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chapter fifty-two
RISE AND FALL

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tw:
mention of torture, mention of abuse, violence, gore, ptsd — mockingjay is heavy :(

━━━━

He can't sleep, so he walks.

At first, it's simply aimless, Ptolemus slipping away from his tent while Gunnar pretends to not notice, his snoring seemingly growing louder. 

Instead of pacing through dimly lit hallways miles beneath the ground, he weaves carefully between the pine trees along the outskirts of the camp, inhaling smooth and gentle breaths through his nose. The blue mountains glow beneath the ivory moon, and when he stares back at them, it's mostly soothing. Comforting. After all, Ptolemus is home. Whenever he was sent to The Capitol, this was the only place he ever wanted to be. The mountains protected him.

And yet, they trapped him too. Unmoving and towering, just like his father.

Just at the mere thought of him, Ptolemus almost convinces himself he can make it to the Town Square from the camp in this neighboring village. To do what — he's not entirely sure. Inspect for remnants of his brutal death? His body is surely buried by now, all the blood washed away from the pavement. Isn't it? If it is, has anyone broken bread over his grave, or would they rather spit on it? Perhaps one left unmarked would increase his chances of someone offering his soul food for his journey. Ptolemus can't help but imagine his father seething at a nameless tombstone for his marker. After all, he hollered, beat and killed for that name.

That tugs him in a similar path, but not quite the same. Instead of a mission to the Town Square, he suddenly feels himself drifting in the direction of District Two's cemetery, another unrealistic trek. This will be the first time he's been in the same place as his sister in close to three months. He aches to hug her, but he knows the closest he'll ever get to that is tracing the letters of her name along the tombstone. If it hasn't been blown to pieces in the war.

Sentimental. He's always been sickeningly sentimental.

He stops when he hears his mother in his head. That's when he realizes he really is being haunted by ghosts. His sister, gone ten years, his father only a week, but his mother? She's been dead ever since he's known her.

It surprises him how much closure that gives him.

Ptolemus turns around, headed back toward his tent as the restlessness in him still tosses and turns against his ribs. The camp is slowly coming alive, only a sliver of silver breaking through the indigo night. Some soldiers change posts, and a tent or two casts a faint golden glow from a lantern. Ptolemus wonders what hour it is for Sage in Thirteen. Has she already eaten breakfast, perhaps starting on her chores for the morning? He can't wait to call her. To hear her voice. To know how her first night alone went.

He starts toying with his wedding ring when he imagines how her first night alone went, a sour taste rising up his throat and burning the inside of his mouth.

Gunnar isn't snoring anymore when Ptolemus makes it back to their tent. Instead, he's rolling up his sleeping arrangements, breaking down the makeshift cot and folding the blankets neatly. Ptolemus quirks a brow.

"Since when do you make your bed?"

"Since they made me do so many burpees I thought I was going to throw up my esophagus because I didn't." Gunnar nods toward Ptolemus's disheveled cot. "You should do yours too. Rumor has it we're changing camp. Again."

The Legacy frowns. "Where to?"

"Marcellus led some troops into Ravenna again, pushed the Peacekeepers further back. We might have the Justice Building by tomorrow or the day after. Now that we've got some extra bodies and brains it sounds like there's going to be another meeting to figure out how to get into Promise Peak." Gunnar frowns and wrinkles his nose. "The stiffs are calling it The Nut."

"'Tough nut to crack,'" Ptolemus quotes Beetee. He starts to break down his cot, fumbling at first but eventually finding where it folds.

"Yeah, well the whole situation is driving me nuts, so I guess it makes sense."

A nagging sense of responsibility toward the Victor he mentored provokes the question. "Is Marcellus alright? Any casualties?"

"Always some," Gunnar sighs. "They're still holding the blockade. Didn't hear about him though, so probably a good thing."

Breakfast is a watery gray porridge that might be worse than Thirteen's oatmeal. The only thing that seems to make it taste better is the mountain air as Ptolemus inhales before each bite, scarfing it down and scraping his bowl clean. Though appearing ravenous, his behavior is not meant to be mistaken for hunger. At least, not the kind of the stomach anyway.

He's one of the first to be finished, and with that he quickly scours the crowd of troops, searching for someone who can help him. Almost all of them are preoccupied, either preparing for the camp relocation, tending to the wounded who likely will stay put, shining their weapons, or still trying to get another spoonful in.

Ptolemus interrupts Boggs' meeting with several other higher-ups, some from Thirteen, some from Two, which doesn't motivate the man to assist him in his inquiry. However, after some persuading, perhaps even some guilting when Ptolemus reminds him of the circumstances of his presence in Two, the man shows to have a heart.

"You've got five minutes."

It takes him three to finally get patched through to Dalton in Thirteen, the mountains interfering with the connection. Static crackles in his ear, and he winces.

"Sage. Can I talk to her?"

"Eh..." Dalton's voice trails, and that already makes his stomach coil. Ptolemus shifts his weight uneasily as the silence seems to echo. "She's uh- she's in the middle of doctoring up one of the animals. Can she call you later?"

Ptolemus frowns. It sounds like it should be a good thing, Sage staying busy with something she loves doing. And yet...

He nods even though Dalton can't see him. "Yeah. We're moving further into Ravenna today, but..." He straightens. "She okay? I mean, everything all good over there?"

His stomach is starting to churn, and it's not from the porridge. Then there's the pounding of his heart. It's only a second, but it feels like Dalton hesitates again.

"She's alright. Just busy. We've been needing a good vet like her around here. I'll make sure she calls you later, alright?"

"What about nightmares? No nightmares, no —"

"Slept like a rock," Dalton says. "New sleep meds helped her through it. Now I gotta get goin', you know Thirteen and their schedules. Stay out of trouble over there, Ptolemus."

The click interrupts his response, and Ptolemus scowls. Boggs is nowhere to be seen to collect the ear piece, despite it being well over his five minutes. He decides to shove it into his pocket for later, should she call. He hopes she calls.

The relocation to the Ravenna's outskirts takes an hour. Ptolemus tries to use the trek to distract himself from his and Dalton's conversation, but it's proving difficult as it lingers in his memory. His mind hitches particularly over the "new sleep meds" part, like a loose and nagging thread. Do sleep meds mean a needle? Knocking her out cold so she stops screaming, crying, thrashing? Ptolemus winces when his mind replays the sound. He places the ear piece back in, just in case. If Boggs wants it back, he'll have to pry it off him.

━━━━

The restlessness in her has retreated. While earlier she was pacing, eager to escape the hospital room with a newfound direction, she finds herself hesitating before she crosses the door's threshhold. Sage shifts her weight, ignoring the discomfort of her cut but bandaged foot, peering carefully out into the hall. Nurses and doctors pass with their patients, paying her no mind. She glances left and right for her supposedly lurking brothers, or maybe even her mother. The coast seems clear.

Just as she turns, a figure appears out of thin air, and Sage lets out a yelp of surprise. He holds up his hands in surrender.

"Whoa, sorry darlin'," Dalton says. He gives her a kind smile. "I was just comin' to see ya."

