ghosts that we knew: A mockingjay fanfiction

chapter 7

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 7

Gale

"Morning, Gale. Morning, Mockingjay!" Plutarch's voice raises three octaves and he tests the waters with Katniss' new nickname as we enter the Control Room. Her eyes send him daggers, she grumbles a weak response, and picks up the sheath of arrows and bow that Beetee specially designed for her propos. She begins absentmindedly running her fingers over the sleek black metal, paying attention to no one. Normally a morning person, Katniss is in rare form this particular morning.

I recall standing outside of her door for twenty minutes earlier as she emptied her stomach's contents and Prim distracted me with stories of Buttercup. I suddenly piece together why her countenance is less than cheery to be filming at the crack of dawn and mirror her grimace. The morning sickness should have ended with her first trimester, but the medication to ensure that the baby remains healthy despite the injuries sustained by Katniss in the arena have altered her system drastically.

Plutarch simply smiles. He's happier than Posy would be when I brought her on surprise trips to the candy shop back in Twelve. His attitude has made a complete turnaround, and he's almost too cheery to be in close proximity to.

Heavensbee is not the only one who has made an attitude readjustment. Since viewing Peeta's interview with Caesar-an interview which she was technically not allowed to see due to further jeopardizing the Mockingjay's mentality, according to Coin-Katniss has taken on the persona of a martyr, willing to die for the cause of whatever it is that Peeta Mellark's short moment onscreen has ignited in her. It bothers me, but at least she has finally complied with Coin in order to keep us all safe.

Standing beside Plutarch and fiddling with a notepad is a woman who Plutarch introduces to us as Fulvia Cardew. A former Capitol citizen, as indicated by the silvery flower petals tattooed to her pale skin, she is a rebel who is familiar with press and advertising and will be in charge of directing Katniss' propos. Her voice is tinny and she all but whines at Plutarch to get the show on the road before Plutarch holds up a meaty finger.

"Just a minute, I've got something for our special girl," he says while winking at Katniss, which evokes a quizzical crinkle of Katniss' nose. He rushes over to the supply closet on the opposite side of the room and whips out a large box. Grinning dopily, he slides the box across the table, past Fulvia and myself, and it just barely collides with Katniss' bump. I am about to call the man out on his insanity when he cocks his head in Katniss' direction, an all-knowing look in his eye that I am supposed to, and helplessly fail to, catch on to.

I stare intently at the otherwise ordinary box, as does Katniss. Together, our eyes flit to the center of the box as something catches in the light. There is a golden emblem etched into the white box's cover, and Katniss nearly tips over as she gasps in recognition. Her eyes welling with a fresh batch of tears, she hurls the cover of the box over her shoulder and lifts up a small piece of paper.

"To the Girl on Fire: I'll never stop betting on you. Love, C," Katniss reads aloud shakily. She continues to tear through the box's contents to find several suits of armor. I have to stifle a sharp intake of breath myself upon seeing how intricate, regal, and intimidating all of the costumes are. These were designed for a warrior, and not just any warrior. Katniss stretches out the elastic abdomen of one of the suits and smirks to herself as her hand finds its way to her child. That stylist must have been one incredibly smart man.

How Cinna was killed, nobody truly knows. When Snow broadcast Cinna's image along with a sardonic eulogy to the nation, I thought he had disappeared forever. I gaze at the armor in Katniss' hands and realize that Cinna, regardless of whether or not he knew of his fate going into the rebellion, had other plans.