Mocking Jay

feeling that if it's too simple, I must be missing the point. I'm within a couple of buildings from my goal when
things begin to heat up. A half dozen Peacekeepers come charging around the corner. They will outgun me, but I
notice something. A drum of gasoline lying carelessly in the gutter. This is it. My test. To perceive that blowing up
the drum will be the only way to achieve my mission. Just as I step out to do it, my squadron leader, who's been
fairly useless up to this point, quietly orders me to hit the ground. Every instinct I have screams for me to ignore
the voice, to pull the trigger, to blow the Peacekeepers sky-high. And suddenly, I realize what the military will think
my biggest weakness is. From my first moment in the Games, when I ran for that orange backpack, to the
firefight in 8, to my impulsive race across the square in 2. I cannot take orders.
I smack into the ground so hard and fast, I'll be picking gravel out of my chin for a week. Someone else
blows the gas tank. The Peacekeepers die. I make my rendezvous point. When I exit the Block on the far side, a
soldier congratulates me, stamps my hand with squad number 451, and tells me to report to Command. Almost
giddy with success, I run through the halls, skidding around corners, bounding down the steps because the
elevator's too slow. I bang into the room before the oddity of the situation dawns on me. I shouldn't be in
Command; I should be getting my hair buzzed. The people around the table aren't freshly minted soldiers but the
ones calling the shots.
Boggs smiles and shakes his head when he sees me. "Let's see it." Unsure now, I hold out my stamped
hand. "You're with me. It's a special unit of sharpshooters. Join your squad." He nods over at a group lining the
wall. Gale. Finnick. Five others I don't know. My squad. I'm not only in, I get to work under Boggs. With my friends.
I force myself to take calm, soldierly steps to join them, instead of jumping up and down.
We must be important, too, because we're in Command, and it has nothing to do with a certain Mockingjay.
Plutarch stands over a wide, flat panel in the center of the table. He's explaining something about the nature of
what we will encounter in the Capitol. I'm thinking this is a terrible presentation--because even on tiptoe I can't
see what's on the panel--until he hits a button. A holographic image of a block of the Capitol projects into the air.
"This, for example, is the area surrounding one of the Peacekeepers' barracks. Not unimportant, but not
the most crucial of targets, and yet look." Plutarch enters some sort of code on a keyboard, and lights begin to
flash. They're in an assortment of colors and blink at different speeds. "Each light is called a pod. It represents a
different obstacle, the nature of which could be anything from a bomb to a band of mutts. Make no mistake,
whatever it contains is designed to either trap or kill you. Some have been in place since the Dark Days, others
developed over the years. To be honest, I created a fair number myself. This program, which one of our people
absconded with when we left the Capitol, is our most recent information. They don't know we have it. But even
so, it's likely that new pods have been activated in the last few months. This is what you will face."
I'm unaware that my feet are moving to the table until I'm inches from the holograph. My hand reaches in
and cups a rapidly blinking green light.
Someone joins me, his body tense. Finnick, of course. Because only a victor would see what I see so
immediately. The arena. Laced with pods controlled by Gamemakers. Finnick's fingers caress a steady red glow
over a doorway. "Ladies and gentlemen..."
His voice is quiet, but mine rings through the room. "Let the Seventy-sixth Hunger Games begin!"
I laugh. Quickly. Before anyone has time to register what lies beneath the words I have just uttered. Before
eyebrows are raised, objections are uttered, two and two are put together, and the solution is that I should be
kept as far away from the Capitol as possible. Because an angry, independently thinking victor with a layer of
psychological scar tissue too thick to penetrate is maybe the last person you want on your squad.
"I don't even know why you bothered to put Finnick and me through training, Plutarch," I say.
"Yeah, we're already the two best-equipped soldiers you have," Finnick adds cockily.
"Do not think that fact escapes me," he says with an impatient wave. "Now back in line, Soldiers Odair and
Everdeen. I have a presentation to finish."
We retreat to our places, ignoring the questioning looks thrown our way. I adopt an attitude of extreme
concentration as Plutarch continues, nodding my head here and there, shifting my position to get a better view,
all the while telling myself to hang on until I can get to the woods and scream. Or curse. Or cry. Or maybe all three
at once.
If this was a test, Finnick and I both pass it. When Plutarch finishes and the meeting's adjourned, I have a
bad moment when I learn there's a special order for me. But it's merely that I skip the military haircut because
they would like the Mockingjay to look as much like the girl in the arena as possible at the anticipated surrender.
For the cameras, you know. I shrug to communicate that my hair length's a matter of complete indifference to me.
They dismiss me without further comment.