"I've been discharged."

"I heard. Care for an escort?"

Dalton offers her his arm. She tries not to frown, the term reminding her of Philo. And while she can appreciate the gesture, she'd prefer not to present anymore fragile than she already is. After all, if she's to fight in The Capitol, she has to act like it. Instead of taking his arm, she smiles politely, stepping beside him to walk. "Alright."

The two walk down the hall and past several patients' rooms. Past Dalton's shoulder, she thinks she sees Peeta through one of the windows in his bed. His brows are furrowed, but it doesn't appear to be anger, only confusion. He looks better, considering the last time she saw him he was writhing and wailing, beaten bloody on the white tile beside her. He's feeding himself pudding.

"Looks like you got some homework," Dalton mentions lightly. He glances to the folded paper in her hands.

Sage presses it closer to her belly to hide the writing. "Something like that." Her wary gaze combs the hospital corridor until they reach the lobby for familiar faces. When Dalton calls the elevator, she half expects to see her family through the parting doors. It's empty as they step inside. "Did anyone stop by while I was asleep?"

"You mean your brothers?" It doesn't quite sound like a question, more so an answer. "Chased 'em off, which I don't think they appreciated. I told them they were giving you a new treatment trial."

Sage can picture it. Almanzo's jaw ticking and Shiloh's eyes narrowing with that natural suspicion he usually has anyways. The gears and cables whir as the elevator moves up the shaft. "I doubt they believed that."

Dalton shrugs. "Probably not, but best I could come up with at the time. Ptolemus called about an hour ago himself."

Her heart drops at his name. "Did you —"

"Nope, you're fixing up a chicken's broken beak as we speak." That's almost believable. Sage studies Dalton quietly, partly with curiosity and partly with gratitude. His honey eyes peek down at her, and the corner of his lips quirk slyly. "I don't think he believed that either, but he doesn't believe anything I say, so..."

Something lifts enough in her for the amusement to poke through in her tone. "You know, I don't think he does."

"Neither does my wife," Dalton grins.

"Hm." A pause. Something tightens in her chest when she thinks of Ptolemus's voice on the other end of that call. Aches. Part of her is relieved, he already worries so much — and she knows he'd know something was wrong with just a breath, but another part is devastated to have missed him. "Is he alright?"

"Sounds like it. I'm not supposed to say anything, but they're moving into Ravenna today. They get that? Then Two is won."

Relief blankets her at word of his safety, laying on her rigid shoulders and allowing them to soften. She lightly plays with her ring, as if to reach for him through the earth and the mountains. He's only been gone a day or so, but it feels like an eternity. Her mind shifts to the second part of what Dalton said.

District Two could fall today. Or tomorrow, or the day after. If and most likely when Two is won, then that means there's only one more place for the rebels to conquer. It seems like The Capitol might be closer than Sage realized, and she swallows at the thought. A feeling of heat flickers again, and she swears she senses Johanna's smirk from twenty floors below.

She remembers what it means for Tolly though too. If they're preparing to claim Ravenna, that means they're preparing for a battle. Her stomach twists and contorts to the point she almost grimaces.

"Can I talk to him today?" She silently curses herself for not being discharged sooner. Maybe if she had, she would've been able to answer him this morning. "Or tonight, after dinner?" Even then seems too far away, but she'll take what she can get.

Dalton exhales a breath as the elevator finally halts. "I'll do my best. Now that they're on the move, it's harder. Communications are limited with the severity of the mission."

Sage struggles to conceal her disappointment and worry. While she doesn't exactly want to risk Ptolemus's inquiry regarding her first night alone, she doesn't want to go so long without hearing from him in a situation like this. Just when she's working up the courage to nod, the doors part to reveal the bustling cafeteria. Scraping of silverware and daytime rise in a chorus. It must already be lunch time, and she feels herself retreating again.

She was hoping she might not have to face her family immediately, but it seems Fate always pushes her to face her fears.

Isn't that sad? Her family being one of her fears now? Well, it's not her soft-spoken but wise mother that she's afraid of, nor her brave brothers and father. Not her sweet sister-in-law who couldn't hurt a fly if she fell on it. Certainly not Erabelle, who once wrapped her tiny fingers around one of Sage's as she held her as a newborn.

It's what she's done to them that terrifies her. Their worry. Their sorrow. Their anger. Their pain.

"Think you've got it on your own from here, right?" asks Dalton gently. There's nothing condescending or patronizing to his tone. Not even pity in his stare. Just... Dalton.

That's what she needs after a night like the last. More justs. Just Mama, Just Papa, Just Almanzo and Shiloh.

Just... Sage.

Even though her heart is pounding, and she's convinced everyone's staring at the bags under her eyes, Sage eventally nods. With a slight tilt of her chin, she tucks the folded paper into the pocket of her jumpsuit. Steadily striding inside, unaccompanied, Sage hops in line with her tray.

Unfortunately, her paranoia is correct, a few glances flicker in her direction. Not much has changed since last night, or the days before. In fact, they might've gotten worse, and she wonders if the woman in front of her who's especially stiff was the one in the stall next door. Or at least, friends or family with the one in the stall next door. Sage gnaws on the bitter taste lining the inside of her cheeks to keep it down as her tray is filled with a grilled cheese and tomato soup. She doesn't have much of an appetite, but she'll try. After all, she has to get her strength up.

Her family sits at their usual table. They've already noticed her, offering warm smiles as she approaches. She does her best to mirror them. Of course, they've left a spot for her, between Shiloh and Erabelle.

There it is again. That feeling of retreating. She resists it the best she can, pushing forward as she lowers herself beside them as naturally as she can. Part of hers unsure if she's truly returning to her family, or stepping into a memory of it. She waits for remnants of yesterday in their glances.

They don't ask her where she's been. They don't ask her how she slept either. Instead, they continue whatever conversation she might've interrupted. As she listens, it sounds like a surprisingly passionate debate about cheese.

"It's too flavorless to be cheddar," Almanzo insists. He takes another bite, chews carefully with thought, then raises a brow to the others. "Maybe Colby?"

"Gotta be Swiss." Shiloh lifts the bread, melted cheese pulling with it to inspect carefully. "I think I see the holes."

"Those are the air bubbles," Almanzo refutes with a frown, sounding almost personally offended.

Shiloh frowns right back, skeptically glancing between his sandwich and his older brother. When he peers over at their parents, neither of them want a part of it.

"Tastes like lunch, that's all I need to know," Santiago says, still happily munching. Luna just shakes her head.

Almanzo gently nudges his shoulder into his wife's beside him. "It's Colby, right?"

Coretta shrugs slyly. "I can't tell when I dip it into the soup. Tastes like tomato."

While the high-stakes debate continues, something lightly tickles Sage's lap. She flinches and peers underneath the table for the source. It's a piece of paper, but with the shadow and the angle she can't quite make out what's on it. Erabelle sits suspiciously still beside her. Carefully, she pulls the paper from underneath the table, keeping it low to not draw attention to herself as Shiloh and Almanzo argue.

