know why but them in the bunker is a favourite scene of mine

- “I almost hiss at him too” it was crime they didn’t have JLaw hissing at Buttercup in the film

- First Peeta hijacking ref: “waging a sort of battle in his mind”

- and more chats with Prim

- and chats with Finnick

- I love Buttercup

- Plutarch x coffee was amusing

- “Glance at Finnick who gives a thumbs up- But he’s looking pretty shaky himself” -- my poor babies

- my poor precious Finnick- I wonder whom among Snow’s friends got poisoned one I am certain he poisoned is Lysistrata

-- I wonder what was going through Gale’s head when he volunteered

- Katniss is so giddy to see Peeta and well you know

- Prim telling of Plutarch is *chefs kiss*

-- Poor Portia and all the other stylists and prep teams

- “I can’t say Gale’s absences have inconvenience me”

-- I love Delly

-- I hate District 2 kiss because of that article written in 2018

-- Wraps Finnick and Annie in blankets and glares at Gale

-- I love Gwendoline Christie in the MJ 2 behind the scenes

-- what could be worse than what Gale said about the workers in the Nut

- I just love Boggs

- District 2 speech is also great and she quoted Peeta!

- the capitol having emergency supplies stockpiled... Me: i bet they have

- Oh Finnick and Annie’s wedding :)... Katniss: “Finnick loves Annie and that’s good enough for me”

- Katniss seeing Peeta makes me sad

- Poor Johanna and of course I love Johanna

- I love Finnick and I want to hear more about the sea turtle which stole his hat... hey is there any fanart of that scene?

- everyone was creeped out by Peeta threatening to steal Annie away from Finnick

- “everything screams in my dreams tonight” this line always chills me

- gulps “your squadron leader gets hit by a mortar” mortal being a type of bomb

- I love the pine needle sachet that Katniss makes Johanna

Part Three

- I dislike Haymitch at times and this lecture of his is one of them

- I love Jackson for coming up with Real or Not Real

- I love Mitchell trying to act

-- Looks at Cressida with huge heart eyes

- the best brotp Finnick x Peeta

- “now this place tastes like the arena”

- I love Messalla’s moment about the centre unit

- Peeta with Pollux

- “Katnisss” Me: shit x3000

- “Snow can’t tolerate looking like a fool”

- everytime Finnick’s ***** gets me and I just love my boy

- “don’t let him take you from me”

- Tigris! is in Ballad fucking fight me on this

- “my face runs into a hanging chain and I pull it”... snorts

- Jagged sutures and smear on cream vs gently rinsing and bandaging

- “I know it happened and yet it doesn’t seem real” *whimpers*

- the guy who was mistaken for Peeta :|

- Tigris and the can of salmon

- all the next events are a lotTM

- and then Prim and the medics died

-- did you know there are people who were angry at Katniss for not showing emotion after Prim died? No well there were and I don’t like them

- Snow: snake eyes again; about Prim: so wasteful

- Haymitch: “more boy trouble” Katniss: “I don’t know why, but this hurts me in a way Haymitch rarely can”-- Thoughts?

- what happened to Effie

- I still Katniss voted yes because she wanted Coin to think she was still on her side

- “Its all over when the Mockingjay sings”... “hour after hour of ballads, love songs and mountain airs”

- I love Greasy Sae

- I really want to know what was going through Peeta’s head when he decided to dig up evening primrose bushes

- “flakes of skin the size of playing cards” owie ouch ow ow nope

Bonus CF: I love Mags just wanting a nap

- poor Madge

- poor Buttercup and Katniss I just love them bonding

- growing back together is something I love... does anyone have good fic recs for growing back together?

- I love the description for toast babies so much

-- “I make a list of every act of goodness I’ve seen someone do” I remember I had a very bad day and I was reading this scene and was looking at this blank notebook I had and thought why not and just have this small notebook with a few different stories of kindness in it and things I drew a picture of the blue mockingjay on it and a dandelion

- “Much worse games to play” It took me awhile to understand what this meant and I understand now

. 

.

It was kind of a ride rereading this series again especially after Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes and you know what I still love this series and these characters

I don’t see Lucy Gray turning into Coin but I do see them as being related

#ellie rereads #mockingjay #the hunger games #long post #balladspoilers #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosas spoilers #tbosas #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark

[alliswell21]

@duckpotatodandelion’s Prompt: “I do love me a coffee shop au.”

Rated T

This was writen last night and edited this morning before I had to run errands, so my apologies for any errors.

Also, since @duckpotatodandelion had that post about hot chocolate, I may have deviated her Prompt a bit... 😳... fine! a bunch... 🙈 don’t tell anyone!!!!

☕️ ☕️ ☕️

I walk into the Starbucks and wrinkle my nose in the first breath. I’m not a coffee person, the dark concoction loosens my stomach for whatever reason, but thanks to my boss, Plutarch Heavensbee, I have around $100 in Starbucks gift cards that only keep piling up for every occasion that requires management to give the employees recognition.

I’m guessing the man thinks coffee shop gift cards are the hip thing to do, and say whatever you want about Plutarch, that man is still trying to stay relevant.

One look at the line and I quickly realize I must be the only soul in this planet that doesn’t care for coffee. I sigh to myself, stepping in line with the rest of the morning rushers, wondering how does the son of a baker could’ve develop such an aversion to coffee, when it’s perhaps the hot drink most served in my father’s shop?

Since I’m number 2002 (fine, that’s an exaggeration on my part) in this line, I decide to spend my time people watching and trying to guess what they do for a living for a bit, it’s not like I can see the menu from where I stand, though the baristas seemed to be pretty proficient at their jobs, dispatching drink after drink like caffeinated fairy godparents.

The first customer in line is a severe looking woman with straight, gray hair that falls into a perfect curtain down to her shoulders; she’s wearing a gray power suit and gray comfortable shoes; when she turns around with her distinctive paper cup in hand I realize her eyes are the same hue of gray as her hair and outfit. It’s like all color has been drain from her. I’m going to call her Madam Monochrome. Or maybe Coin, since she reminds me of silver change. I wonder if she lives down in an underground bunker and only came up to surface because coffee is banned in her secret lair, that would explain the monotone colors. If that’s the case, she must be the president of the underground community, otherwise I don’t see how she was allowed to leave.

Next, is a guy with a wiry frame, ashen skin, balding. His glasses keep sliding down the bridge of his nose, so he pushes them back up with the middle finger of his hand. He’s carrying a laptop briefcase, the padded kind you don’t have to completely open in the TSA line at the airport for the x-ray machines. I’m going to call him Beetee, because that’s what the logo in his case says. He’s probably a genius, working for the next iPod nano device that may fit 3 gigabytes of music into chip as big as a grain of rice. Then again, he could be plotting to overthrow some totalitarian government, by breaking into the TV transmission with well placed anti government propaganda… he’d call them Propos for short, because he doesn’t have time to say the whole word. He’s too busy inventing weapons to chat.

Next, is a man tall, dark and very handsome. The kind women swoon after. I’m sure when he was in high school, girls giggled about him behind their notebooks and commented on how cute he was. He turns his head my way, probably feeling my gaze on him; he only spares me a glance and turns back to stare at the baristas impassively. Good looking Jerk! I bet he’s the military type. Fancy job at some highly rated base, with a huge family that adores him and look up to him. He also looks the type to own hunting gear. He’s probably a sharp shooter too… I can already picture him bringing home a twelve point deer he shot through the neck and a handful of dead, fat rabbits hanging from his belt, he caught in his snares, because what do you know? he’s also a whiz with snares! I should move on from his rigid form. For some reason I don’t think we would ever be friends, him and I. I bet we are total opposites. I’m gonna call him Gale, because he probably has a temper that would wreak havoc, like a strong willed gust of wind.

