A hovercraft takes us to 12 of all places. The rebellion has set up a makeshift transportation area outside the fire zone. My eyes drift toward town. Haymitch sits on a large rock a few feet away, his gaze wandering over the rubble we once called home before he buries his face in his hands. I can feel Finnick and Johanna staring. Johanna keeps her distance and lets me grieve, but Finnick sneaks up behind me and wraps his arms around my chest, leaning his chin on my head.

"You'll make him pay for it, kiddo," he says softly.

In the distance I see Peeta's squad unloading. He hasn't been back in 12 since the firebombing. When his eyes hit the town, I see his stature waver, just for a second. Even months later, parts of our district still smolder, and small areas of black smoke stain the whitish gray ash that has settled over everything. Each broken home is indistinguishable from the next. We only know what is what because there is a map of it in our hearts. Peeta straightens his posture and looks around. When he finds me, he relaxes a little. I want to go to him, but instead I check my firearm and grab my duffel. Our troop is assigned an area to camp, and Boggs hands us some tents. I stare at my team and watch them work.

Boggs has a serious look on his face that hasn't shifted since we boarded the hovercraft. His eyes constantly trace over our group, taking inventory, counting, watching over us. Haymitch, Mitchell, and Homes all work together to stand their tent up. Haymitch could easily walk twenty minutes and go sleep in his house. I could, too. But instead, I stare at my hands and try to force them to drive a stake in the ground. Johanna and Gale bicker back to back, Johanna helping me with my tent and Gale working with Finnick. Cressida and her team keep filming, and I wonder how watching us pitifully build a camp might of any value to the rebellion.

"Where do you plan on sleeping?" Jackson asks the crew and my gaze shifts to her. I watch as she stares at their tent, still rolled on the ground, and back up to Cressida. "It's almost dark." The camera crew finally puts down the equipment and gets to work. I watch Jackson as she gathers wood and begins to build a fire. I don't know how to size her up. Like Boggs, she has a role in Command, so I've hardly spent any time with her in training. She seems hard. She clearly is not a fan of the camera crew.

By the time our fire is going, the entire camp has fallen quiet. I stare around at the different groups, each huddled around their camps, eating rations from cans. So many of the men and women around me are young. Practically reaping age. Innocent. This is the first time they've spent the night above ground, the first time they've seen the stars. I wonder how many will go home.

I have no idea where Peeta is out in the dark.

I stir my stew around in the can. It's bland, tastes like white potatoes and salt. I set the can on the earth, hear the gravel grinding under the metal bottom like boots on pavement. It's so silent I can hear the fire pop in front of us. I gaze over and watch as Finnick stares at the flames, a distant look on his face. I know Peeta is out there somewhere, with his camp, hearing the same hollow quiet, and the crackling fire reminds me of a song my dad used to sing when we buried ourselves in the deep of the woods. I take a breath.

There will be rest.

Everyone in the camp stops. Their hands calm. They look over.

There will be rest,

and sure stars shining.

There will be rest,

And sure stars shining.

Haymitch shifts his weight. Our eyes meet. One way or another, we will rest. We will either win this war, or we'll find rest in the earth, in the nothingness that comes next.

Over the roof-tops crowned with snow,

A reign of rest, serene forgetting,

The music of stillness,

holy and low.

Holy is a word from before the Dark Days. From when they believed in something. We've lost that now, but I still know what it means. I know what it means to want something bigger than you, to hope for something more. But all we've ever known is dark and hunger.

I will make this world of my devising

Out of a dream in my lonely mind.

My gaze shifts to Johanna, who is sitting at the campfire leaning her head of Gale's shoulder. Johanna, who spent weeks lost in her lonely mind. Like Peeta. I watch Finnick, who stares at his shoes. We can make this place different. I think you can change things, Katniss. Prim's words ring in my head.

I shall find the crystal of peace,

– above me

Stars I shall find.

The song is a goodbye. A suicide note. Because that's what we're doing here. We're offering ourselves for something greater. Peace, either in freedom or death. But we've come for peace. I feel the cameras on me, and I stand and brush off my pants. "Night," I say quietly, and pull myself into the tent.

Johanna never comes to bed and in the pitch black of night Finnick finally crawls into my tent.