Erabelle used a purple crayon again. Her drawings have only gotten better, and Sage recognizes each character easily. Nonetheless, as she stares at the woman she's drawn, clad with a cowgirl hat on top of a horse that resembles Sunshine, she still asks to clarify.

"Is this me?"

Erabelle nods, inching closer to her so their knees bump. Then she points to the other person in the drawing, a little girl on top of a painted horse. "That's me and Hero."

Sage's heart twinges at the old horse's name. As she studies the drawing a little longer, it appears they're traveling across a horizon. "Where are we going?"

"To fight," Erabelle declares softly. Her brows pinch together, but not into the usual scowl she's fashioned lately. She then leans into Sage's ribs almost tiredly, staring at the picture a second longer. "Then home."

Something breaks and burns inside her all at once. Everything her little niece has just said is both devastating and motivating. Sage blinks several times to keep the hot sting of tears at bay. There's that ember living in them both.

"Alright Sage, please settle this," Coretta interjects with a breathy huff. "I can't listen to it anymore."

At first, she's not sure what she's referring to. Then she notices her brothers' flushed and determined features. They're still on this? They blink back at her and wait with a laughable seriousness.

"Alright."

Sage's never been so curious about a sandwich in her entire life. All eyes on her. Although, this is the first time in a while it's been for reasons that don't involve life or death. Her family watches her take a bite. She chews softly and slowly to taste. The cheese is gooey, but just like most things in Thirteen, it lacks flavor. It's not bad. And it's not great either.

Shiloh glances in her direction, raising his brows. "Well?"

Almanzo mouths "Colby."

Sage just shakes her head.

"Definitely not cheddar."

━━━━

Marcellus's blockade remains in tact. For now, they've relocated to an old quarry mill turned rebel headquarters with The Nut still in sight. Maps are strewn about while the mountain in question looms in the background, simply waiting for the next dare from the rebels. All the brawn and brains from Thirteen bear down on them with the company of Lyme and Corbel. For hours, even through lunch, they've gone back and forth with various ideas of attack, all of which are weak or dismissed. Ptolemus offers nothing. Instead of ruminating over entrances and strategy, he finds himself ruminating on someone else instead.

Sage.

Is she really alright? He replays his conversation with Dalton over and over again, the words relieving but no relief coming. Instead, dread weighs heavily in his gut, sinking him but failing to anchor him into reality. Dalton's hesitant breaths and distracted tone sound worse with each replay.

Something's wrong. He doesn't know what, but something's wrong.

He should've never left her.

"The next person who suggests we take the entrances better have a brilliant way to do it, because you're going to be the one leading that mission!"

The booming echo of Lyme's voice jolts Ptolemus from his mind, and when he snaps his head toward her, his gaze stings with a fine sheet of glass he hadn't noticed building before. He forcibly blinks it away and clenches his jaw. Meanwhile, Lyme's eyes resemble a mad dog that's been fighting for too long as she glowers across the other hanging and defeated heads. Corbel pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs deeply. Ptolemus flinches when a shoulder gently nudges his. He can feel his concerned stare boring into his cheek. Gunnar.

No one breathes a word. Ptolemus half-heartedly glances at the mountain through the window, Katniss perched along the sill quietly. The puzzle could distract him, and he tries to entertain it. Dalton said she was alright. Said she slept fine. Even is working with the animals today. What about that sounds like something's wrong? Nothing, but...

It's not about how it sounded. It's about how it feels. He toys with his wedding ring achingly again.

"Is it really so necessary that we take the Nut?" Gale speaks up, who's been surprisingly quiet the last hour. Honestly, Ptolemus forgot he was here, but at the sound of his voice, he notes the teen brooding near the window with Katniss. His brows are knit into an inquisitive frown. "Or would it be enough to disable it?"

"That would be a step in the right direction," Beetee says. "What do you have in mind?"

"Think of it as a wild dog den," he continues. Ptolemus tries to listen. Tries to distract himself. The wedding ring is warm to the touch now. "You're not going to fight your way in. So you have two choices. Trap the dogs inside or flush them out."

Lyme shakes her head. "We've tried bombing the entrances. They're set too far inside the stone for any real damage to be done."

Gale takes her dismissal with stride. "I wasn't thinking of that. I was thinking of using the mountain." Beetee rises stiffly from his wheelchair, carefully and slowly joining Gale at the window. He lifts his glasses slightly and follows his gaze. "See? Running down the sides?"

"Avalanche paths," Beetee breathes. "It'd be tricky. We'd have to design the detonation sequence with great care, and once it's in motion, we couldn't hope to control it."

"We don't need to control it if we give up the idea that we possess the Nut." Ptolemus eyes the mountain as he listens to the boy from Twelve. Others seem to perk up curiously at the unique proposal. "Only shut it down."

Lyme raises a brow. "So you're suggesting we start avalanches and block the entrances?"

"That's it," Gale nods. "Trap the enemy inside, cut off from supplies. Make it impossible for them to send out their hovercraft."

"Avalanches like what you're describing prove to be pretty deadly," Gunnar speaks up. His tone lacks its usual jovial nature, and his narrowed stare burns evenly into Gale. "My grandfather's quarry was lost to one, and so was everyone inside."

A few other soldiers in the room seem to straighten with melancholy recognition. Ptolemus remembers learning about the event in school, a tragedy with no known prevention other than a request of mercy from Fate. Gunnar never mentioned his grandfather to him, but he recalls a picture of an older man on the Kanes' mantle that his mother would leave bread to on Holy Tuesdays. Boggs, who's been looming over blueprints, confirms their concerns.

"You risk killing everyone inside. Look at the ventilation system. It's rudimentary at best. Nothing like what we have in Thirteen. It depends entirely on pumping in air from the mountainsides. Block those vents and you'll suffocate whoever is trapped."

That wouldn't be the worst thing if the mountain was filled with only brutal Capitol Peacekeepers. Except it's not. Ptolemus's speech echos in his memory, a story of lambs being taught they're wolves so that they turn on their own. For whatever reason, an image of Cato flashes next, the heartbreaking realization coming too late. Then the wolf-like mutts gnawing on him, eating him alive...

The people in the Nut are no different. A new reason for nausea stirs Ptolemus's stomach as cries of the past echo with the future.

Beetee offers some reconciliation. "They could still escape through the tunnel to the square."

"And when they do we give them a chance to surrender," Ptolemus adds quickly. "They deserve a chance for mercy."

"Not if we blow it up," Gale states.

His words cut, brutally and divisively throughout the room. There's a range of emotions chaotically swirling, but he doesn't seem to notice nor care. A few others respond similarly or even with a twinge of satisfaction. But there's also the ones, like Ptolemus and Gunnar, who take no pride in the suggestion — rage, distress, and sorrow contorting through them.

Maybe he doesn't realize. Maybe he doesn't know that there isn't just Peacekeepers and Capitol lackeys in there. There are neighbors, friends, kin —

"The majority of the workers are citizens from Two," Beetee mentions neutrally.

