Start small. Start with what you know is real. My name is Clarke Griffin. I'm from district twelve. I competed in the Hunger Games. Once—no, focus. I competed in the Hunger Games twice. Twice. I escaped. Bellamy… She squints at the sudden bright light, holding up her trembling, sticky, blood-stained fingers to shield her eyes. She doesn't have much time. They found her. Bellamy was left behind. He was left behind.

"How many more times are you going to do this?" Murphy sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, a tired tone to his voice unlike the usual contempt. He untangles Clarke's fingers from the glass shard without much difficulty, and it drops to the floor with a loud clang. Blood is still dripping down her arm and onto the metal floor of the vents they're crouched inside of. It's because Luna took out her tracker. No. No. It happened when she broke the window of her door and pushed her arm through to open it—the glass, the glass it pierced right through the bandage, opening the old wound.

She remains stiff under his touch as he examines the cut on her arm, pointing his flashlight at it. Sweat drips down the side of her face, pulse rattling in her throat as she tries to swallow down the dryness in her mouth. Her voice croaks when she finally gets it to work, "Until they stop locking me up."

He snorts, derisive, starting to unwrap what's left of the bandage with his slender fingers, dirt permanently stuck under his fingernails. "I hardly think the medbay qualifies as a prison, princess."

Clarke's head snaps up at the nickname, eyes narrowing at her former fellow tribute as she jerks her arm back roughly. She wraps them back around her knees. Her voice doesn't come out as strong as she'd like it to. "Fuck you."

"Maybe another time," he retorts, dry as he aims the flashlight into different directions around them, observing their surroundings. He pushes out another heavy breath, collapsing down across from her. He offers, clearly uncomfortable, "Nightmare?"

She freezes, free hand clutching into a fist and eyes sliding shut as a warm, freckled face flashes in front of her eyes. She pushes the image back, forcing her heart rate back to a normal pace. All the memories, they're haunted now. It's been days. Days of drifting in and out of consciousness, all the medication, all the people who came to see her, blurring together. There is no district twelve. Days without contact, without any confirmation he's—he's alive. He has to be. She wipes a damp strand of hair away from her eyes, inhaling sharply through her nose before opening her eyes. She opens her fist, stares at the tiny shell inside it. He asked her a question, she remembers. About nightmares. "I wish they would've just let me die."

Clarke stares at the butterfly bandage on his eyebrow instead of meeting his gaze. It's hard to make out the details in the darkness but he looks as miserable as she imagines she does. He pushes, skeptical, "You sure you don't just want some of their morphling? Works like a charm."

When she doesn't say anything, he continues talking, voice gruff in a rare moment of vulnerability, "I wish she was dead." Emori. They took Emori too. They're in the capital, they're in Polis. "I wish they were all dead, and we were, too."

She can't contradict him, because every second she's spent awake since being lifted from that arena she's spent wishing it was her they left instead, her who—who died. Nobody knows what they're doing to them, doing to them to make them talk, make them comply. Maybe they would be better of dead. She doesn't know what she feels, most of the time she feels numb. Some of it's regret, sadness, conflict, anger. A lot of it's anger—red, blood-boiling, destructive anger. Finally, channeling all of that, she assures him, that if she has to be alive, that if they won't allow her to die, she'll settle for the next best thing. "I'm going to kill him. I'm going to kill Wallace."

/.\

The first thing she registers is his fingers digging into her back, pulling her closer, even if their chests are already practically melded together. "Bellamy," she whispers, breathing into his neck, trying to memorize his scent. "You came back."

She pulls back slightly—not too far, never too far—so she can look at him, a sudden flash of chilling pain streaking through her system. It's not real. His fingers steal into her ear, thumb smoothing over her jaw. The corners of her mouth turn up slightly despite herself and for a second she lets herself believe it is.

His arms drop to his sides, and he takes a step back, and another, brows a hard arch on his face. He studies her face, brown eyes sharp on her blue ones, and something suddenly seems to click, eyes darkening. His voice sounds like it's coming from a million miles away and like he's whispering it into her ear all at the same time. "You left. You left me."

"No, no," she cries, and she tries to reach out to him, tries to hold his hand, or push back his hair, or fold her hand over his chest, but she can't move, can't even lift so much as a finger. Sweat seeps through her shirt, chest feels constricted like there's not enough air in the room, pulse throbbing loudly in her ears.