"I can't listen to them anymore," he complains with a grin, and I muffle a laugh. He holds my hand though, across the tent. I finally sleep.

The next morning we board a train that will carry us to the Capitol. It's not the route that we used to take as victors that weaved us through the districts of Panem. Most of the leisure and business travel railways have been bombed. The delivery infrastructure remains intact, though, so there are plenty of direct routes in to the Capitol. There are no luxury cars. Instead, soldiers are packed onto cargo trains like freight, dark gray uniforms stuffed side-by-side as they rest their heads on the packs jammed between their knees. The districts cannot travel easily between each other. When their soldiers converge on the Capitol, it will be the first time many of them meet. Likely the last, too.

When the train door slides shut with a slam and the rebels are plunged into darkness. I pat to my right until I find Finnick's hand and grasp it tight. The trip will take nearly three days. I lean my head back against the cold, metal wall.

"Can you imagine Plutarch in here, traveling like this?" Finnick says, making no effort to soften his voice. I hear a laugh from across the train. It's not one of ours; it's just another troop taking solace in picturing Plutarch Heavensbee, Head Gamemaker, and how he might react to a foot soldier's accommodations.

"Or Fulvia?" I add, and there are a few more laughs. Soon the train is bustling with sound. Most of the people in our car are from 13, as expected, but when we reach the rebel encampment outside the Capitol we'll begin to meet rebels from other districts. Our eyes adjust. I can't recognize anyone in the darkness, but I can see shapes. Outlines of humans destined for war.

"Thank you," I hear a woman say from across our car. Even though I can't see her face, I know she's talking to me. Us.

"You don't need to thank us," I answer.

"You didn't have to come here. None of the victors did. You've already survived a war with the Capitol, you're already a casualty. You shouldn't have to do it again. But you are here anyway," she says.

"We chose to be here, just like you," I answer.

"I know. That's why I said thank you," she responds.

"You're welcome," Johanna says sarcastically into the dark. I'm sure if I could see her face she'd be making some kind of nasty expression in the woman's direction.

The travel is unbearably long. Our arms and legs cramp, the bones in our body grind into the metal floor. I try to stand as much as possible. We sleep indiscriminately. It's hard to tell what time it is anyway in the sameness of the dark. Each day we are given three fifteen minute breaks outside, but most people spend the time trying to find a spot to relieve themselves than stretching or taking in the sun. At one of the stops I see Peeta, three or four cars down. We meet eyes and he gives a small wave.

When our train finally arrives in the Capitol, I hammer my feet into the tile-covered earth and try to make the blood flow again. The rebel encampment is a ten-block stretch outside the train station where Peeta and I first arrived in the Capitol as tributes. I remember him smiling and waving out the window. I barely knew him then. I certainly didn't trust him. Now I wonder where his squad is cordoned off to.

The rebels won the train station over a week ago, losing hundreds of lives in the process. The peacekeeping force retreated further back into the city. I pitch my tent and stare up at the empty sky. Mitchell and I make eye contact. He's thinking the same thing. We feel exposed here out in the open.

"What about hovercraft attacks?" he asks Boggs, and I shift my attention to our Commander.

"It's not an issue. Almost their entire fleet was shut down in the attack on Two. Whatever few vehicles the Capitol has working aren't likely to be deployed for offensive measures. They are probably in some secret bunker ready for an escape by Snow and his allies," he answers. My stomach wretches but I force my face to remain unchanged. I hadn't really considered Snow escaping. Slipping from my fingers. Either way, the sky is to remain clear. Apparently 13 lost a number of hovercraft in the bombing raid. We're both playing with one hand tied behind our backs. If this war is to be won, it will be fought on the streets, hopefully with minimal damage to the infrastructure and as few as necessary human casualties. 13 wants the Capitol as much as the Capitol wants 13.

The people in the encampment beside us are from District 10. I remember touring their slaughterhouses, and now here they sit, all in a row, like cattle. We talk, but none of it resonates with me. A few ask to shake my hand, which is awkward. I don't feel like the Mockingjay right now.

When I lie in my tent that night, staring at the cloth walls, I find myself unable to sleep. This is coming to an end. Either Snow dies, or I do.

Tomorrow, we invade the city.

A/N: Poem by Sara Teasdale.