Behind Gale, there’s a little old lady I’m gonna call Mags, because she looks like she could be a Mags. She seems kind, but there’s something about her face that looks almost like one side is sagging. It saddens me. Maybe she had a stroke at some point, in which case, the mere fact she’s standing in line to get a hot beverage in a busy shop shows her resilience and strength. Good for Mags! I hope she gets to live a hundred more years. She deserves it.

Then, my eyes find two young women. One is blonde and blue eyed, while the other is a brunette with smooth olive skin. Both have matching braids which is strange. Most women don’t wear the same hairdos unless they’re in some kind of play, or maybe they’re twins… there have been cases with twins that physically aren’t even the same race. The two ladies are standing shoulder to shoulder. The blond keeps talking and gesturing with her hands animatedly, while the brunette looks on with rapt attention, nodding and smiling at the blonde. Brunette laughs out loud and I’ve never heard anything as musical as that before.

While pondering on names and imaginary backgrounds for the women, I try to lean on a display of collectible mugs, to disastrous results.

The whole shelf uppends under my weight and sends every single mug careening to the floor with a loud crash, with me, following closely. To say I’m embarrassed would be a gross understatement.

“Oh my gosh! Are you okay?” Asks Blondie, blue eyes dripping with concern. “Your hand is bleeding, sir.” She states looking down at my hand, just as a barista comes to help me up from the floor, where I’m sitting on my ass surrounded by the broken pieces of the mugs I just murdered.

“I’m okay. Thank you.” I say trying to save face.

“Nonsense! Katniss, help me here!” Blondie calls to Brunette who’s looking at me with pity and apprehension.

“Prim…” Brunette sighs more than says, but comes closer all the same, “I don’t think I’ll be that much help. Sorry.” She says locking eyes with me, like she truly is chagrined she can’t help.

“I’m okay, really.” I say finally on my feet. I nod to the Starbucks employee. “I’m sorry about the mess. Talk about a bull in a China shop, right?!”

Brunette fights off a smirk at my self deprecating joke and I swear my heart swells in my chest.

Looking back at the young man helping me, I address him. “You wouldn’t be able to give me a veteran discount to pay for the mugs I broke, would you?”

He just stares at me for a second, “I- I’m not sure, dude. Are you cool? Do you need me to call 911? Your hand has a pretty big gash.”

“I’m a registered nurse, I can help him and take him to my hospital if he needs extra care.” Says Blondie… Prim, Brunette— Katniss— had called her.

“I really am alright—“ I stop talking when I lift my hand and see for myself the gnarly long cut in my hand. It goes from the side of the palm, to right under the thumb, like a jagged smile on the heel of my freaking hand.

I go woozy for a moment, and find myself sitting in a chair with Katniss pressing a cup of water to my good hand. “Drink this. My sister is gonna take good care of you, and then we will drive you to the ER so you can get a note from her boss telling your employer why you’re late.”

“Okay,” I say simply staring at her. She’s got the most amazing gray eyes ever, with specks of blue all over the iris. She’s gorgeous from this close.

“What’s your name?” She asks.

“Peeta Mellark.” I say automatically.

“Hi Peeta Mellark, I’m Katniss Everdeen. What else can you tell me about yourself?”

I think she’s trying to keep me distracted while her sister cleans my cut at the very back of the coffee house, where we can still hear the clinking of ceramic pieces being swept into a dustpan and then chucked into the trash. The silver lining is that they’re taking all my gift cards as payment for the broken cups!

“I’m a painter on a TV production company. I truly am a veteran. Lost my leg somewhere in Iraq. I came in here just for a cup of tea without sugar, how lame is that?”

“I’m sorry about your leg, but thank you for your service.” She says wincing a little. She recovers quickly. “I don’t like coffee either, this is more of Primrose’s addiction. The stuff makes me jittery and jumpy. I’m more of a hot chocolate kind of person.”

“Ditto!” I exclaim. “Dip some chunks of bread into the chocolate for a homier experience, and you’re in hot cocoa heaven!”

“Gotta try that, so much better than coffee!”

“Sure, hate on the drink all you want, but imagine the stories I’m going to tell my grand nephews and nieces about how their grandparents met!” Sing-songs Prim still wiping my hand with some rubbing alcohol infused gauze she apparently carries in her purse. “How romantic will that be?! They met at a coffee shop I dragged grandma Katniss to!”

“Prim…” Katniss mutters half hearted under her breath; both sisters glare at each other for a bit.

I have the distinct feeling this is a conversation they’ve had before and disagree upon.

In and effort to break the siblings staring contest, I dig around my brain for something to say, but instead of wit and charm, I come up with, “What’s your favorite color, Katniss?” Like a fifth grader or something.

She smiles and I feel all warm and tingly inside. “Green. How about yours?”

“Orange. Soft, like a sunset…”

“Mmm! Pretty.” She cocks her head, “What’s your biggest pet peeve?”

“Easy!” I say, “Starbucks microwaves all their pastries! That’s sacrilegious for guy who grew up in a bakery!”

Katniss laughs at that and I hope I can keep her laughing. We keep talking quietly until Primrose declares me ready to go. The cut is mainly superficial, and I won’t need stitches if I keep my injury from re-aggravating.

“So… how can I repay you ladies for the first aid care?” I ask them both smiling.

Primrose opens her mouth with a sly smile, “Take my sister out for a coff—“

“A burger!” Katniss cuts in. “I’ve had enough coffee for the day, but a burger with a chocolate milkshake would be awesome.”

I feel the smile unfurling slowly on my face. “I can do burgers and milkshakes.” I hope Primrose is a good storyteller, my grand babies deserve this story to be told epically.

#duckpotatodandelion #writers block prompts #everlark fanfiction #my fics

[ellanainthetardis]

Could you please write a shot based on the shower scene from colony that you reposted!!!

Here you go [x]

Of Bugs, Showers & Pretending

Haymitch sat at the small table in thecompartment Thirteen had allotted him, turning a pen between his shaky fingers.His eyes kept darting to the lamp in the corner where he knew the bug to be.

He hadn’t been looking for listening devicesand, clearly, Coin’s men hadn’t made a huge effort to hide it. He hadaccidentally knocked it off while cursing the lack of space and it had fallendown almost right into his hand. He had put everything back after a moment ofdwelling between thrusting the proof under the President’s nose and pretendingnot to know.

Confronting Coin would bring him nothing butprobable denial and fishy explanations.

Pretending not to know… It would give him anedge.

He rubbed his face, feeling the headachestarting to throb at the back of his head. Sometimes he thought if he could geta glass of liquor the whole rebellion would be a lot damn easier.

He wasn’t exactly surprised. He wouldn’t evenbe surprised to find out every compartment was bugged. Thirteen couldn’t afforddissent or spies. But this Districthad been supposed to be a safe place, their haven in the storm and…

The door was slid open and closed just enoughfor Effie to slip through the crack. Given the scowl on her bare face, hesupposed she hadn’t had a better day than his.

“This woman is impossible.” she hissed without another form of greeting. “I do not know who elected her but let me tellyou she makes a ridiculous president.Why, if we manage to win this war I am not certain how long she will remain in…What are you doing?”

Her sentence ended in a screech when he pinnedher to the wall. She gave in to the kiss easily enough but seemed a littlesurprise by the violence of it.

That was another thing he was angry about. Theyhad let themselves slip. Not only regarding the nature of their relationshipbut also in what they said out loud. Neither of them would have been stupidenough to discuss politics in the penthouse or in her apartment but, there theywere, spending hours criticizing Coin and Thirteen and sharing their warinessabout the President’s plans for the kids indoors… They had been stupid. They had let themselves thinkthey were safe when really…

“I need a shower.” he mumbled against her lips.“And you.”

