Fluid Heart, Firey Soul (Peeta Mellark x Reader)

Chapter 30 - The Final Stop

The man's body had only just hit the ground when a blockade of white-clad Peacekeepers quickly shield our view, several of them holding guns lengthwise as they push Peeta back through the door and into the building.

"We're going!" Peeta shouts at them, taking a few steps back and helping me off the ground where I'm still frozen in shock. "We understand, alright? Let's go, (Y/N)." His arm wraps around my shoulders as he guides me towards the entrance of the Justice Building. The moment we're inside, the heavy doors slam shut behind us with a resounding thud. The sound of a lock clicking echoes through the now-silent room. I can hear the loud footsteps of the Peacekeepers moving back towards the crowd. Shouts and screams mix into an indistinguishable cacophony.

Effie rushes over, her heels clicking against the marble floor. "What on earth happened?" Effie exclaims. "We lost the feed after (Y/N)'s speech, and then Haymitch said he thought he heard a gun fire. I told him it was ridiculous. I mean, a gun? But who knows? There are crazy people everywhere!"

"Nothing happened, Effie, don't worry," Peeta reassures her. "Just an old truck backfired."

Two more shots ring out, loud and jarring. The door does little to muffle the sound. To Effie, these shots mean nothing but to us, it means two more have just been killed. But who? Thresh's grandmother? One of Rue's sisters?

"Both of you. With me. Now," Haymitch mutters urgently, grabbing our arms and practically dragging us behind him. The Peacekeepers inside the building pay us no attention now that we're safe inside the building. We follow Haymitch up a curved marble staircase. At the top, we enter a long hall with worn carpet underfoot. As we make our way through a grand set of double doors, I can't help but take in its grandeur. The ceiling towers at least twenty feet above us, adorned with intricate designs of crops carved into the molding. Against one wall, racks hold our evening clothes, waiting for us to prepare for the night's events. But we're barely given a chance to set down our gifts before Haymitch yanks off our microphones and shoves them beneath a couch cushion.

With a flick of his hand, he beckons us to follow him through a maze of twisting staircases and narrow hallways. As we wind our way through the corridors, I can't help but wonder how Haymitch remembers the layout so effortlessly, having only been here once decades ago for his own Victory Tour. He either has an incredible memory or incredible instincts. Eventually, we reach a rickety ladder that leads to a trapdoor. As we climb through, we find ourselves standing in the dome of the Justice Building. The room is vast, filled with broken furniture and piles of tattered books. It's clear that nobody has set foot up here in years, as a thick layer of dust coats everything. Thin streams of light filter through the grimy square windows scattered throughout the dome, casting dim shadows across the room. Haymitch kicks the trapdoor shut behind us before turning on us. "What happened?" He demands.

Peeta recounts every detail— his generous donation of money, my speech, the whistle, the salute, going back for the flowers, the murder of an innocent old man. "What's going on, Haymitch?"

"I think it'll be better coming from you, (Y/N)," Haymitch replies, giving me a knowing look. I feel guilty as my eyes lock onto Peeta's. He wants me to deliver the news, but I know it'll be a hundred times worse coming from me. Despite my reluctance, I tell Peeta everything. About President Snow's threats, about the potential uprisings in the districts, and about how the entire country is at risk because of those stupid berries.

"I was supposed to fix everything on this tour," I confess. "Convince everyone that our actions with the berries were an act of love. But instead, all I've done is get three people killed and now everyone in the square is going to be punished because of me." I feel sick and have to take a seat on a dilapidated couch, its springs creaking under my weight.