"So what?" Gale snaps. A few flinch. The fiery glint in his eye resembles the one he burned in Ptolemus's direction across the table in Thirteen. "We'll never be able to trust them again."

"This guy's a dick," Gunnar murmurs, shaking his head with disgust.

Ptolemus's anger and disgust anchors him as he takes a step forward in the circle. "Not all of them are soldiers, and not all of them are there for why you think they are. Some may not have had a choice —"

"Like you didn't when you volunteered?" Gale shoots.

Today's not the fucking day kid.

Just like in Thirteen, there's that painful urge for Ptolemus to lunge across the table. It must be written all over his face, because a firm hand finds his arm. He expects Gunnar, but instead it's Corbel.

Gale doesn't seem to care as he shakes his head at him. "I do know all of them heard your speech, and look where they still are. They've made their choice."

"No," Lyme interjects. "They should at least have a chance to surrender."

"Well, that's a luxury we weren't given when they fire-bombed Twelve, but you're all so much cozier with the Capitol here."

Now Ptolemus isn't the only one who could lunge across the table. Lyme looks like she might shoot him where he stands, and Corbel's grip seems to wane. But their anger only seems to infuriate him more as Gale's voice roars loudly throughout the room. "We watched children burn to death and there was nothing we could do!"

Katniss flinches and closes her eyes. Suddenly, she's up from the windowsill, as if awakened from a trance and brought back to the realm of the living. She tugs on her friend's arm earnestly. "Gale. The Nut's an old mine. It'd be like causing a massive cold mining accident."

Her reason doesn't work. "But not so quick as the one that killed our father's," he retorts. Then his fiery gaze flickers across the room, even peering at a seething Ptolemus. "Is that everyone's problem? That our enemies might have a few hours to reflect on the fact they're dying, instead of just being blown to bits?"

"Ptolemus is right, you don't know how those District Two people ended up in the Nut," Katniss says. "They may have been coerced. They may be held against their will. Some are our own spies. Will you kill them too?"

"I would sacrifice a few, yes, to take out the rest of them. And if I were a spy in there, I'd say 'bring on the avalanches!'"

No matter how ridiculous it sounds, you can hear the earnest truth in his words. Not to mention putrid hate. There's no doubt he means what he says. And that's what makes it so disturbing. Again, Ptolemus can't help but think of all those faces in the street, in the shops, in the Reaping Day crowd or in the crops of students sent from their quarry working families in hopes they might murder their way out of poverty and into glory. How many of them woke up, and how many are still lambs trying to claw and bite because they were told to?

How many could still be saved?

"You said we had two choices," Boggs says. "To trap them or to flush them out. I say we try to avalanche the mountain but leave the train tunnel alone. People can escape into the square, where we'll be waiting for them."

"Heavily armed, I hope," Gale quips. "You can be sure they'll be."

The other man nods. "Heavily armed. We'll take them prisoner."

"Let's bring Thirteen into the loop now," Beetee suggests. "Let President Coin weigh in."

"She'll want to block the tunnel," says Gale with conviction. Ptolemus can't help but glare.

"Yes, most likely. But you know, Peeta did have a point in his Propos. About the dangers of killing ourselves off. I've been playing with some numbers. Factoring in the casualties and the wounded and... I think it's at least worth a conversation," Beetee sighs.

That conversation doesn't include Ptolemus and Gunnar, nor even Katniss and Gale. They're released, and as they exit the quarry mill, steam seems to roll off both Ptolemus and Gale's bodies into the cold mountain air. Katniss guides her friend toward the woods that they came from, and Gunnar ensures they go the opposite direction. However, it doesn't keep Ptolemus from shooting a glacial glare over his shoulder, which is considerably generous for him.

"The cemetery on our side of the blockade?" Ptolemus asks, clearing his throat. His voice comes out more strained than he'd like.

Gunnar shakes his head. "No, but the pond is."

That works. Ptolemus allows his friend to guide them toward one of their childhood hideouts. The pond isn't frozen over yet, so they take up one of their old passtimes, skipping stones across the water. Ptolemus's tend to have an edge to them that only comes from anger. Anger for Gale and his callous desire for revenge. Anger for a plan that might be their only option, but for what cost? And anger for Dalton lying to him.

Sage. Is Sage really alright?

His heart says no as one of his rocks sinks pathetically to the bottom after only one hop. That's when he recognizes another direction for his anger — himself.

An hour goes by. Maybe two. He's not entirely sure. But the methodical and monotonous motion of his wrist flicking what must be his thousandth stone is interrupted by a crackle. At first, he thinks it's coming from his ear, his heart leaping as his spine straightens. He waits, expecting to hear Sage's voice. But she isn't there, and the sound isn't coming from Boggs's ear piece.

Gunfire echoes against the mountains and just past the blockade. It's absolutely relentless — worse than a summer hailstorm. Ptolemus snaps his bewildered stare to Gunnar's painfully serious one.

"Sounds like someone's losing."

The two men rush from the pond, weaving through the pines to return to the quarry mill. When they arrive, half the troops are gone, and Katniss is suited up in her Mockingjay outfit, Cressida adjusting her pin. Meanwhile, Lyme resembles stone itself as she barks orders for the remaining men and women unwaveringly. Ptolemus spots Corbel not far away, readying an assault rifle, and he strides toward him quickly.

"What's happening?"

"We've instructed Marcellus to take the Square," Corbel says. He adjusts the rifle in his grasp, and it makes Ptolemus frown. He's seen the man wield every weapon, but this one feels strange. "That way we can control the train stations."

It isn't registering for him yet.

"Stations...?"

Corbel nods. "For the survivors."

Oh.

The rebels' heated attack takes another hour to push the Peacekeepers enough blocks to secure the Square, almost to the other end of Ravenna. Ptolemus struggles to listen to it. Instead, he just listens to what orders he's given, following who he's told and gripping his sword at his side well behind the enemy lines. It makes him feel ridiculous — like a child playing soldier while the real warriors fight and die. He stares at the mountain, checking to see if it's still standing every few minutes as the rebels claim the Square.

The bodies and wounded have been removed by the time Katniss and him arrive to the Justice Building. However, there wasn't enough time to wash the stains and splatters of blood. Ptolemus wonders who they belong to, rebel or Peacekeeper, and as they're climbing the stairs to the roof he blurts a name to Corbel. "Marcellus?"

He doesn't answer. He can't decide if it's because the older man doesn't know yet, the blockade still being held, or because he does know what's come of the other Victor.

There's machine guns on the roof. Ptolemus never realized there were machine guns on the roof of the Justice Building. He's very aware of them now though, perched beside one while the rest of them wait. When he glances over to Katniss, she's sullen and silent, flesh unnervingly pale even in the cold. She doesn't look at him. He tries to find the cemetery from this view point.

Another crackle shoots through Ptolemus's eardrum, and he jolts in his perch. He foolishly hopes for Sage's voice, but it never comes. Instead, the sound grows louder, drawing out into an ominious hum and whirring. Gunnar's gaze lifts to the sky, and Ptolemus's heart drops to his gut.