“I already spent my allotted five minutes ofhot water this morning.” she complained. “And there is  no waywe can do anything in that shower.Certainly not within your five minutes timeframe.”

“I want you, Effie.” he insisted firmly, in atone that brought no contradiction. “Now.”

It was the use of her name that truly got toher. They exchanged a long stare and she giggled, kissing him again, almostpushing him toward the bathroom, her hands already unbuttoning his shirt.

“I love when you are this passionate.” shepurred in a sexy tone that had nothing to do with her usual seducing voice.

He relaxed when he realized she had picked upon what he was trying to do and he followed her lead, tugging at the too biguniform she had on. After all, showering together to have a privateconversation was nothing new. “You get me hot.”

“Do I?” she grinned. “I better do somethingabout it, then.”

They were down to their underwear by the timethey reached the bathroom. It was a very small room, barely larger than acupboard in which a toilet, a sink and a shower were crammed. If it could becalled a shower. It was only delimitated by the square of white tiles on thefloor and water tended to spill everywhere in the small room. The plumbingwasn’t great either, just a faucet on the upper wall and no hot and warm tap, just a button to start the water and a scan to pass yourwrist under when you wanted your five minutes of allotted hot water.

She didn’t bother suggesting he put his wristunder the scan. She took off her bra and her panties and turned around. Thebathroom was so small that he only had to take a step to push her against thewall. He wasn’t sure which one of them hit the button but soon freezing waterwas pouring down on them in a cacophony that should cover most of the noisesthey would make.

The cold water wasn’t exactly helping him getin the mood but he still went on with the necessary act, touching her, makingher moan – she was always loud but this wasobviously fake. Eventually, his mouth roamed from her collarbone to her jaw. Hesucked on her earlobe and, then, while she made indecent sounds that reallywere over the top given that they were both shivering and his hand wasn’t thatdeft between her legs, he brought his lips to her ear.

“I found a bug.” he murmured. “Don’t know howmany more. Don’t know if they are watching too. We can’t say anything in thereanymore.”

“Oh, Haymitch!”she cried out as if she was actually getting close. He felt himself twitchdespite how not real it was. Shekissed him hard, her fingers tangling in his hair to pull his head back. Shelicked the water off his throat, retracing the path up his jaw to his ear… Hervoice was controlled when she talked barely over a whisper. “Why?”

He picked her up and held her against the wall,pretending to pound into her even though he was barely half hard. He hopedthere weren’t cameras but he couldn’t be sure. And if he couldn’t be sure, hewould rather be safe than sorry.

She let out small increasingly loud moans andburied her face in his neck. Her damp hair stuck to his shoulder.

“Not sure.” he answered. “Might be about you,might be about me. Guess Coin doesn’t trust us. We put the kids first, sheknows that.” He nuzzled her hair a little. “Might also be a general thing andI’m paranoid.”

She snorted at that but quickly covered it witha loud moan.

“What do we do?” she whispered. “Do we warnKatniss?”

Warning Peeta wouldn’t be useful given how fargone the boy was. Finnick, now… But Finnick was being a good little soldier andso was Johanna to some extent. They were both committed.

Haymitch was the one openly criticizing somedecisions and challenging the President. He was the one who had insisted onbringing along an escort and who was now fuckingher – and he had no doubt that if he hadn’t made it clear she was out ofbounds, Effie would have had a much harder time in Thirteen. He was the onecontrolling the Mockingjay – as much as Katniss could be controlled anyway.

“No.” he said eventually. It would only make itworse. The girl wasn’t overly impressed with the rebels as it was and he didn’twant to tilt the balance. She was reckless and if she did something stupid liketrying to go off on her own… “We play exactly like we used to. Assume someone’salways listening or watching.” He felt her nod slightly. “Good now finish this‘cause I’m freezing my ass off.”

“You and me both.” she grumbled before lettingout a sharp cry that, he supposed, could have convinced someone who hadn’t heardher getting off for years. He added a groan for good measure and let her down,feeling around for the button. Effie had already wrapped herself in a towel bythe time he turned around. Her teeth were shattering. “I just love that sort ofwelcome home.” she grinned, her eyes bright and her tone cheerful.

He didn’t like dealing with her escort persona.She had left that behind a little when she had been forced to abandon herdresses and her wigs. She still hid behind her masks but she also tended to bea little more caustic and smarter than people expected her to. He knew Plutarchhad picked up on the difference between the public image she had given all herlife and the obviously clever woman who had been helping him with propos andKatniss management.

“Home sweet home.” he replied sarcastically.

She pursed her lips at him and twisted the damptowel around her hair, giving a longing glance to the hairdryer that wasattached to the wall. There was no way to use it for now without riskingelectrocution.

“May I borrow your sweater?” she asked, movingback to the main part of the compartment, naked as the day she was born. He hada second of panic because he didn’t remember if the curtains were drawn or not– and why they needed a plasticwindow giving on the corridor was anyone’s guess, it made him feel like a fishin a tank.

He hurried after her, relieved to find thecurtains were drawn, and absolutelynot surprised to see her rummaging in the heap of clothes he couldn’t be botheredto fold or put away properly. She picked out the clean from the dirty and endedup wearing a pair of boxers that were too loose on her hips and one of his greylong-sleeves undershirts. His sweater had been tossed on a chair and it wasn’tlong before she had grabbed that too and wrapped it around her shoulders like ashawl. Then she curled up on one of the chairs, looking a little miserable.Like a drowned rat. Not that he would make this comparison out loud.

He tossed balled socks at her before gettingdressed too, unable to bear the chill in the room. She didn’t even try to tellhim it wouldn’t look pretty, she pulled them up as far up her calves as theywould go.

“Shall we skip dinner and go to bed?” shesuggested.

He checked the clock and then his schedulebefore glancing at the communicuff he had tossed on the table earlier. It hadbeen quiet for too long as it was. He was ready to bet it wouldn’t be longbefore it went off.

“You’re cranky when you don’t get anything toeat.” he remarked. “I ain’t spending the whole night listening to you tossingand turning because your stomach’s growling.”

She made a face at him and wriggled her sockedclad toes, averting her eyes. “Perhaps I should spent my nights in my owncompartment from now on. I would not dream of keeping you up with my tossingand turning.”

Her tone was light but he understood the offerfor what it was: a question about the status quo. They hadn’t really beenhiding in Thirteen. They didn’t flaunt itbut he was pretty sure everyone with eyes knew they had something going on. Thenumber of times Plutarch had come to fetch him in the early hours of morningand had found Effie sauntering around his compartment alone…

When it had been the Capitol breathing downtheir neck, hiding and denying had been the safest thing but now… It dependedon who was under observation there. If it was just Effie… It if was her theywere watching then she was safer as his… whateverbecause nobody would touch a victor’s whatever.If it was him, then it was business as usual and it would be safer for themboth to keep her at arm lengths. The same went if it was about both of them.

Was it worth it to take a step back now though?As it was, Thirteen had months of proof that they had a relationship. Sure,they had talked and joked about its casual nature often enough in either oftheir rooms but lately it had been all it was: talks and jokes. They had foughtabout how jealous she was of the refugees she perceived to be trying to seducehim. He had told her as plainly as he was able that she was the only one he wasinterested in. They crawled in bed together without having sex first. He hadnever worded it but his feelings… His feelings were obvious, he figured. And ifit had already terrified him before, at least he had thought in there they hadsome sort of leeway. And now… Well…

“Nah, I need you to keep me warm.” he deniedafter a second of hesitation.

She looked back at him, lifting an eyebrowbecause she was certainly not keepinghim warm at night. She was always cold and her feet were always like two blocks of ice.

“Well, we cannot have you getting cold.” shehummed, fighting off a smile.

“No, we can’t.” he snorted, tugging the blackbeanie low on his forehead over his wet hair only to see her purse her lips indistaste at the hat.

