Bam! Without warning, I’m suddenly on television, standing in the rubble of the bakery.
Plutarch jumps to his feet. “He did it! Beetee broke in!”
The room’s buzzing with reaction when Peeta’s back, distracted. He has seen me on the monitor. He tries to pick up his speech by moving on to the bombing of a water purification plant, when a clip of Finnick talking about Rue replaces him. And then the whole thing breaks down into a broadcast battle, as the Capitol tech masters try to fend off Beetee’s attack. But they are unprepared, and Beetee, apparently anticipating he would not hold on to control, has an arsenal of five- to ten-second clips to work with. We watch the official presentation deteriorate as it’s peppered with choice shots from the propos.
Plutarch’s in spasms of delight and most everybody is cheering Beetee on, but Finnick remains still and speechless beside me. I meet Haymitch’s eyes from across the room and see my own dread mirrored back. The recognition that with every cheer, Peeta slips even farther from our grasp.
The Capitol seal’s back up, accompanied by a flat audio tone. This lasts about twenty seconds before Snow and Peeta return. The set is in turmoil. We’re hearing frantic exchanges from their booth. Snow plows forward, saying that clearly the rebels are now attempting to disrupt the dissemination of information they find incriminating, but both truth and justice will reign. The full broadcast will resume when security has been reinstated. He asks Peeta if, given tonight’s demonstration, he has any parting thoughts for Katniss Everdeen.
At the mention of my name, Peeta’s face contorts in effort. “Katniss…how do you think this will end? What will be left? No one is safe. Not in the Capitol. Not in the districts. And you…in Thirteen…” He inhales sharply, as if fighting for air; his eyes look insane. “Dead by morning!”
Off camera, Snow orders, “End it!” Beetee throws the whole thing into chaos by flashing a still shot of me standing in front of the hospital at three-second intervals. But between the images, we are privy to the real-life action being played out on the set. Peeta’s attempt to continue speaking. The camera knocked down to record the white tiled floor. The scuffle of boots. The impact of the blow that’s inseparable from Peeta’s cry of pain.
And his blood as it splatters the tiles.
PART II
“THE ASSAULT”
The scream begins in my lower back and works its way up through my body only to jam in my throat. I am Avox mute, choking on my grief. Even if I could release the muscles in my neck, let the sound tear into space, would anyone notice it? The room’s in an uproar. Questions and demands ring out as they try to decipher Peeta’s words. “And you…in Thirteen…dead by morning!” Yet no one is asking about the messenger whose blood has been replaced by static.
A voice calls the others to attention. “Shut up!” Every pair of eyes falls on Haymitch. “It’s not some big mystery! The boy’s telling us we’re about to be attacked. Here. In Thirteen.”
“How would he have that information?”
“Why should we trust him?”
“How do you know?”
Haymitch gives a growl of frustration. “They’re beating him bloody while we speak. What more do you need? Katniss, help me out here!”
I have to give myself a shake to free my words. “Haymitch’s right. I don’t know where Peeta got the information. Or if it’s true. But he believes it is. And they’re—” I can’t say aloud what Snow’s doing to him.
“You don’t know him,” Haymitch says to Coin. “We do. Get your people ready.”
The president doesn’t seem alarmed, only somewhat perplexed, by this turn in events. She mulls over the words, tapping one finger lightly on the rim of the control board in front of her. When she speaks, she addresses Haymitch in an even voice. “Of course, we have prepared for such a scenario. Although we have decades of support for the assumption that further direct attacks on Thirteen would be counterproductive to the Capitol’s cause. Nuclear missiles would release radiation into the atmosphere, with incalculable environmental results. Even routine bombing could badly damage our military compound, which we know they hope to regain. And, of course, they invite a counterstrike. It is conceivable that, given our current alliance with the rebels, those would be viewed as acceptable risks.”
“You think so?” says Haymitch. It’s a shade too sincere, but the subtleties of irony are often wasted in 13.
“I do. At any rate, we’re overdue for a Level Five security drill,” says Coin. “Let’s proceed with the lockdown.” She begins to type rapidly on her keyboard, authorizing her decision. The moment she raises her head, it begins.