ghosts that we knew: A mockingjay fanfiction

Chapter 14

finnick pov

"Glad to see you've got your appetite back, Everdeen."

From behind her mountain of food, Katniss glares up at me and sneers, "Shut up. I'm feeding for two."

"Looks more like two hundred to me," I retort. She snorts and returns back to shoveling the slop into her mouth.

Thirteen's food is by no means edible, but the blatant favoritism toward us Victors and our portions indicates that Thirteen feels as though we should be well-fed. Our meal sizes compared to those around us in the cafeteria irks me beyond comprehensible belief and forces me to eat all of it so that it is not put to waste. I should be used to the amenities of a Victor by now, but something about the continued investment in me and my stature, despite my displacement from the Capitol, is still unsettling.

In her return from her brief hunger strike, brought on by her stress and pregnancy, I presume, Katniss doesn't seem to mind the special attention. Not in the secluded cafeteria, at least. There was no mistaking her uncomfortable shuffling, however, as she stood in Control today, watching as the film crew, her former stylists, Coin, Plutarch, Haymitch, and even Gale gushed over the propo. They're gung-ho for the damn thing, and it has played at least twenty times everywhere in Panem. Everywhere except for in the Capitol.

"Propo looked good. Really good," I offer. She smiles faintly.

"Thanks, Finnick. I just wish...I wish they could have edited some of the gore out of it."

"It's only there to get people in the Districts riled up."

"Still," Katniss presses, "it's a bit insensitive. No one seems to acknowledge all of the death that went into making that minute-long clip."

She tentatively shoves another forkful of questionable solids into her mouth before she mutters, "Coin didn't even seem to mind the fact that I could have died out there, too. None of the death seems to matter, so long as they get their precious propos."

I can sense the discontent brimming and bubbling underneath her carefully chosen words, spoken so softly that I know they are meant for my ears only, but with so much intensity that I know that if she ventures one decibel louder, she'll have the cafeteria in shambles. In an attempt to curb her rage, I reach across the table and take the utensils from her hands, so that she won't use them to inflict any harm against herself or anyone in the room in a fit of rage. This causes her to chuckle gently.

"I get it. I have to be careful," she tells me. "Sorry about the mood swings."

"They're pretty difficult to distinguish from your usual personality," I tease, poking the silverware in her direction and bringing forth another chuckle as she swipes her fork back.

The cafeteria is suddenly silent, minus the occasional gasp or sigh of affection, as the screens of the room fill with the insignia of the Mockingjay and the propo begins playing all over the nation once again.

Katniss watches listlessly, eyes blank. She openly cringes at the sight of the various gory deaths, dramatically enhanced and digitally remastered to make reliving them even more of a horror.

"Do you think Snow has seen it yet?" she asks finally, shoving her still-full plate aside, disgusted with the alter-ego onscreen who shrieks about burning down the nation.

I dig into her plate, still not wanting the food to go to waste in front of the meager dishes of Thirteen's citizens scattered around us. "I'm not sure, but even if he hasn't, he has to have at least heard of it."

"I wonder how he plans on responding to it," she states to no one in particular, still clinging to her fork.

I barely have room to reply, because moments later, Snow's retaliation taps into the broadcast and replaces Katniss' face with Peeta Mellark's.