She was so busy glaring at it, she didn’t seehis approach.

She wasn’t really reluctant to respond to hiskiss though.

#hayffie #effie trinket #haymitch abernathy #prompt #mj time #movie!verse #teapot #d13 #hbic effie #angsting h #haymitch with feelings #coconuts friends

[dumbledearme]

chapter six

~~ read Metamorphosis here ~~

Effie was in an absolute level of sleep when she felt a large hand touching her arm. She couldn’t say exactly what made her wake up but, suddenly, she was completely aware that there was someone in the room with her. In a matter of seconds, she let out a scream, slapped away whoever was touching her, and tried to get up from the bed — which resulted in her getting stuck on her blanket like a burrito and falling to the ground.

"Thank goodness waking up gracefully isn’t one of the tests," said Fulvia, leaning against the bedroom door with her arms crossed and one eyebrow raised.

Effie sat up, struggling to untangle herself from the blankets and saw her the victim of her slap — Plutarch — sitting on the bed, his cheek reddening fast. He didn’t look upset for someone who had just been hit. "Do we have to talk about this?" he asked gently. Effie shook her head. He nodded and got to his feet. "To business then. Turn on the TV, Fulvia. Show her.”

Fulvia did as he asked. From the floor, Effie turned her attention to the television set. The morning paper was going on as usual. Effie only showed interest when Claudius Templesmith appeared talking about the Metamorphosis project. It was his first interview on the subject, since only yesterday they had found the twelfth participant, and he was thrilled.

"... Lavinia Amata is, of course, one of the favorites. It’s worth remembering that her mother was none other than the great Frinea, elected the most beautiful woman of Panem during the government of President Pericles. Lavinia doesn’t stay behind. As beautiful as her mother and didn’t even have to flash her breasts in a national network like Frinea did in her time," Claudius paused while the program showed some images of Lavinia. Once again, Effie was struck by her beauty.

"Still on the subject of breasts," Claudius continued, "Thirza Apophis came from District 2 in such a tight blouse that we were all left in the embarrassing position of having to admire the whites of her eyes in the hope of ignoring those giant tomatoes. Yes, our second participant doesn’t accept not being the center of attention. She came here to win, ladies, so stay alert."

The camera focused and zoomed in on Thirza's breasts before moving on to the next girl.

"Porperzia di Rossi came as living proof that wearing glasses doesn’t take away anyone's beauty." Effie hadn’t seen this girl yet. She had dark hair and eyes, and seemed to feel more at ease when no one spoke to her. "She studied painting, music, dance, poetry and classical literature, and spent hours working at the District 3′s Technical Support Control Center."

"Giovanna Garzoni, on the other hand, arrived with her skin in a tan so elegant that immediately I begged her to share her secrets with me. Do you know what she said?" It was shown a video of Gia saying one word: salmon. "That's right, ladies and gentlemen. It's time to invest in the importation of this fish, my Capitol friends."

"Antonietta Gonsalis, our only redhead, already with this advantage over the other girls, comes from a very wealthy family who made their fortune by mining precious stones in the sealed caves of District 5. A very big bet at the time that paid off very well, if you want my opinion. But if we’re being honest... look at this girl's eyes..." The camera focused on Antonietta’s big blue eyes and Claudius said, "Sapphires should feel ashamed near her."

"Now, Judith Holofernes arrived in the capital singing the national anthem of District 6. She came with so much energy that we must suspect she abused some... uh, stimuli she brought from home." Claudius laughed at his own joke. Effie thought he was being mean — it was true that in District 6 there was the continued abuse of illegal substances, but to assume that everyone there was using it was generalization. The TV showed images of a girl who seemed to be about 15 years old, jumping up and down, shaking her hands and head. "Look at this girl's happiness. I don’t know what she's using, but I'd like a taste!"

"Number 7, Hypatia Kaliste came carrying a deadly weapon, which she called Grace, and her sponsor had to have a serious conversation with her before Hypatia agreed to hand him the hatchet." Hypatia was another blonde and the only one who managed to look dirtier than Effie. "It was a day of controversy for poor Seneca Crane, of course. Now all he needs is to get rid of those flannel shirts."

"My precious competitor, whom I have chosen for nothing more than her clever hands, is a girl from 8 who loves to make her own clothes. She doesn’t wear what she didn’t make herself. I was bewitched immediately and so shall you be — vote for her — this beautiful girl, Aphra Behn!"

This one had a pretty face, but her attention was drawn from it because of the dress she wore — all trimmed and sewn in innovative ways. She had dark skin and short curly hair.

The next girl was definitely the roundest competitor. Round face, full cheeks and a lively smile that proved what Effie already knew about District 9 — they truly had food there.

"Artemisia Gentileschi is known to us," said Claudius, "as she has come to the Capitol several times to bring us the best and most diverse grains of her district. A tip for the other girls: Artemisia has the habit of reciting names of grains in alphabetical order when she gets nervous. I won’t say anything else. Anything!"

"Our number 10 is the most original of all girls," he said excitedly. "Cressida Harun!" The images revealed a young woman in a leather jacket. She had shaved half her head and tattooed vines that went down her neck and covered her entire left arm. When she moved, the effect was pretty cool. "Amusing and unique is Cressida. Her favorite hobbies include filming and editing our commercials and composing romantic ballads."

"With number 11 you will not want to get involved, ladies," Claudius said, looking serious. "Enobaria Rashid. Six feet tall, muscles to frighten the competition and, best of all, her curious shark teeth!"

Effie's jaw dropped when she saw that Claudius wasn’t joking. Enobaria was an angry-looking black woman, and the way she smiled at the camera made Effie shiver.

"And lastly, the one you have all been waiting for, straight from District 12, Iphigenia Trinket! No one put much faith when Plutarch chose her, but she quickly became one of the favorites after her arrival yesterday. The crowd begged for some of her attention and Trinket wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty, the whole time showing the shy smile that conquered all of you, didn’t it? Be honest with me. I'm always with you. "

"The first test will happen tomorrow morning, so the girls will still have time to prepare. Tonight, the entourage will decide a color for each competitor and they will have to find a way to try to impress the audience. You can’t miss it. Now, some words from our sponsors—"

Fulvia turned off the TV and Plutarch beamed at Effie. "So? What do you think?"

"It was nice."

He crossed his arms. "It was nice? That’s your answer?" Effie stared, not sure of what she was supposed to be saying. "When the Event Director asks you how you feel about participating in the Metamorphosis, will you say 'it’s nice'?"

Effie hesitated. If she was being honest, she would say that she felt nothing at the moment — besides that eternal hunger — but she doubted Plutarch was after honesty.

He sighed. "You have to do better than that."

"I just woke up," she apologized.

"And I never sleep, but that doesn’t stop me from forming coherent sentences, isn’t that right?" Suddenly his shoulders relaxed and he forward to help Effie out of that tangle of covers. "Take a shower, let Pollux and Castor take care of you, and then we'll train your answers, okay? And smile, Effie. Smile even when you're on the verge of tears."

He and Fulvia were about to leave the room when Effie thought of something—

"Plutarch," she called. He looked back at her with curiosity. "Could I send a letter?"

#hayffie #metamorphosis #effie trinket #plutarch heavensbee #fanfic #crossover #the hunger games #the selection #dfcrosas #district 12 #panem

[daemonvols]

Chapter Three

Ghosts and Grave Robbers

 The graveside service lasted the usual hour, but Truman and his siblings lingered for at least another forty minutes, so I guessed that the old girl did not get to rest under the sod until closer to three. I also had to be back in the office by two preparing the final documents, answering the telephone and dealing with vendors or nursing home/hospice administrators who thought they should be entitled to group rates for the indigent dead we buried in our Potter’s Field. I could not get back to wiping down and replacing headstones under after dark. And I would not be in time to stop Old Sharpe.  