She jolts awake when there's a knock on the door. She takes a second to catch her breath, adjust her eyes to the bright lights of her room in the medbay and smooth out the covers before croaking out a, "Come in."

She runs a hand over her hair, swallowing thickly as an unfamiliar man appears at her bedside. He can't be much older than her, dressed in all black, face evoking nothing from her but neutrality. "My name is Shaw. I'm in charge of security around here."

Here? She still can't quite wrap her head around what that means. District thirteen, an old bedtime story from when she was a little kid. He seems to notice the confusion on her face, eyes crinkling like he might smile, but he doesn't. "We call it Mount Weather, it's a bunker. A remnant from before the war. Polis doesn't know it exists."

Polis. She pushes her legs off the bed, sits on the edge, fingers digging into her sheets as she forces the pounding headache to take a backseat since there's more pressing matters at hand, teeth gritted together. "Is there any news?"

"I'm just here to pick you up," he says, dismissive, eyes raking her face. The girl on fire probably isn't all they've talked her up to be, not like this. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and then he adds, "You're being discharged today. President Diyoza would like to meet with you."

She nods, barely noticeable—racking her brain for what all of it might mean, the fact he's not allowed to tell her anything, the fact the president of district thirteen is so interested in a nobody from district twelve—then forces herself to nod again, this time more firm, sure.

She slips into some boots, still wearing the grey jumpsuit one of the healers gave her earlier, and doesn't even bother smoothing over her hair. If the president wants to meet with her, she should meet with the real her, see with her own eyes she made the wrong decision picking her over Bellamy.

Their arms brush when they enter the elevator and he close-lipped smiles over at her politely even if she's blinking at him like she's just seen a ghost. The slightest of touches has her on edge these days. She straightens her posture, only feels like she can breathe again when the doors ping and slide open.

"I thought Polis bombed everything on the surface to rubble," she checks, when they walk down a long, narrow hallway. There's people everywhere, dressed in the same grey jumpsuits; some of their gazes linger on her, others whisper low under their breaths, nudging each other. She doesn't recognize any of them. "We were told there was nothing left of thirteen."

"They did. Luckily, we don't live on the ground but under it," he responds, without giving it much thought, like he's had this introductory talk a million times. There's a certain kind of confidence surrounding him that's hard to describe. They climb a stairwell, and he pauses in front of a broad door, a curious glint to his eye as he observes her. "We're military. We've been preparing for this, training. For us there was never peace. The war never stopped."

Peace. When was the last time Clarke felt peace? Before the arena, maybe. The Blake house, waking up his arms. Perhaps. She's not sure she ever truly felt peace. He swings open the door, revealing some sort of conference room. There's big television screens on the walls, in front of it a large table with what must be at least fifteen chairs around it. At the head of it closest to her, there's Sinclair. Alive. He's in a wheelchair, lifts up a few fingers as a greeting.

"The girl on fire. There she is." Clarke's head shift to two people entering the room from the other side. Kane is one of them, the other one a woman in her late thirties. She must be Diyoza. Something uneasy settles in her stomach, overwhelmed with dread and confusion. "Madam President. May I introduce you to our Mockingjay?

Shaw closes the door behind him as the duo stops in front of her. Diyoza sticks out a confident hand, big smile etched onto her face. Like there's anything to smile about. "Ms. Griffin, I heard a lot about you. It's an honour to meet you."

The blonde eyes her hand, then shakes it, dazed as she stares at Kane expectantly, but the neutral expression on his face doesn't give anything away. Diyoza draws her back in, "You're very brave—" Clarke bites down a bitter snort just in time, and if the other woman notices, she doesn't say anything. The older woman's free hand comes up to cover their hands in hers. "—and I can't imagine what it's like to go through what you went through. I know how disorienting this must be be."

She doesn't. She never will. So Clarke's not sure they even have anything to talk about, the two of them. She's done being used to further somebody else's agenda. She's done playing the part they tell her to play. She just wants to go home, knock on his door and have him answer it like nothing happened. But, that can't happen because she's here, district twelve's a wasteland and he's—compromised.

"Clarke, President Charmaine Diyoza," Kane cuts in when he figures the look on the victor's face is getting just a little too hard, a little too pensive, forehead creased and their hands drop back down. Clarke wipes her clammy ones on her thighs.

"Please know how welcome you are. Unfortunately, we've known loss in thirteen, too," she reveals, regretful, hands clasped together in front of her. Is that supposed to make it all better? A beat passes and then she pulls back a chair, offers it to the blonde. "I apologize, I wish you had more time to recover but sadly, we don't have that luxury."

