#mockingjay rewrite

Victor, Mentor, Mockingjay: Mutts:

My name is Katniss Everdeen. I'm eighteen years old. I'm from District 12. I was in the Hunger Games. I won. I'm a Victor. I'm a Mentor. I mentored Owen Sparrow. He's a Victor. Snow sent me into the Games again. There was a plot, a plan to get us out. I got out. Peeta didn't. Peeta got left behind.

The rebels managed to do the impossible. They broke the arena. They got Katniss Everdeen, their Mockingjay out alive! But they left behind Peeta Mellark, and they are about to realize what a crucial mistake that might just be!

In the aftermath of the Quell our Victors are left to pick up the pieces of all they've had stolen from them. To force themselves to live and fight another day. To lean on the few remaining people they can trust in this snake den of vipers set on manipulating them, on remaking them, on turning them into pieces on the chessboard of this entirely new game they have no choice but to play. // A Mentor!Everlark Rewrite of Mockingjay

"Ma. I'm telling you, something's not right!" "Not you too! It's bad enough your father and brother have lost their heads!" She hollers from the kitchen. What she's doing in there with only candlelight for company, I have no idea.

This fic, which you can read here,  has recently reached over 500 kudos on AO3, and in honor of that, I decided to write a continuation. It is also nice it’s Valentine’s week and I wanted to write something about Everlark being a power couple during Mockingjay and being low-key married. Enjoy this totally indulgent fix-it fic continuation, my babes. Xoxo. ;) 

Friendly reminder, this is a work of fiction and I own nothing. The characters I’m borrowing belong to Suzanne Collins and I get no reward for writing this beyond the comments and kudos and of course the thrill of writing Katniss and Peeta in 13 without the hijacking.

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I’m in surprisingly good spirits this morning while my prep team works to get Peeta and me ready for the new propo we’re meant to be filming later. I’m not sure if it has anything to do with the way Peeta and I spent the evening tentatively exploring each other’s bodies until pleasure and exhaustion overcame us both, or with the increased amount of uninterrupted sleep I’ve been getting. I might have gotten five or six hours last night after all was said and done. 

I sneak a peek at him in the chair a few feet away from where Flavius is brushing some translucent power over his face. He looks better rested and his skin has taken on a more healthy glow that suits him. The thought suffuses me with a small warm burst of satisfaction, at seeing him healthy and recovering.

 I fight a blush when I think about the way I kissed every inch of his face, neck, and chest last night. 

This new thing between us is a distraction, to be sure, but not necessarily an unwelcome one. The days in Thirteen are long and we’ve been working hard to try and fulfill the demands of those around us. It's nice to have a respite from all the pressure. When he and I are alone in his room all of that seems to fall away. That space becomes a retreat of sorts, where Peeta and I can forget about the world for a few hours and just be ourselves. Bare and honest with each other.

Peeta catches me looking and the corner of his mouth peeks up in a small private smirk. 

I bite back the urge to tell him to cut it out, knowing that would only lead to questions from my preps that I don’t want to answer. 

When Flavius turns away Peeta chances a quick wink at me in a way that brings to mind his teasing yet sweet attentions from our first arena. 

I roll my eyes at him affectionately, ready to volley a trademark scowl if he keeps this up, but then Venia strides in with our propo outfits. 

The Mockingjay costume Cinna created for me still takes my breath away when I see it sometimes. So does Peeta’s. They are all sleek lines and beautifully crafted functionality. Dark pieces of geometrically shaped bulletproof armor cover our most vulnerable points, and durable but flexible material bends and moves along our joints and legs to lend mobility to the ensembles as well as protection.

The final effect looks stylish but also deadly if I’m being honest. Especially when paired with the weapons Beetee’s custom designed for us. The way my bow comes to life underneath my hands still thrills me. I’m eager to dress and sling the quiver over my back, even though the only arrows inside will be normal ones. They still won’t let me walk around with the specially loaded ones Beetee made. 

Venia affixes my mockingjay pin over my heart to complete the look and Peeta nods at me to signal his readiness when he finishes clasping his blade and firearm to his belt. I stare for a moment at the image of the two of us standing side by side in the mirror. 

We don’t look like a pair of tragic star-crossed lovers any longer. 

We look ready for a fight, for vengeance or retribution. Maybe both. 

“They’ll either going to want to kiss you, kill you, or be you.” Peeta quips, parroting Finnick’s humorous words when we did our first test run in the costumes yesterday. 