Rain hadn’t fallen in fact for a few days, so the grass clippings didn’t stick to most of the flat surfaces. It was the scraps and bits of moss that clung to the ornate designs and inscriptions of the wealthy dead that eat up time and nick my fingers. The middle class’s stones are simpler. Names, birth dates and death dates for the most part. Here and there you get a design or a quote, but nothing excessive. Potter’s Field “residents” get brass plaques flush with the grass with no one to really care about them.

Now nineteenth century folks who had money could and did drive this twenty-first century caretaker crazy with detailed carvings of sheep and angels and weeping women in long gowns full of moss- and mold-growing folds, not to mention the extra words to describe the loving mother, faithful father, beloved child and so forth. I realize it’s all to comfort the surviving family, but, after living all of my thirty years in a cemetery and reading the records and hearing the ghosts’ gossip, I have to wonder how much of those endearments are wishful thinking.

Take Old Man Sharpe, and I wish somebody would.

    The official records of the time list him as Benjamin Antony Sharpe, born 1831 and died 1881. The newspaper obituary described him as a “leading citizen who loved God and served his fellow man.” He left neither widow nor children, except for the town’s orphans housed in Heaven’s Angels Children’s Home and the women of the three Magdalene houses he oversaw with other leading citizens. Benjamin Sharpe was upright man, as the white marble stone stated in Gothic script over his grave in the southwest corner of Section A’s front skirt.

    But there’s more to the man. My grandparents spoke of him as “Der Parekh,” a bad man, but that is all I knew until after they died. I pulled the records from the library’s stacks, made hard copies from their microfiche and, on my own time at home, Googled his name. A notice in the newspaper, dated the day after his death, announced an inquiry into his death, hinting that a man of 50 in “splendid health” might have died under suspicious circumstances. His maids Bridget O’Doole and Mary Kate Bailey were being held for questioning. “Obviously Irish,” the article went on to note. The reporter omitted, or assumed the readers would add with a shudder, the words “and likely Catholic.”

“The good people of Sayresville demand an answer,” the article concluded.

    Thanks to the Freedom of Information Act and a few late hours on the Internet, I found the record of the inquest and the maids’ testimony.

As it turned out, it was a good public relations move to publish the obituary before the inquest. The maids, the cook and Sharpe’s valet told stories of Sharpe’s quick temper and his regular nighttime habit of draining two bottles of brandy, and then walloping the tar out of both maids with a specially knotted belt. According to Bridget, on the night of his death, he’d cornered both girls in their narrow bedroom. He’d bent them over a bed with their shifts raised to their waists and had the belt ready to flay them when he “wheezed a bit like he was took by surprise” and fell down dead.

The valet, a “small Canadian” named Richard according to the inquest records, offered to tell more of Sharpe drinking and then being unable to find the privy. The valet further hinted that the upstanding citizen had more than once peed on stray dogs and late-night walkers.

    The officials cut the inquest short at that point. The determination they made official was death by natural causes.

    But “natural causes” in the corporeal sense does not explain a ghost still wandering the cemetery and harassing other ghosts nearly 130 years after his death. And that is what Old Sharpe does when Varney knocks loose Sharpe’s head stone as the mower did after any funeral. As Varney did the day of Eulalie Plutarch’s funeral.

    I know this because the two ghosts I call my gossips caught me heading out to finish the wipe-downs that night.

    “He’s out again!” yipped the first one, who was Missy Drucker. She had been a housewife who died at the age of 37 in 1951 of a burst appendix. Her family buried her with a headstone complete with Psalm 23 and a rare color photograph of Missy. She’d been a pretty brunette with vacant blue eyes dressed in pastels. Six years ago, the plastic or whatever cover that held the photograph onto the stone fell off, as did her photograph. The required search for family members turned up no Druckers in upstate New York that acknowledge a Missy Drucker, or a Michelle Drucker nee Baker, let alone give permission and funds to replace the photo or the cover. Regs would not allow me to do so, either. It’s a vain hope that someone someday might come to claim that fading picture, but I keep it with my ledger. I like to be prepared.

    “He yelled at me to raise my dress!” the other told me. This was Mischa Bridey, born in 1892 and died in the influenza pandemic of 1919. She must have been a spinster school teacher. It may be that her white shirtwaist cinched too tightly at her waist over a heavy dark skirt that swept along the gravel. Or her blackish hair stayed now for eternity in a tight bun that gave her headache. Or maybe, back in her living days, she really needed to get laid. She never has anything good to say about men and she is, in general, a bespectacled, pinch-faced grump.    Then again, until seven years ago in the spring, someone had come every June to lay six yellow roses on her grave. I found the last bouquet dried out from a rainless July and “borrowed” one of the petals for my ledger. You never know about some people. Or ghosts, for that matter.

    You have more questions: yes, ghosts exist. I see them most nights, occasionally during the day, and have done so since I was a baby. I’ve felt the cold that surrounds the ones whose bodies died by violence and the softer coolness of those who passed more peacefully. Ghosts, spirits, “hain’ts,” etc. - they’ve gone by all sorts of politically correct and incorrect labels, but the CPF has a fair share of the haunters for Onondaga County.

Yes, I talk with them.

    And no, I don’t really know what a ghost is in the physical sense. I also don’t know if ghosts realize they are dead or not. It seems rude to ask. Furthermore, I doubt they’d behave any differently than if they did realize it. I would be willing to bet Old Man Sharpe wouldn’t.

    “I know,” I said to Missy and Mischa. “I’m on it.”

    “Well, hurry up before he gets over the hill!” Missy snapped.

    “Well, I could if two nosy hain’ts would clear the road!” I snapped back.

    These two are the first ghosts I’d met who had an overwhelming desire to always be relevant; it is likely they found themselves behind the times while they lived and spent that life and this afterlife trying to catch up. To do this, this pair had observed and learned reactive “moves” to do in unison. This night they gave me the Cat Move: their opaque and vaguely pink hands raised to ear level, then fingers curl for claws and a nasal “Re-e-e-eowwwww!!” from their ghostly gobs.

    I walked away before they celebrated their unified dissing and high-fived each other right down to their non-corporeal elbows.

    Sharpe’s grave was on the southeast end of Section A. The Board approved more tall poles with more blue-white lights back there rather that install the motion detectors the police recommended to dissuade drug deals and lovers with a fetish for having sex on graves. As security for the living-wise, it was a help. To find a ghost whose color was fading to white and gray, not so much.

By the oak tree, where I’d stood only a few hours ago, floated the white shape of a dead martinet. He had to have been a lump of a man. His spirit wasn’t much taller than my five-foot-four height and he spread out from belly to butt. He had goggling pale eyes and a beak of a nose over flabby lips. His ears under the white fronds of hair reminded me of a harp that sagged at the bottom. He was clothed – they still buried them in something like their best back then – but Sharpe had faded so much, it was hard to detail his garments beyond shirt open at the neck under a waistcoat and over trousers. Tradition held that he be buried barefoot, so I was glad the end of his trousered legs were a blur. No doubt he’d had knobby feet with talon-length toenails. And he had the knotted belt they’d buried with him raised in one lumpy hand over his opaque head. I braced myself for the howl. Sharpe’s voice, whether in death or reminiscent of his living squawk, ranked right up there with fingernails on a chalkboard.  

And Benjamin Sharpe was a howler. “Bridget, you strumpet! I know you broke that china cup! I’ll blister your hindquarters for that! Where are you, girl?”

It is wise to approach ghosts, slowly, particularly agitated ghosts. Hands down at the side, head slightly down but off to one side so there can be modest eye contact. It is a literal pain in the neck after a while.