They watch as Thirteen's hovercrafts circle around The Nut like vultures. At first, they're ignored. But as they linger, they drop a round of bombings in the higher elevations of the mountain. They circle strategically with a cadence that can only be deadly. It's too late by the time the Capitol's weapons try to fire back, and it's certainly too late to second-guess whether the call has been made. He swallows the sour bile building in his throat as he can only helplessly stare.

He knew they had tried everything else. And yet, he wishes they had tried something else. His words from his Propo, his sword at his side, even his status and name in his home District feel useless now. Is this what war is?

The mountain lets out a low and eerie rumble. Shakes and trembles. As if awoken from an earthly slumber only to die, they hear its final roar. Chills run down Ptolemus's spine. And then they witness The Nut finally crack, splinter, cave and fall — burying his neighbors alive.

━━━━

She's not sure how she's made it to this point of the day, but she has. 

The autumn air is crisp and cool, drawing a chill to the patch of grass Sage sits on. Golden and auburn rays cast down on her softly as the sun begins to set. She rests against the yard's fence, legs loosely crossed in front of her. She should be tossing loads of laundry into washers and hanging others to dry, but thanks to Dalton, she's avoided her last chore of the day. A compromise she didn't necessarily want to take.

"I'm sorry. We can't make contact right now — not for that anyway. There's a lot going on over there and communication is strictly limited."

Dread whirls around in her chest, growing stronger and wider the more she imagines what's happening in those mountains. It threatens to swallow up her every breath, and she holds onto her wedding ring, as if to hold onto him. Maybe then her worst fears won't swallow him up either.

The mission's too active. Unnecessary communication is too risky. He's not even fighting — he's under the same protection as Katniss. He should be fine.

Sage wishes she could just hear him breathe.

She tilts her head against the fence, gazing up at the sky for a moment. For what? Maybe a sign... a pair of wings? The sky is empty. She tries to listen to the knowing of her intuition, but it's abandoned her, all that anxiety and terror louder than anything else inside her. In her lap, Dr. Metis's list remains folded and untouched, kept close like a secret she hasn't decided what to do with yet.

A burst of grunts and synchronized footsteps interrupts her internal search, and she straightens to follow the source.

The soldiers in this class are swift. Strong. Brutal. It's obvious with just one glance as half of them practice drills and the other half spars in hand to hand combat. One woman brings her partner to the ground with a particularly loud smack that makes Sage grimace, locking them into a position that would only mean death in real war. They're obviously one of the elite units, and as she watches their skilled precision, the feelings of weakness and fragility amplify inside her.

She wonders if she could fight like that, or something remotely like that. Maybe with enough practice. Time that she might not have to gather her strength if Two falls today. Her eyes trace their movements, and while her own body aches at the thought, she feels it again. The burning on her back, the burning through her veins, and the burning in her heart.

Lunch was almost normal. Almanzo and Shiloh's banter. Papa's chuckles. Mama and Coretta's eyerolls. She's been burning for that normalcy, and yet, she can't help but be reminded she's the reason why everything is not. So she burns more.

Purple from the drawing flashes across her memory. Erabelle didn't scowl when she explained it, and her tiny voice didn't waver either. It sounds like a pretty good plan. To fight. Then when it's all done and the war is won? Home.

Sage holds onto those words like a lifeline.

"¿Te importa si me uno?" a gentle voice asks.

Sage turns her head at their native tongue. Her mother lingers a few feet away, that quiet warmth to her gaze silencing all the chaos inside her. It's so sudden though, falling away with a jerk that produces an uncomfortable ache. Eventually, after staring too long, Sage nods and gently pats the grass beside her.

Mama carefully lowers herself, gripping the fence for balance during her descent. A huff escapes her once she finally plops down. She gives Sage a teasing look.

"Next time, can you sit on one of the benches?"

A soft hum strums Sage's vocal cords at that. "Maybe I'm trying to keep you agile."

"I'm agile," her mother asserts. "I just save it for special occassions. Like chasing you kids around."

Sage smiles bittersweetly. While Almanzo and Shiloh bickered about cheese this afternoon, they're usually reined in pretty well. With Zo being the oldest as well as a husband and father, he doesn't have much time to be running around. It was never in Shiloh's nature to be outwardly wild. It was Colt who needed the most taming. Loud, impulsive, and reckless Colt. Now, with him gone, it's just Sage and all her messes left.

Her mother always called her restless. So what might she call all this?

"Are you writing a letter?" Mama asks.

Sage stiffens, reaching for the paper in a vulnerable panic, then stopping herself. She veils herself with a false calm, gently but eagerly tucking Dr. Metis's list into the pocket of her jumpsuit. Her stare falls to the grass shamefully.

"Just some homework. From one of those classes they make you take, Nuclear History or... something."

"I see." She knows her mom doesn't buy it. "Have you heard from Ptolemus?"

His name plucks a heart string, it echoing throughout her chest achingly. Torturous images of all kind assault her mind. They range from him pacing with worry at her silence to him being shot at, bombed, bleeding, wounded... dying... Sage grimaces, reaching back for her wedding ring.

"Not yet. Dalton says they've started a mission or something, so we can't get through. He says he's probably fine..."

Her mother places a hand on her knee. It makes her jump even though it shouldn't. "He's alright. I'm sure of it."

Sage doesn't know if that's her mother's intuition, or just a mother's comfort. Again, when she calls upon her own inner voice, she's given nothing but the fearful whispers. She's about to sink into them when her mother clears her throat.

"What class do you think that is?"

Sage follows her mother's squint across the yard to the training soldiers. She hears the drill sergeant mention something about preparing their night vision goggles and scopes. They won't rest even when the sun sets. Neither will Sage — either pacing through the night in her room alone or screaming herself awake surely. There's that burning again.

"Not one for me."

Mama glances back at her. She feels the warmth of her gaze studying her features softly, and she knows she aches at what she sees. What she saw yesterday — scorched into her back. On the day she was rescued. The Games. Even the day they buried Colt beneath the pear tree. Sage swallows the bile down her throat bitterly, almost squirming.

"You've always been so hard on yourself," says Mama. Tears spring in Sage's eyes, burning and falling so fast it's too late to catch them even when she tries. "Colt would break a window and you'd cry like you did it. Or that time you hid in the pasture after school because you thought you'd ruined Abuela's new quilt."

Sage stifles the urge to remind her that she taunted Colt that he couldn't hit a pear off her head then ducked just as he threw, or that she did ruin Abuela's quilt, mistakening it for one of the old horse's blankets to lay on Sunshine in the cool evening. Her lip bottom lip quivers, and she presses them together to still it. The pressure in her chest is mounting.

Her mother gently reaches for hand. "Why do you hide from us?" she asks very quietly.

Sage blinks. Her chest rises. Her lips part, but she closes them again as her chest falls. When she takes in another breath —

"Because —" She chokes, the sob rushing out of her like horses out the gate. She does her best to force it back in. "I saw you. I heard you. I've seen and I've heard all of you hurt because — because of me. And with Colt," Sage cries harder when she says his name.

