"I better go tell Plutarch. He won't be happy," Haymitch continues. "He wants as many victors as possible for the cameras to follow in the Capitol. Thinks it makes for better television."
"Are you and Beetee going?" I ask.
"As many young and attractive victors as possible," Haymitch corrects himself. "So, no. We'll be here."
Finnick goes directly down to see Johanna, but I linger outside a few minutes until Boggs comes out. He's my commander now, so I guess he's the one to ask for any special favors. When I tell him what I want to do, he writes me a pass so that I can go to the woods during Reflection, provided I stay within sight of the guards. I run to my compartment, thinking to use the parachute, but it's so full of ugly memories. Instead, I go across the hall and take one of the white cotton bandages I brought from 12. Square. Sturdy. Just the thing.
In the woods, I find a pine tree and strip handfuls of fragrant needles from the boughs. After making a neat pile in the middle of the bandage, I gather up the sides, give them a twist, and tie them tightly with a length of vine, making an apple-sized bundle.
At the hospital room door, I watch Johanna for a moment, realize that most of her ferocity is in her abrasive attitude. Stripped of that, as she is now, there's only a slight young woman, her wide-set eyes fighting to stay awake against the power of the drugs. Terrified of what sleep will bring. I cross to her and hold out the bundle.
"What's that?" she says hoarsely. Damp edges of her hair form little spikes over her forehead.
"I made it for you. Something to put in your drawer." I place it in her hands. "Smell it."
She lifts the bundle to her nose and takes a tentative sniff. "Smells like home." Tears flood her eyes.
"That's what I was hoping. You being from Seven and all," I say. "Remember when we met? You were a tree. Well, briefly."
Suddenly, she has my wrist in an iron grip. "You have to kill him, Katniss."
"Don't worry." I resist the temptation to wrench my arm free.
"Swear it. On something you care about," she hisses.
"I swear it. On my life." But she doesn't let go of my arm.
"On your family's life," she insists.
"On my family's life," I repeat. I guess my concern for my own survival isn't compelling enough. She lets go and I rub my wrist. "Why do you think I'm going, anyway, brainless?"
That makes her smile a little. "I just needed to hear it." She presses the bundle of pine needles to her nose and closes her eyes.
The remaining days go by in a whirl. After a brief workout each morning, my squad's on the shooting range full-time in training. I practice mostly with a gun, but they reserve an hour a day for specialty weapons, which means I get to use my Mockingjay bow, Gale his heavy militarized one. The trident Beetee designed for Finnick has a lot of special features, but the most remarkable is that he can throw it, press a button on a metal cuff on his wrist, and return it to his hand without chasing it down.
Sometimes we shoot at Peacekeeper dummies to become familiar with the weaknesses in their protective gear. The chinks in the armor, so to speak. If you hit flesh, you're rewarded with a burst of fake blood. Our dummies are soaked in red.
It's reassuring to see just how high the overall level of accuracy is in our group. Along with Finnick and Gale, the squad includes five soldiers from 13. Jackson, a middle-aged woman who's Boggs's second in command, looks kind of sluggish but can hit things the rest of us can't even see without a scope. Farsighted, she says. There's a pair of sisters in their twenties named Leeg - we call them Leeg 1 and Leeg 2 for clarity - who are so similar in uniform, I can't tell them apart until I notice Leeg 1 has weird yellow flecks in her eyes. Two older guys, Mitchell and Homes, never say much but can shoot the dust off your boots at fifty yards. I see other squads that are also quite good, but I don't fully understand our status until the morning Plutarch joins us.
"Squad Four-Five-One, you have been selected for a special mission," he begins. I bite the inside of my lip, hoping against hope that it's to assassinate Snow. "We have numerous sharpshooters, but rather a dearth of camera crews. Therefore, we've handpicked the eight of you to be what we call our 'Star Squad.' You will be the on-screen faces of the invasion."
Disappointment, shock, then anger run through the group. "What you're saying is, we won't be in actual combat," snaps Gale.
"You will be in combat, but perhaps not always on the front line. If one can even isolate a front line in this type of war," says Plutarch.
"None of us wants that." Finnick's remark is followed by a general rumble of assent, but I stay silent. "We're going to fight."
"You're going to be as useful to the war effort as possible," Plutarch says. "And it's been decided that you are of most value on television. Just look at the effect Katniss had running around in that Mockingjay suit. Turned the whole rebellion around. Do you notice how she's the only one not complaining? It's because she understands the power of that screen."
Actually, Katniss isn't complaining because she has no intention of staying with the "Star Squad," but she recognizes the necessity of getting to the Capitol before carrying out any plan. Still, to be too compliant may arouse suspicion as well.
"But it's not all pretend, is it?" I ask. "That'd be a waste of talent."
"Don't worry," Plutarch tells me. "You'll have plenty of real targets to hit. But don't get blown up. I've got enough on my plate without having to replace you. Now get to the Capitol and put on a good show."
The morning we ship out, I say good-bye to my family. I haven't told them how much the Capitol's defenses mirror the weapons in the arena, but my going off to war is awful enough on its own. My mother holds me tightly for a long time. I feel tears on her cheek, something she suppressed when I was slated for the Games. "Don't worry. I'll be perfectly safe. I'm not even a real soldier. Just one of Plutarch's televised puppets," I reassure her.
Prim walks me as far as the hospital doors. "How do you feel?"
"Better, knowing you're somewhere Snow can't reach you," I say.
"Next time we see each other, we'll be free of him," says Prim firmly. Then she throws her arms around my neck. "Be careful."
I consider saying a final good-bye to Peeta, decide it would only be bad for both of us. But I do slip the pearl into the pocket of my uniform. A token of the boy with the bread.
A hovercraft takes us to, of all places, 12, where a makeshift transportation area has been set up outside the fire zone. No luxury trains this time, but a cargo car packed to the limit with soldiers in their dark gray uniforms, sleeping with their heads on their packs. After a couple of days' travel, we disembark inside one of the mountain tunnels leading to the Capitol, and make the rest of the six-hour trek on foot, taking care to step only on a glowing green paint line that marks safe passage to the air above.