“Care for the residents,” I muttered. “Mr. Sharpe!” I said somewhat louder. “Mr. Sharpe, it’s Grace. Isaac’s granddaughter.”

Sharpe halted and undulated for a moment. The belt came down to his side. “Grace. Yes. Your grandfather is a good man. He took the stones out of my grave before they lowered me into it. Wanted me to be comfortable, he said. So I could rest.”

“That’s right. You look tired, Mr. Sharpe.”

“I am tired. They all want so much from me! Those brats! Those whores! How much more do I have to give? I’m only one man!”

It is also advisable that, if a ghost on the loose wishes to howl against what he perceives as injustice, he be allowed to do so before you herd him back to his grave. It may take a while, but interrupting can leave you standing there with him until dawn. Ghosts will follow you if you walk away. There’s also no telling if the ghost has not finished his or her diatribe at sunrise, that s/he won’t follow you to continue throughout the day. A ghost’s voice registers over the telephone as either white noise or a television on too loud to a bad soap opera – not something to have going on over your shoulder when you’re trying to sound professional and organized on the phone.

I waited for a gap in his complaint and tried again. “You need to rest. Why don’t you come with me and let’s get you back to your rest.”

“It’s that Bridget!” he snarled. “She broke the cup. I know it! She’ll pay with her hide!”

“So she will, but you rest first. You need your strength to – “ I swallowed my disgust – “do the job properly.”

“She’ll bleed for it!”

“If you rest first, of course she will. Now come on.”

You cannot reach out and offer to touch a ghost, so there was no leading him by the arm. I had tried once as a toddler to take the hand of the ghost of the first body buried at the CPF. All you get is a handful of icy cold and an annoyed ghost.

And there’s no pointing. Ghosts like Sharpe like to point, but to be pointed to or at would only start him off again through the cemetery in twice the rage. I stepped onto the gravel path with a slight bow towards his plot.

As I suspected, Varney had taken the corner too quickly again and knocked the stone to an acute angle off its seat and there was a nice three-inch gap to the right side. I stood a respectful half meter from the gap and offered it to Sharpe with a modest, open-handed gesture. “See? It’s all ready for you,” I said. “You tuck yourself in there and rest. Bridget is not going anywhere.”

Which was true. County records showed she died in 1948. St. Agnes’ Cemetery holds her body. Now, if she has a loose headstone and wanders, too, I’ve not heard of it. And it’s not my problem. Her late addle-pated employer, however, routinely is my problem.

Sharpe floated into a horizontal position on the sod that had been well-packed by living feet for one and a quarter centuries. He seeped back like foul water back into the earth with a mournful “Bridget!”

I straightened the headstone. Then I packed it down with moss and some extra dirt and gravel from the path. If the rains held off, Old Sharpe would stay put for another two weeks.

Back to the questions and possibly the Big Question: why do ghosts, souls, spirits, whatever you want to call them, hang around? There are probably two or three answers for every one person you might ask. The sort of “it’s this way, but maybe that way, too” thinking that leaves the listener more confused and not a little bit frightened.

I have only heard one explanation that makes sense – and, as with anything else, it’s open to debate. My Grandpa Dov said that Midrash assigns five levels to each living soul. Three, starting with the lowest, reptilian senses, are attached to the physical earth. Only two of them are on the spiritual level and yearn to reunite with the Creator. Therefore, the odds that a soul will pass on are sixty-forty against.

People in the past knew this and invented headstones. Headstones are meant to hold the sixty-percenters down until the dead realize that’s as far as they are going to go. Their spirits pass on then, with little or no notice given to the living.

Some souls, however, cannot take the granite or marble slab hint and insist on hanging around. I sometimes think they were the last ones to leave a party while they were living. Either way, the stone keeps them where their families buried them. But, like so many of the best laid plans, things do go awry. The CPF has drainage ditches, soil erosion and jokers like Varney and Trumbull. Ergo, we have ghosts walking the grounds most evenings. And I’m the one to walk them back and tuck them in again.

Old Sharpe was tucked away for this night. I wanted to go to bed and to dive back into my book (I’d fallen asleep just as the clothes were coming off and the strong masculine arms were outstretched), but something felt wrong.

Derek and his band of merry bloodsuckers were long gone to wherever they fed tonight. Missy and Mischa hopefully had returned to their plots or were having hissy fits over the crowding in the Potter’s Field. The CPF was not quiet. It never was at any time, but that night there were newer noises I did not recognize and did not like.

I ran up the hill again and stood beside the oak tree. Two small Coleman lanterns sat beside Eulalie Plutarch’s still open grave. The chairs were gone, the fake grass and brass frame for the hydraulics were gone, but the diggers had not filled in the grave the way regulations said they should have done once all the mourners departed the site. I felt cold and looked around for a wandering Eulalie. But the night wind had picked up, promising either rain or a dust blow from the middle school’s dead grass and playing fields. No ghosts that the living eye could see.

I hopped over graves and between plots to go down the broad backside of the hill, careful to stay out of the pole light’s glare. Here and there I slipped and had to apologize to the occupant of a grave for the intrusion.  Stepping on the residents’ graves and thereby on them is not good public relations.  Even if the grave I apologized to would be empty, it set those still lingering at something like rest.

Varney hadn’t loosened any more headstones that I could see, but some ghosts are only a slight disturbance of the seating away from joining the nightly rounds. Especially for the newly buried. I knew Eulalie Plutarch by sight from the newspaper society pages and her son’s behavior (neither one flattered her). Her ornate pink granite headstone was set, but the grave was still open and I did not want her ghost haranguing me about the “abysmal service” offered here at the CPF.

I stopped in the dark at the edge of Section A before the path that led to B. The Coleman lanterns burned on high, one at one long end of the grave, the second at the other. A head of thick medium brown hair bobbed up and down at the rim of the grave, consistent with someone digging. I heard scraping and the occasional thunk! Of hitting the mahogany, brass-embossed coffin.

“Dammit, Jerry! You told me you left the casket unlocked!” barked a somewhat attractive baritone voice from inside the grave. I moved over to the edge perpendicular to the rest of the Plutarch plots. I stood in the glow of an eighteen inch kerosene lantern and looked down.

[readbookywooks]