She can still hear her mother wailing and her brother sobbing in the barn. Then there was their heartbroken goodbyes on Reaping Day. "—And then me again," She's starting to hyperventilate now. "And again, and again, and ag—"

"Shh, Mija, Mija," her mother coos, reaching for her. "Shh..."

Sage concedes, falling into her like a little girl as she weeps. Mama smooths her hair softly with her gentle hands. Even now, there's no relief in her arms — only guilt. Because her family is tangled up in her pain. Again.

They sit like that for a minute. Maybe two. It feels too long, she's restless and wants to walk, run, ride on the back of Sunshine, but the tears keep falling and her horse is districts away. Slowly, her breathing returns to normal as she rests her head on her mother's shoulder, the sun setting into indigos.

Her mother's chest rises as she draws in a breath, still gently running her fingers through Sage's hair. "Our hurt is your hurt, yes? That's why you hide from us now?"

A quiet pause. Sage doesn't answer. Just listens.

Mama nods. "Well, I don't think that's the burden you think it is. I've never seen it that way. After all, I'm a mother. My children's hurt is my hurt too. Your hurt is my hurt too, Mija, do you understand?" She leans down, and her lips press a kiss into the crown of her head. "That's not a burden. That's love. And I'm so grateful to know that love."

Laying in her mother's arms and listening to her words, Sage is completely cracked open. It's raw, vulnerable, aching. Part of it feels like too much, and her lungs wheeze. When she inhales, the air is gentle and smooth. Her teary gaze carefully peeks up at her mother. She stares right back at her, the warmth in her eyes reaching into parts of herself she thought would never feel the sun again.

A breeze rustles the grass behind them, and a shadow shifts within the treeline. Sage turns to follow it, swallowing the bile and blinking away the last of her stinging tears. Her mother looks too.

The feathers glow bronze in the sun's glow, wings casted out across the burning horizon. It glides with a familiar grace, before eventually perching itself on the top of the yard's fence. Sage's chest freezes as she holds her breath. She hasn't seen a hawk since the morning of the Reaping, its shadow chasing hers across the pasture. Calling her to resist. To fight. To battle.

"Hm." Mama smiles softly, the corners of her eyes crinkling with all her other smiles. "We're protected."

She places another kiss to Sage's head, and she clings back to her. "You're protected, Mija."

The ember flickers in her chest again. Instead of hovering, guarding, or ignoring it altogether, Sage allows it some air, releasing her held breath to inhale softly. And she lets it burn.

━━━━

Gunnar practically drags Ptolemus off the roof and down the Justice Building stairs as they're instructed to seek shelter from potential counter-attacks. His feet stumble, and he knows his stupor has turned him into deadweight. He's never seen the earth break like that. Crashing and rolling like ocean waves while what's left coughs dark dust into the sky. How many ghosts rise with the debris, wandering between battlefields as they're deprived of bread for their journey? Ptolemus swears he can hear them screaming and clawing.

Katniss appears just as lost, her gray eyes seemingly watching a memory. When she plops silently in front of a marble column of the entrance hall, Ptolemus remembers what Gale said to her about their fathers. Now that he thinks of it, he's never seen any of her family besides Mrs. Everdeen and her infamous sister. Judging by the look on her face, it's clear hers was nothing like his.

While she sits, he can't, wandering through an entryway in search of some windows. Ptolemus finds himself staring at the cracked marble and soiled rugs, even noting a dining table that could've only belonged to Mayor Cicero and family.

Speaking of, are they dead too? Which side did they choose? It doesn't matter. Wherever they are, they aren't here. Ptolemus would've never imagined in his wildest dreams the place he and his sister were reaped along with all the other children he mentored would be the host of some rebel plans like it is now. It's a haunting kind of justice.

If that's what this can be called.

He peers through the dusty and cracked window out into the Square where a different army compared to the one on Reaping Day stakes its claim. He searches for the open train tunnels. Boggs confirms his hopes as he crouches beside Katniss.

"We didn't bomb the train tunnel, you know. Some of them will probably get out."

Some. Only some.

"And then we'll shoot them when they show their faces?" Katniss asks solemnly.

Ptolemus watches Boggs's face for anything that might resemble sick satisfaction or triumph. There is none. "Only if we have to."

"We could send in trains ourselves." Katniss shivers. "Help evacuate the wounded."

Ptolemus likes that idea. "If we start now, we could save more than some." He steps away from the haunting scene at the window and back toward the pillars. "Show them that we really want them on our side."

"No. It was decided to leave the tunnel in their hands. That way they can use all the tracks to bring people out," Boggs explains. "Besides, it will give us time to get the rest of our soldiers to the Square."

Speaking of, gunfire begins to pick up again in the distance, Peacekeepers fighting back to rescue their comrades. Neither Corbel nor Gunnar are anywhere in sight. Panic clenches his lungs to the point he almost wheezes, and Ptolemus hurries through the grand entrance and down the marble steps. Soldiers brush past him in all kinds of directions. Some toward the gunfire. Others around the tunnel. Even a few in the direction of camp where more prepare to join them.

"Gunnar!" No answer. He inhales too quickly, the air drying out the back of his throat and making his voice crack. "Soldier Kane!"

"Easy." A familiar hand grabs Ptolemus by the bicep, spinning him around. Corbel points just past his shoulder. "He's getting into position on the roof there. For when the trains come in."

He follows the direction of his wrinkled finger. Sure enough, on the roof top of an old grocer, a familiar face adjusts the scope of his sniper rifle. He's never seen Gunnar so serious. He isn't the only one, several other snipers lining themselves strategically across various shop rooftops.

"Great shooter. Horrible swordsman," Corbel comments, his voice with a surprising air of humor to it.

Ptolemus studies the arrangements a second time as he evaluates for threats or danger, but it seems like this might be the safest position for his friend in the middle of this battle. His lips form a tight line, and he adjusts his grip on his sword. Then he notes Corbel has his helmet on.

"You look like you're going somewhere," he states, sweeping his stare across the older man.

Corbel nods. "Can't demand them to fight and not fight with them."

He knows he didn't mean it that way, but Ptolemus is only reminded of his speech. Of what he asked of everyone in District Two. To stand up for themselves — to fight. And what is he doing for them now?

"What can I do?"

He sounds like a teary little boy. It makes him feel even more stupid, especially in front of District Two's eldest Victor who still is marching into battle. Blood-pressure problems and all.

The corners of Corbel's lips tug upward into something that can only be a smile. Ptolemus has never seen him smile. As if the gunfire is stunned by this unusual phenomenon, it grows silent for Corbel to speak.

"You've done more than you realize." Another squeeze to his bicep, and he juts his chin toward the waiting tunnels. "They're going to be scared. Now just give them a familiar face."

Ptolemus isn't sure that he believes him. The gunfire picks up again, and Corbel changes his grip to his hulking rifle. Unease builds, seeping and nagging in his gut, similiar to when he asked about Marcellus. So he disguises another question as a command as he cements the older man into memory.