“I’ll settle for them joining us, or simply laying down their arms,” I reply dryly. 

Peeta’s face takes on a more serious expression almost instantly. 

“That’s why we’re doing it this way.” He says reassuringly, cupping my shoulder with one of his large hands. 

“I know,” I tell him. And I do. Plutarch’s explained a hundred times, how just the sight of Peeta and I, alive and united, is supposed to inspire people to join the rebel cause and inspire the loyalists and capitalists to abandon their misguided fight. 

But I still feel guilty asking people to fight for me sometimes. 

“Katniss, Snow is just going to keep bombing districts and sending in reinforcements until he breaks the people’s spirit.” Peeta’s voice is barely a whisper, but I hear him all the same. 

After all this time it shouldn’t surprise me that he’s getting much better at reading me. Sometimes it's uncanny how quickly he can figure out the way my mind veers off in a certain direction. 

“You’re right,” I say because he is. His hand travels up the back of my hair, to fall against my hair soothingly as he caresses my braid. I lean back against him. 

He locks eyes with me in the mirror. 

“If you don’t want to do this anymore, we’ll find a way to get out of it. I promise.” He vows, sternly that I believe him, even though it's unlikely either of us could back out now. 

I shake my head.  Even if we could somehow walk away from this, from being symbols of the rebellion, I could never live with myself afterward. 

“No, we promised Finnick we’d get Annie back. And Johanna. Snow…needs to be stopped. He needs to pay for what he did to 12, to all of us.” I say, voice resolute. Peeta’s hand comes down to twine with mine. 

He interlocks our fingers. 

“I’m with you.” He tells me,  and it's enough to get me moving again. 

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Soon we’re on the soundstage, where we seem to stand for hours while they seem to adjust our makeup, lighting, and smoke levels. 

Eventually, the commands coming via the intercom from the invisible people in the mysterious glassed-in booth become fewer and fewer. Fulvia and Plutarch spend more time studying us and less time adjusting. Finally, there’s quiet on the set. For a full five minutes, Peeta and I are simply considered. We go through our lines again. Just the two for Peeta and the one slogan for me. Tomorrow they’ll focus on speeches and interviews and have us pretend to be in rebel battles. But today they just want those three lines corked into a propo that they can show Coin. 

“Has the Capitol hurt you, or someone you love? Are you tired of slaving away by day and going to bed hungry at night?” Those are Peeta’s lines. He delivers them with conviction and genuineness that I am in awe of, and to be honest, envy. 

Then it’s my turn. 

“People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice!” That’s the line. I can tell by the way they presented it to me at first that they 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 saying it in real life— unless I was using a Capitol accent and making fun of it. 

But Fulvia’s in my face, describing the 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! 

I catch sight of Peeta grimacing slightly from the corner of my eye but before I shoot him a questioning look I’m hustled back to my place, and the smoke machine kicks in. Someone calls for quiet, the cameras start rolling and I hear “Action!” So I hold the bow over my head and yell the line with all the anger I can muster. 

There’s dead silence on the set. It goes on and on. I turn to look at Peeta. He looks like he’s trying to keep his expression neutral, but I can see it there, beneath the cracks. Something like sympathy. 

Then, Hyamitch’s acerbic laugh fills the studio, crackling through the old intercom. He contains himself long enough to say, “And that my friends, is how a revolution dies.” 

~

Peeta is obviously and immediately happier to see our old mentor than I am. He’s rushing over to the booth to speak to him at the drop of a hat while I hang back and work up the motivation.  It was a surprise to hear Haymitch’s voice, especially after his disparaging comments about my propo performance, but ultimately I put my annoyance aside to join Peeta to welcome our mentor back. 

“Well, well, well, look at you, sweetheart. Your acting skills haven’t improved but you certainly look better than I’ve seen you in a long time.” Haymitch says, surreptitiously studying my face and in particular, the lack of deep circles underneath the stage makeup I’m wearing. 

“Surviving a second arena has done wonders for my sleep regimen.” I deadpan. 

Haymitch raises a brow at me, suspiciously, and his gaze swings between Peeta and me, assessingly. 

“I seriously doubt that. But I can guess what really has you playing nice with these birdbrains.” He says with a knowing smirk aimed in Peeta’s direction. 

Que flaming cheeks for both Peeta and me. 

“Are you sure they drained all the booze out of you? You seem just a little too carefree to be 100% sober right now.” I accuse, defensively. 