23. A clock. I can almost see the hands ticking around the twelve-sectioned face of the arena. Each hour begins a new horror, a new Gamemaker weapon, and ends the previous. Lightning, blood rain, fog, monkeys - those are the first four hours on the clock. And at ten, the wave. I don't know what happens in the other seven, but I know Wiress is right. At present, the blood rain's falling and we're on the beach below the monkey segment, far too close to the fog for my liking. Do the various attacks stay within the confines of the jungle? Not necessarily. The wave didn't. If that fog leaches out of the jungle, or the monkeys return ... "Get up," I order, shaking Peeta and Finnick and Johanna awake. "Get up - we have to move." There's enough time, though, to explain the clock theory to them. About Wiress's tick-tocking and how the movements of the invisible hands trigger a deadly force in each section. I think I've convinced everyone who's conscious except Johanna, who's naturally opposed to liking anything I suggest. But even she agrees it's better to be safe than sorry. While the others collect our few possessions and get Beetee back into his jumpsuit, I rouse Wiress. She awakes with a panicked "tick, tock!" "Yes, tick, tock, the arena's a clock. It's a clock, Wiress, you were right," I say. "You were right." Relief floods her face - I guess because somebody has finally understood what she's known probably from the first tolling of the bells. "Midnight." "It starts at midnight," I confirm. A memory struggles to surface in my brain. I see a clock. No, it's a watch, resting in Plutarch Heavensbee's palm. "It starts at midnight," Plutarch said. And then my mockingjay lit up briefly and vanished. In retrospect, it's like he was giving me a clue about the arena. But why would he? At the time, I was no more a tribute in these Games than he was. Maybe he thought it would help me as a mentor. Or maybe this had been the plan all along. Wiress nods at the blood rain. "One-thirty," she says. "Exactly. One-thirty. And at two, a terrible poisonous fog begins there," I say, pointing at the nearby jungle. "So we have to move somewhere safe now." She smiles and stands up obediently. "Are you thirsty?" I hand her the woven bowl and she gulps down about a quart. Finnick gives her the last bit of bread and she gnaws on it. With the inability to communicate overcome, she's functioning again. I check my weapons. Tie up the spile and the tube of medicine in the parachute and fix it to my belt with vine. Beetee's still pretty out of it, but when Peeta tries to lift him, he objects. "Wire," he says. "She's right here," Peeta tells him. "Wiress is fine. She's coming, too." But still Beetee struggles. "Wire," he insists. "Oh, I know what he wants," says Johanna impatiently. She crosses the beach and picks up the cylinder we took from his belt when we were bathing him. It's coated in a thick layer of congealed blood. "This worthless thing. It's some kind of wire or something. That's how he got cut. Running up to the Cornucopia to get this. I don't know what kind of weapon it's supposed to be. I guess you could pull off a piece and use it as a garrote or something. But really, can you imagine Beetee garroting somebody?" "He won his Games with wire. Setting up that electrical trap," says Peeta. "It's the best weapon he could have." There's something odd about Johanna not putting this together. Something that doesn't quite ring true. Suspicious. "Seems like you'd have figured that out," I say. "Since you nicknamed him Volts and all." Johanna's eyes narrow at me dangerously. "Yeah, that was really stupid of me, wasn't it?" she says. "I guess I must have been distracted by keeping your little friends alive. While you were...what, again? Getting Mags killed off?" My fingers tighten on the knife handle at my belt. "Go ahead. Try it. I don't care if you are knocked up, I'll rip your throat out," says Johanna. I know I can't kill her right now. But it's just a matter of time with Johanna and me. Before one of us offs the other. "Maybe we all had better be careful where we step," says Finnick, shooting me a look. He takes the coil and sets it on Beetee's chest. "There's your wire, Volts. Watch where you plug it." Peeta picks up the now-unresisting Beetee. "Where to?" "I'd like to go to the Cornucopia and watch. Just to make sure we're right about the clock," says Finnick. It seems as good a plan as any. Besides, I wouldn't mind the chance of going over the weapons again. And there are six of us now. Even if you count Beetee and Wiress out, we've got four good fighters. It's so different from where I was last year at this point, doing everything on my own. Yes, it's great to have allies as long as you can ignore the thought that you'll have to kill them. Beetee and Wiress will probably find some way to die on their own. If we have to run from something, how far would they get? Johanna, frankly, I could easily kill if it came down to protecting Peeta. Or maybe even just to shut her up. What I really need is for someone to take out Finnick for me, since I don't think I can do it personally. Not after all he's done for Peeta. I think about maneuvering him into some kind of encounter with the Careers. It's cold, I know. But what are my options? Now that we know about the clock, he probably won't die in the jungle, so someone's going to have to kill him in battle. Because this is so repellent to think about, my mind frantically tries to change topics. But the only thing that distracts me from my current situation is fantasizing about killing President Snow. Not very pretty daydreams for a seventeen-year-old girl, I guess, but very satisfying. We walk down the nearest sand strip, approaching the Cornucopia with care, just in case the Careers are concealed there. I doubt they are, because we've been on the beach for hours and there's been no sign of life. The area's abandoned, as I expected. Only the big golden horn and the picked-over pile of weapons remain. When Peeta lays Beetee in the bit of shade the Cornucopia provides, he calls out to Wiress. She crouches beside him and he puts the coil of wire in her hands. "Clean it, will you?" he asks. Wiress nods and scampers over to the water's edge, where she dunks the coil in the water. She starts quietly singing some funny little song, about a mouse running up a clock. It must be for children, but it seems to make her happy. "Oh, not the song again," says Johanna, rolling her eyes. "That went on for hours before she started tick-tocking." Suddenly Wiress stands up very straight and points to the jungle. "Two," she says. I follow her finger to where the wall of fog has just begun to seep out onto the beach. "Yes, look, Wiress is right. It's two o'clock and the fog has started." "Like clockwork," says Peeta. "You were very smart to figure that out, Wiress." Wiress smiles and goes back to singing and dunking her coil. "Oh, she's more than smart," says Beetee. "She's intuitive." We all turn to look at Beetee, who seems to be coming back to life. "She can sense things before anyone else. Like a canary in one of your coal mines." "What's that?" Finnick asks me. "It's a bird that we take down into the mines to warn us if there's bad air," I say. "What's it do, die?" asks Johanna. "It stops singing first. That's when you should get out. But if the air's too bad, it dies, yes. And so do you." I don't want to talk about dying songbirds. They bring up thoughts of my father's death and Rue's death and Maysilee Donner's death and my mother inheriting her songbird. Oh, great, and now I'm thinking of Gale, deep down in that horrible mine, with President Snow's threat hanging over his head. So easy to make it look like an accident down there. A silent canary, a spark, and nothing more. I go back to imagining killing the president. Despite her annoyance at Wiress, Johanna's as happy as I've seen her in the arena. While I'm adding to my stock of arrows, she pokes around until she comes up with a pair of lethal-looking axes. It seems an odd choice until I see her throw one with such force it sticks in the sun-softened gold of the Cornucopia. Of course. Johanna Mason. District 7. Lumber. I bet she's been tossing around axes since she could toddle. It's like Finnick with his trident. Or Beetee with his wire. Rue with her knowledge of plants. I realize it's just another disadvantage the District 12 tributes have faced over the years. We don't go down in the mines until we're eighteen. It looks like most of the other tributes learn something about their trades early on. There are things you do in a mine that could come in handy in the Games. Wielding a pick. Blowing things up. Give you an edge. The way my hunting did. But we learn them too late. While I've been messing with the weapons, Peeta's been squatting on the ground, drawing something with the tip of his knife on a large, smooth leaf he brought from the jungle. I look over his shoulder and see he's creating a map of the arena. In the center is the Cornucopia on its circle of sand with the twelve strips branching out from it. It looks like a pie sliced into twelve equal wedges. There's another circle representing the waterline and a slightly larger one indicating the edge of the jungle. "Look how the Cornucopia's positioned," he says to me. I examine the Cornucopia and see what he means. "The tail points toward twelve o'clock," I say. "Right, so this is the top of our clock," he says, and quickly scratches the numbers one through twelve around the clock face. "Twelve to one is the lightning zone." He writes lightning in tiny print in the corresponding wedge, then works clockwise adding blood, fog, and monkeys in the following sections. "And ten to eleven is the wave," I say. He adds it. Finnick and Johanna join us at this point, armed to the teeth with tridents, axes, and knives. "Did you notice anything unusual in the others?" I ask Johanna and Beetee, since they might have seen something we didn't. But all they've seen is a lot of blood. "I guess they could hold anything." "I'm going to mark the ones where we