"Come back with your shield?"

Corbel grins with pride. He nods, turning toward the ensuing battle. "Or on it."

Ptolemus stares until his back disappears into the crowd of soldiers and the Ravenna streets. His chest is heaving, and for whatever reason, it doesn't feel like he can inhale enough air into his lungs. His gaze drifts toward the broken mountain looming again. It offers no consolation, and Ptolemus hangs his head, feet dragging as he returns to the Justice Building. Katniss sits in the doorway now, a blanket draped around her frame.

He drops beside her, and she allows it. There's still that shell-shocked look to her eye. Hollow and haunted. He's not sure she wants to hear it, but he says it anyway.

"I'm sorry about your father."

Ptolemus thinks she flinches, maybe because she wasn't expecting it, or at least not from him -- someone who she's never shared those kind of ghosts with, but it's so subtle he can't tell. Eventually, she nods, still staring ahead.

"I'm sorry for your people."

Yeah. He is too.

He clears his throat in response, the bile building again, then ducks his head in defeat. Neither of them say anything else. What is there to say anyway? Instead, both of them just stare at the chaos in their wake through sunset and when the sky darkens into black. At some point, Katniss drapes the blanket on both of their laps quietly.

Ptolemus watches for Marcellus or Corbel's faces in the wounded that retreat from the front line. Checks on Gunnar, who remains in position for a kill shot on the grocer's roof where Ptolemus would buy spices and produce for his recipes. Even eyes an alley that could take him to his sister, but knows he'd never make it.

He really wishes she were here now. Maybe she'd be braver than him, smarter than him, actually able to help everyone here like how she always seemed to help him. God, she would be so good at this.

More time passes, and the darkness seems to last forever. Ptolemus's knuckles are freezing, but his ring remains warm to the touch. Not a sound comes from Boggs's earpiece. He tries to remind himself that it's probably because she's asleep right now, hopefully peacefully and safely tucked into their bed. It's past midnight here. Certainly it's three or four in the morning for her.

None of these thoughts remedy his dread. In fact, it develops into a cancerous ache, spreading through all his systems and threatening to shut him down even more as he despairs.

Ptolemus can't seem to help Sage either.

Blinking away stinging tears, he checks on Gunnar again. While it's harder to see him in the dark with his black uniform, he makes out a lanky shadow, and he knows he hasn't gone anywhere from his post. The train station remains empty as the hours pass, bright spotlights illuminating the Square, and Ptolemus wonders if there's simply no survivors. Have they slaughtered them all? Suffocated, crushed, and burned every last one of them?

Cressida comes shortly after to attach a special microphone to Katniss's costume.

"What's this for?" Katniss asks.

Ptolemus jumps when he hears Haymitch's voice despite the man being nowhere in sight. It's coming from Katniss's headset, slightly muffled, but he's close enough to make out what he says. "I know you're not going to like this, but we need you to make a speech."

Katniss grows green. "A speech?"

Haymitch assures here he'll run her through it line by line. All she has to do is repeat what he says. The hope is with the proof that the Nut has been defeated and the Capitol's presence in Two is no more, the other forces might surrender. The microphone is to broadcast her voice through their emergency audio system and to Panem's screens. Apparently, Ptolemus's voice is included in that plan, because Cressida surprises him when she pins another microphone to the collar of his uniform.

"What am I supposed to do?" he asks nervously.

"It's your hometown." Haymitch says. "Use it."

His hometown that he helped bomb.

That doesn't matter. Both of them are positioned on the Justice Building steps, bright lights boring down on them to the point it's almost blinding. Cressida's crew positions their cameras out in the Square, and he and Katniss are projected onto the screens they'd use for Reaping Day. Ptolemus's throat runs dry as he peers toward the train station again.

It's then that he notices a hawk perched quietly on the roof. The sight of it disturbs him, particularly because it's the dead of night, and hawks are diurnal. Sage taught him that. She also taught him something else. That they symbolize... protection? Something along those lines. He stares at it for a little longer, and that's when it turns its head, sharp eyes staring right back into his.

Katniss's voice echoes through the speakers. "People of District Two, this is Katniss Everdeen speaking to you from the steps of your Justice Building, where —"

The hawk stretches its wings and takes flight at the screeching of trains, two finally rolling into the train station side by side. Doors slide open, black smoke billows, and bodies scramble and scatter out. Some of them flatten to the ground, and several pops erupt through the air and shatter the lights of the station. The bullets are coming from them. So are the moans and grunts of agony. Ptolemus tries to count how many shadows there are. One of the trains catches fire, and the survivors have no choice but to push out to the Square, waving their guns with defiance.

They're ready to fight. They're ready to die trying. They have no plans to surrender, and Ptolemus can't help but curse that stupid saying their Academy pounds into their skulls.

Come back with your shield.

Moonlight shines along the barrels of snipers aimed for everyone of them. Despair fills him.

Or on it...

A young man stumbles out from the station, one hand holding his bloodied cheek and the other dragging a gun. He trips and falls to his face, scorch marks and red angry flesh all along his back. Katniss flies from the steps toward him. "Stop!"

"Everdeen! Soldier Everdeen!" Boggs screams.

Unfrozen, Ptolemus stumbles down too, and he suddenly remembers his sword at his side again. "I've got her."

That doesn't seem to make Boggs happy either, because now he's screaming at both of them. "Soldier Pierce!"

"Hold your fire!" Katniss yells, her voice booming through the Square again. "Stop!"

Ptolemus catches up to her the same time that she reaches to pull the wounded man up. He lets her. And then he trains the gun to Katniss's head.

His sword is aimed toward the man's throat within a second. It doesn't matter though, because a bullet will always be faster. Nonetheless, Ptolemus doesn't lower it, heart pounding in his skull. While his glare is piercing, there's also a sense of horror to it, the man's finger hovering over the trigger. His skin grows cold and clammy, the weight of other Loyalists' sights cornering him in their crosshairs. Somehow, their pressure holds more weight than the Hunger Games ever did.

Is this it? Is this how they die?

The man is a gorish sight. Bloodied hole in his face. The stench of burnt flesh, fuel, and hair radiating from him. He's so young, but his eyes are crazed with pain and fear. When he speaks, it's difficult to understand him, and Ptolemus can see his molars with each word. "Give me one reason I shouldn't shoot you."

Ptolemus doesn't breathe nor move. In fact, no one does. Katniss only blinks.

"I can't."

Fuck.

He braces for the twitch of the man's trigger finger. Prepares to land a blow with his sword hopefully before he can. But nothing happens. Instead, her words seem to puzzle him as he blinks back at her. Katniss appears just as surprised at her honest admission.

"I can't. That's the problem, isn't it?" she breathes.

"We blew up your mine. You burned my district to the ground. We've got every reason to kill each other. So do it."

Katniss sneers bitterly, but not at him. At Snow. "Make the Capitol happy. I'm done killing their slaves for them."