Haymitch laughs heartily, then winces. 

“Nice try, sweetheart, but you can’t throw me off the scent that easily. Lucky for you, we’ve got bigger things to catch up on than the state of your love life. Kids,” He says, addressing Peeta and me together, “These propos suck.” He states bluntly. 

Peeta, the traitor, nods quickly. I shoot him a deadly glare and he shrugs sheepishly. 

“I’ve been trying to reason with them for weeks. They won’t listen to me about Katniss’ lines.” Peeta tells Haymitch. 

I huff. He has been trying to get the writers to take his suggestions more seriously. But I had no idea why he was so deadset on it. Now it makes sense. 

“Yeah, I figured kid. Don’t worry. We’ll take ‘em on together first thing tomorrow.” Haymitch promises and Peeta’s face relaxes with relief. 

Victor, Mentor, Mockingjay: Mutts: The rebels managed to do the impossible. They broke the arena. They got Katniss Everdeen, their Mockingjay out alive! But they left behind Peeta Mellark, and they are about to realize what a crucial mistake that might just be!

In the aftermath of the Quell our Victors are left to pick up the pieces of all they've had stolen from them. To force themselves to live and fight another day. To lean on the few remaining people they can trust in this snake den of vipers set on manipulating them, on remaking them, on turning them into pieces on the chessboard of this entirely new game they have no choice but to play. // A Mentor!Everlark Rewrite of Mockingjay

Those too stiff District 13 boots carry me up every step, down the hall, and straight to a very specific threshold. I push the door open and step inside. All breath flees my lungs because…because he's everywhere. In the faint smell of cinnamon and wood I've become so fond of. In the careful way his bed is made, just like always. In the haphazard stack of sketchbooks on his dresser. The leather case of fine pencils I gifted him for his birthday, left reverently on top. Before I know it, I'm all the way across the room. Shoving every notebook I can into my bag. I ignore the flying paws attacking my hands as I do and the ones that don't fit I force into the deep pockets of my father's jacket. I can't leave them behind. These precious bits and pieces of Peeta's heart and mind can't be condemned to this graveyard of ash and misery.

Victor, Mentor, Mockingjay: Mutts: The rebels managed to do the impossible. They broke the arena. They got Katniss Everdeen, their Mockingjay, out alive! But they left behind Peeta Mellark, and they are about to realize what a crucial mistake that might just be!

In the aftermath of the Quell our Victors are left to pick up the pieces of all they've had stolen from them. To force themselves to live and fight another day. To lean on the few remaining people they can trust in this snake den of vipers set on manipulating them, on remaking them, on turning them into pieces on the chessboard of this entirely new game they have no choice but to play. // A Mentor!Everlark Rewrite of Mockingjay

"Kat?" Owen's voice slices through my muttering like an anchoring nail.  "Tell them just a minute!" I holler back from my hiding spot. But they never listen to my requests, not even that simple one. Those doctors, shoving and barging their way into whatever hovel of respite I've stolen for my moment of private misery. My moment out from under their probing eyes and judgemental nagging questions.

Victor, Mentor, Mockingjay: Mutts: The rebels managed to do the impossible. They broke the arena. They got Katniss Everdeen, their Mockingjay out alive! But they left behind Peeta Mellark, and they are about to realize what a crucial mistake that might just be!

In the aftermath of the Quell our Victors are left to pick up the pieces of all they've had stolen from them. To force themselves to live and fight another day. To lean on the few remaining people they can trust in this snake den of vipers set on manipulating them, on remaking them, on turning them into pieces on the chessboard of this entirely new game they have no choice but to play. // A Mentor!Everlark Rewrite of Mockingjay

With the war won I could just disappear into the trees. Let the story of Katniss Everdeen become little more than a legend on the wind. But what would become of Peeta? The rebels will not treat him kindly in victory. I can make them. My wish in the Quell was to get Peeta out alive, to get him to a world beyond the Games. Finally, I see a path for me to do that. And if things go well, I might even survive to see that world with him. My chest fills with sunlight. For the first time, since I was dragged into the dark depths of District 13, I feel some real, true, hope.  One more memories bursts forth. The rush of sparks trailing up my skin, burning away the image of a perfect Capitol bride. Leaving behind feathers and fire and a fate I've been foolish to think I could escape.  There is no going back. There can be no ceasefire. I know what I have to do. No matter how much it terrifies me.