Mocking Jay

"That doesn't seem very fair to the deer," I say.
"Wouldn't be using it on deer, would I?" he answers.
"I'll be right back," says Beetee. He presses a code into a panel, and a small doorway opens. I watch until
he's disappeared and the door's shut.
"So, it'd be easy for you? Using that on people?" I ask.
"I didn't say that." Gale drops the bow to his side. "But if I'd had a weapon that could've stopped what I saw
happen in Twelve...if I'd had a weapon that could have kept you out of the arena...I'd have used it."
"Me, too," I admit. But I don't know what to tell him about the aftermath of killing a person. About how they
never leave you.
Beetee wheels back in with a tall, black rectangular case awkwardly positioned between his footrest and
his shoulder. He comes to a halt and tilts it toward me. "For you."
I set the case flat on the floor and undo the latches along one side. The top opens on silent hinges. Inside
the case, on a bed of crushed maroon velvet, lies a stunning black bow. "Oh," I whisper in admiration. I lift it
carefully into the air to admire the exquisite balance, the elegant design, and the curve of the limbs that somehow
suggests the wings of a bird extended in flight. There's something else. I have to hold very still to make sure I'm
not imagining it. No, the bow is alive in my hands. I press it against my cheek and feel the slight hum travel
through the bones of my face. "What's it doing?" I ask.
"Saying hello," explains Beetee with a grin. "It heard your voice."
"It recognizes my voice?" I ask.
"Only your voice," he tells me. "You see, they wanted me to design a bow based purely on looks. As part of
your costume, you know? But I kept thinking, What a waste. I mean, what if you do need it sometime? As more
than a fashion accessory? So I left the outside simple, and left the inside to my imagination. Best explained in
practice, though. Want to try those out?"
We do. A target range has already been prepared for us. The arrows that Beetee designed are no less
remarkable than the bow. Between the two, I can shoot with accuracy over one hundred yards. The variety of
arrows--razor sharp, incendiary, explosive--turn the bow into a multipurpose weapon. Each one is recognizable
by a distinctive colored shaft. I have the option of voice override at any time, but have no idea why I would use it.
To deactivate the bow's special properties, I need only tell it "Good night." Then it goes to sleep until the sound of
my voice wakes it again.
I'm in good spirits by the time I get back to the prep team, leaving Beetee and Gale behind. I sit patiently
through the rest of the paint job and don my costume, which now includes a bloody bandage over the scar on my
arm to indicate I've been in recent combat. Venia affixes my mockingjay pin over my heart. I take up my bow and
the sheath of normal arrows that Beetee made, knowing they would never let me walk around with the loaded
ones. Then we're out on the soundstage, where I seem to stand for hours while they adjust makeup and lighting
and smoke levels. Eventually, the commands coming via intercom from the invisible people in the mysterious
glassed-in booth become fewer and fewer. Fulvia and Plutarch spend more time studying and less time
adjusting me. Finally, there's quiet on the set. For a full five minutes I am simply considered. Then Plutarch says,
"I think that does it."
I'm beckoned over to a monitor. They play back the last few minutes of taping and I watch the woman on the
screen. Her body seems larger in stature, more imposing than mine. Her face smudged but sexy. Her brows
black and drawn in an angle of defiance. Wisps of smoke--suggesting she has either just been extinguished or
is about to burst into flames--rise from her clothes. I do not know who this person is.
Finnick, who's been wandering around the set for a few hours, comes up behind me and says with a hint of
his old humor, "They'll either want to kill you, kiss you, or be you."
Everyone's so excited, so pleased with their work. It's nearly time to break for dinner, but they insist we
continue. Tomorrow we'll focus on speeches and interviews and have me pretend to be in rebel battles. Today
they want just one slogan, just one line that they can work into a short propo to show to Coin.
"People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice!" That's the line. I can tell by the way
they present it that they've spent months, maybe years, working it out and are really proud of it. It seems like a
mouthful to me, though. And stiff. I can't imagine actually saying it in real life--unless I was using a Capitol accent
and making fun of it. Like when Gale and I used to imitate Effie Trinket's "May the odds be ever in your favor!"
But Fulvia's right in my face, describing a battle I've just been in, and how my comrades-in-arms are all lying
dead around me, and how, to rally the living, I must turn to the camera and shout out the line!