Her bow clatters to the ground. Slowly, she nudges it away with her boot. Ptolemus only tightens his grasp on his sword. He might appreciate her speech more if she didn't have a gun trained to her head, or if the blood rushing to his ears wasn't so deafening.

"I'm not their slave," the man mutters.

"I am," admits Katniss. "That's why I killed Cato... and he killed Thresh... and he killed Clove... and she tried to kill me. It just goes around and around, and who wins? Not us. Not the districts. Always the Capitol. But I'm tired of being a piece in their Games."

A pause. Ptolemus watches the man, but he's only listening. Katniss continues.

"When I saw that mountain fall tonight, I thought... they've done it again. Got me to kill you — the people in the districts. But why did I do it? District Twelve and District Two have no fight except the one the Capitol gave us." Her voice drops, low and urgent. "And why are you fighting with the rebels on the rooftops? With Lyme —"

The man flinches when Katniss gestures toward Ptolemus. She stares at his sword pointed for his throat, and offers a nod so faint he isn't sure if he saw it. "And Ptolemus, who were your Victors? Who only want to save you from them? Or with people who were your neighbors, maybe even your family?"

Maybe he should drop the sword for effect. In the same way she let her bow fall to the ground. He doesn't truly want to fight these people. Just look at what they've done to them. Ptolemus remembers how they're already at a disadvantage though, bullets faster than blades.

Katniss's eyes flicker between him and his sword again, silently pleading. Slowly, he allows it fall to his side. The man watches in bewilderment. Ptolemus holds his gaze, nodding softly as if not to spook him.

His stare lingers on Ptolemus a little while longer. There's tears in his eyes. Yet, his gun remains trained on Katniss when he answers, voice breaking slightly. "I don't know."

She turns slowly in a circle, ignoring the pistol at her temple to address the machine guns and snipers above. "And you up there? I come from a mining town. Since when do miners condemn other miners to that kind of death, and then stand by to kill whoever manages to crawl from the rubble?"

"These people—" Katniss gestures toward the wounded bodies on the Square, "Are not your enemy!" She faces the train station again. "The rebels are not your enemy! We all have one enemy, and it's the Capitol! This is our chance to put an end to their power, but we need every district person to do it!"

Goosebumps blossom across Ptolemus's flesh as he listens to her. There's no way no one else can't feel that. That revolutionizing sensation that awakens your bones and calls to your heart. Katniss extends her hand to the man, to the wounded, to anyone else who might be too afraid to take it.

"Please! Join us!"

Her words hang in the air, waiting to be caught. The man before them lowers his gun and drops to his knees. It seems she's done it again.

Until a bullet zips past Ptolemus's side and into Katniss's ribs.

She cries out, the impact sending her staggering onto her back against the pavement. Ptolemus lurches forward quickly as a sniper fires back at the shooter. All hell breaks loose. Katniss's chest heaves, and she grimaces in pain, eyes wild and terrified. There's no blood yet. Within a second, he's bearing over her.

"Hey, hey I got you, I got you." Ptolemus throws her arm over his shoulder as peers up at him with sheer panic. "Grab onto me, alright?"

Katniss can't answer, still groaning and wheezing, but she does hold on. Ptolemus scoops her up, his back still to the train station and shielding her. More shots fire, and he can't tell if it's from the same shooter or if they've all said to hell with her speech. He stupidly glances over his shoulder, and sure enough, a pistol gleams for him.

Just when he starts to run, two shots echo, and something fiery hot sparks across the left side of his head in a jolting slice. He staggers from its impact, stumbling yet managing to remain on his feet. Then the heat falls down his temple to his neck in a sticky thick sheet. Nonetheless, Ptolemus keeps running, peering up at the rooftops as he repeats the words "You're okay," over and over again. He's not sure if they're for Katniss or himself. He spots Gunnar reloading, and he decides not to look behind him again.

Somehow, he manages to get Katniss back to the Justice Building, where Boggs and other frantic rebels wait for them. There's already a stretcher, and one of the medics instructs him to lay her there. She's flushed and gasping for air, dizzy eyes unfocused. The blood on her shoulder confuses and concerns him all at once. Didn't the bullet get her in the ribs?

"She's bleeding," Ptolemus warns, struggling to maintain his balance. Must be the adrenaline.

"No, that's yours," says Boggs. The burning turns searing when the man presses a gauze to the side of his head. "Sit down. Looks like a graze."

Ptolemus frowns, and that hurts. Nonetheless, he doesn't argue, dropping into a crouch against one of the marble walls. Boggs gestures for him to hold the gauze, so he does. More of the sticky and warm substance stains his head, and when he peers at his palm, sure enough, it's blood. He leans heavier against the wall, the burning turning into an obnoxious pulsing.

Shot. Ptolemus almost got shot. Or he was shot — grazed, hit just enough to hurt and bleed but not enough to die.

Mr. Kane did the right thing naming his son Gunnar.

Boggs leaves him to bark more orders, the urgency to his voice making his heart race even more. Medics, evacuate, hovercraft, sniper sweeps — it all starts to blur together. Maybe five minutes later, the wind from propellers floods the Square and blows at debris, the whirring of a hovercraft deafening. He's ushered to stand by another medic, and a human shield of soldiers forms around him. Ptolemus chances another glance to Katniss before she's blocked from his view by her own bodyguards. Still breathing. Thank God.

It's as they're hurried to the hovercraft that Ptolemus realizes they're not just evacuating Ravenna. They're evacuating Two — returning to Thirteen. He snaps his head upward to the rooftops again.

"GUNNAR!"

He's already looking at him. His best friend stands and salutes him with three fingers. Before Ptolemus loses sight of him, being pushed onto the hovercraft at this point, Gunnar gives him one more crooked grin for the road. Although this time, he seems a little cocky.

Ptolemus doesn't take his eyes off Gunnar until the doors shut. He doesn't thank him. Not now. Instead, he'll save it for later.

After all, now that Two has risen — not fallen — with the other districts, there has to be a later, right?

━━━━

»»————-　♡　————-««

Heyyyyy....

How yall doin???

It's been 51 weeks since I updated (not a year so yay!!!) I'm so sorry for the drought, it was not on purpose, but damn Mockingjay is depressing. Last summer I was just in such high spirits coming back to this world felt so heavy, then in the fall I was super busy, and winter I was still struggling. But here I am! I did it!!! 11k words later!

Sorry I'm a little rusty. I'm hoping it's not noticeable lol.

But thoughts, opinions, reactions??? I love love hearing from you and I've missed Tolly and Sage so much. Please don't be afraid to comment, I enjoy reading them. Favorite parts? I've been planning those hawk scenes and Gunnar saving Tolly for 5ever.

Also, I've decided the official casting will just have to be Dylan O'Brien as Gunnar Kane. I was trying to come up with someone more unknown but every time I wrote that crooked grin I saw Dylan.

Look at that rebel!!

Alright, well, I hope you enjoyed. Feel free to comment (please don't yell at me I'm sorry!!!!!! 💜✨) next chapter you know Sage is gonna be worried sick for her man! Let's hope it's not another 51 weeks until then (im joking i promise)

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