know the Gamemakers' weapon follows us out past the jungle, so we'll stay clear of those," says Peeta, drawing diagonal lines on the fog and wave beaches. Then he sits back. "Well, it's a lot more than we knew this morning, anyway." We all nod in agreement, and that's when I notice it. The silence. Our canary has stopped singing. I don't wait. I load an arrow as I twist and get a glimpse of a dripping-wet Gloss letting Wiress slide to the ground, her throat slit open in a bright red smile. The point of my arrow disappears into his right temple, and in the instant it takes to reload, Johanna has buried an ax blade in Cashmere's chest. Finnick knocks away a spear Brutus throws at Peeta and takes Enobaria's knife in his thigh. If there wasn't a Cornucopia to duck behind, they'd be dead, both of the tributes from District 2. I spring forward in pursuit. Boom! Boom! Boom! The cannon confirms there's no way to help Wiress, no need to finish off Gloss or Cashmere. My allies and I are rounding the horn, starting to give chase to Brutus and Enobaria, who are sprinting down a sand strip toward the jungle. Suddenly the ground jerks beneath my feet and I'm flung on my side in the sand. The circle of land that holds the Cornucopia starts spinning fast, really fast, and I can see the jungle going by in a blur. I feel the centrifugal force pulling me toward the water and dig my hands and feet into the sand, trying to get some purchase on the unstable ground. Between the flying sand and the dizziness, I have to squeeze my eyes shut. There is literally nothing I can do but hold on until, with no deceleration, we slam to a stop. Coughing and queasy, I sit up slowly to find my companions in the same condition. Finnick, Johanna, and Peeta have hung on. The three dead bodies have been tossed out into the seawater. The whole thing, from missing Wiress's song to now, can't have taken more than a minute or two. We sit there panting, scraping the sand out of our mouths. "Where's Volts?" says Johanna. We're on our feet. One wobbly circle of the Cornucopia confirms he's gone. Finnick spots him about twenty yards out in the water, barely keeping afloat, and swims out to haul him in. That's when I remember the wire and how important it was to him. I look frantically around. Where is it? Where is it? And then I see it, still clutched in Wiress's hands, far out in the water. My stomach contracts at the thought of what I must do next. "Cover me," I say to the others. I toss aside my weapons and race down the strip closest to her body. Without slowing down, I dive into the water and start for her. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the hovercraft appearing over us, the claw starting to descend to take her away. But I don't stop. I just keep swimming as hard as I can and end up slamming into her body. I come up gasping, trying to avoid swallowing the bloodstained water that spreads out from the open wound in her neck. She's floating on her back, borne up by her belt and death, staring into that relentless sun. As I tread water, I have to wrench the coil of wire from her fingers, because her final grip on it is so tight. There's nothing I can do then but close her eyelids, whisper good-bye, and swim away. By the time I swing the coil up onto the sand and pull myself from the water, her body's gone. But I can still taste her blood mingled with the sea salt. I walk back to the Cornucopia. Finnick's gotten Beetee back alive, although a little waterlogged, sitting up and snorting out water. He had the good sense to hang on to his glasses, so at least he can see. I place the reel of wire on his lap. It's sparkling clean, no blood left at all. He unravels a piece of the wire and runs it through his fingers. For the first time I see it, and it's unlike any wire I know. A pale golden color and as fine as a piece of hair. I wonder how long it is. There must be miles of the stuff to fill the large spool. But I don't ask, because I know he's thinking of Wiress. I look at the others' sober faces. Now Finnick, Johanna, and Beetee have all lost their district partners. I cross to Peeta and wrap my arms around him, and for a while we all stay silent. "Let's get off this stinking island," Johanna says finally. There's only the matter of our weapons now, which we've largely retained. Fortunately the vines here are strong and the spile and tube of medicine wrapped in the parachute are still secured to my belt. Finnick strips off his undershirt and ties it around the wound Enobaria's knife made in his thigh; it's not deep. Beetee thinks he can walk now, if we go slowly, so I help him up. We decide to head to the beach at twelve o'clock. That should provide hours of calm and keep us clear of any poisonous residue. And then Peeta, Johanna, and Finnick head off in three different directions. "Twelve o'clock, right?" says Peeta. "The tail points at twelve." "Before they spun us," says Finnick. "I was judging by the sun." "The sun only tells you it's going on four, Finnick," I say. "I think Katniss's point is, knowing the time doesn't mean you necessarily know where four is on the clock. You might have a general idea of the direction. Unless you consider that they may have shifted the outer ring of jungle as well," says Beetee. No, Katniss's point was a lot more basic than that. Beetee's articulated a theory far beyond my comment on the sun. But I just nod my head like I've been on the same page all along. "Yes, so any one of these paths could lead to twelve o'clock," I say. We circle around the Cornucopia, scrutinizing the jungle. It has a baffling uniformity. I remember the tall tree that took the first lightning strike at twelve o'clock, but every sector has a similar tree. Johanna thinks to follow Enobaria's and Brutus's tracks, but they have been blown or washed away. There's no way to tell where anything is. "I should have never mentioned the clock," I say bitterly. "Now they've taken that advantage away as well." "Only temporarily," says Beetee. "At ten, we'll see the wave again and be back on track." "Yes, they can't redesign the whole arena," says Peeta. "It doesn't matter," says Johanna impatiently. "You had to tell us or we never would have moved our camp in the first place, brainless." Ironically, her logical, if demeaning, reply is the only one that comforts me. Yes, I had to tell them to get them to move. "Come on, I need water. Anyone have a good gut feeling?" We randomly choose a path and take it, having no idea what number we're headed for. When we reach the jungle, we peer into it, trying to decipher what may be waiting inside. "Well, it must be monkey hour. And I don't see any of them in there," says Peeta. "I'm going to try to tap a tree." "No, it's my turn," says Finnick. "I'll at least watch your back," Peeta says. "Katniss can do that," says Johanna. "We need you to make another map. The other washed away." She yanks a large leaf off a tree and hands it to him. For a moment, I'm suspicious they're trying to divide and kill us. But it doesn't make sense. I'll have the advantage on Finnick if he's dealing with the tree and Peeta's much bigger than Johanna. So I follow Finnick about fifteen yards into the jungle, where he finds a good tree and starts stabbing to make a hole with his knife. As I stand there, weapons ready, I can't lose the uneasy feeling that something is going on and that it has to do with Peeta. I retrace our steps, starting from the moment the gong rang out, searching for the source of my discomfort. Finnick towing Peeta in off his metal plate. Finnick reviving Peeta after the force field stopped his heart. Mags running into the fog so that Finnick could carry Peeta. The morphling hurling herself in front of him to block the monkey's attack. The fight with the Careers was so quick, but didn't Finnick block Brutus's spear from hitting Peeta even though it meant taking Enobaria's knife in his leg? And even now Johanna has him drawing a map on a leaf rather than risking the jungle... There is no question about it. For reasons completely unfathomable to me, some of the other victors are trying to keep him alive, even if it means sacrificing themselves. I'm dumbfounded. For one thing, that's my job. For another, it doesn't make sense. Only one of us can get out. So why have they chosen Peeta to protect? What has Haymitch possibly said to them, what has he bargained with to make them put Peeta's life above their own? I know my own reasons for keeping Peeta alive. He's my friend, and this is my way to defy the Capitol, to subvert its terrible Games. But if I had no real ties to him, what would make me want to save him, to choose him over myself? Certainly he is brave, but we have all been brave enough to survive a Games. There is that quality of goodness that's hard to overlook, but still ... and then I think of it, what Peeta can do so much better than the rest of us. He can use words. He obliterated the rest of the field at both interviews. And maybe it's because of that underlying goodness that he can move a crowd - no, a country - to his side with the turn of a simple sentence. I remember thinking that was the gift the leader of our revolution should have. Has Haymitch convinced the others of this? That Peeta's tongue would have far greater power against the Capitol than any physical strength the rest of us could claim? I don't know. It still seems like a really long leap for some of the tributes. I mean, we're talking about Johanna Mason here. But what other explanation can there be for their decided efforts to keep him alive? "Katniss, got that spile?" Finnick asks, snapping me back to reality. I cut the vine that ties the spile to my belt and hold the metal tube out to him. That's when I hear the scream. So full of fear and pain it ices my blood. And so familiar. I drop the spile, forget where I am or what lies ahead, only know I must reach her, protect her. I run wildly in the direction of the voice, heedless of danger, ripping through vines and branches, through anything that keeps me from reaching her. From reaching my little sister.

#CatchingFire