Why are they treating her like she's the key to all of this? She's broken, done. She can't even get an hour of sleep before waking up in a panic-sweat. Clarke sinks down beside Sinclair warily, watches Kane and Diyoza sit down in a chair across from them. With an arch of her brow, the older woman inquires, "Are you aware of what's a happened?"

The victor shakes her head lightly, not taking her eyes off the two of them. She's still tense, apprehensive when it comes to letting her guard down around them. She's still not convinced she can trust them, any of them. Not even if they've convinced her mother, and Wells. Who hides down in a bunker when the rest of the nation could have used their help years ago?

The screen behind Diyoza and Kane lights up, as she starts to explain, showing her grainy and blurry pictures of destroyed homes and innocent arrests around Panem. When she fired her arrow at the force field, she electrified the whole country. There have been riots, strikes and uprisings in over eight districts. They believe that it's the perfect opportunity to unify the districts against the capital. An unicum. If they let it dissipate, the spark, there's no telling when they get the chance again. It could be another 75 years, if not more.

It all sounds like a sales pitch to Clarke and she's not interested.

Diyoza smiles, folding her hands together on top of the table. "Everyone in thirteen is more than ready for this." They've been preparing, training, Shaw said.

Clarke slips her hand into her pocket under the table, rolls the little shell in between her fingers absentmindedly, considers her words for a moment. "What about Bellamy? Is he alive?"

"We don't know," Kane cuts in, eyes softening as he looks at her. He doesn't know why he does that, pity her with his weak smiles and compassionate looks. He doesn't know her. Never has. Does he think he manipulate her like that, play her? "We wish that we did, but there's no way for us to contact our operatives inside Polis."

Sinclair clears his throat, reminding them of his presence as he quietly informs her, "Polis has always suppressed communication between districts, but I know their system very well. With the right help, I managed to break through." Right. He worked there, prior to all of this, prior to them sending him back into the arena without every second-guessing their decision to do so.

She still doesn't know why they need her, why they're telling her this. Kane smiles, and if she hadn't already been looking at him she would've missed the brief nervous tremble of the corner of his mouth. "All we need now is the perfect message."

Diyoza stretches out a hand over the table, like she's trying to assure her, but it feels too assertive. "Clarke, we need to show them that the Mockingjay is alive and well and willing to stand up and join this fight, because we need every district to stand up to this capital. The way you did."

It feels—it feels like too much. She never did anything. Everything she did, she did to save herself and the people she cares about. Not to save Panem from anything. She stabbed herself, because she didn't want to live after what they made her do. She fired the arrow, because she wanted them to suffer like she had. She just wanted to hurt the capital, like they hurt her. Blood must have blood. Now she's supposed to stand up there, like some hypocrite, and declare the opposite? They will see right through her.

Kane must not notice the defiant look on her face, because he elaborates on their plan like she's already agreed to it, like she can't not. "So we're gonna shoot a series of propaganda clips—propos, I like to call them—on the Mockingjay. Spread the word that we're gonna stoke the fire of this rebellion. The fire that the Mockingjay—you started."

Her mind races, overwhelmed as her brow furrows together. They still don't understand. How tired she is. She didn't start anything. Not with them. She started a life after the Games, that's what she did. Now that's gone, too. "You left him there."

Sinclair stiffens beside her, must feel the anger physically radiating off her, and Kane's brow creases, empathetically. Diyoza leans back in her chair, pursing her lips as she searches Clarke's face. Did she really expect the girl on fire, the Mockingjay they want her to be, to sit back and take orders? Her voice doesn't waver as she presses, "You left Bellamy in that arena to die."

"Clarke, we're very apologetic that we couldn't save every vic—" Kane starts, rehearsed, but looking like he might mean it, too, but Diyoza breaks him off, gaze still insistent on hers. She's not stupid, knows just how to push her buttons within five minutes of meeting her. Maybe it's Clarke, maybe she's giving too much away, maybe she's not using her head enough. The president quirks an eyebrow. "He must be pretty important to you."

He is, but she doesn't need to know that. It doesn't matter. What Clarke feels for him—what she thinks about him is irrelevant. Either way, it should have been him sitting here, not her. "Bellamy was the one who was supposed to live."

"Miss Griffin," Diyoza urges, calm, like she'll find a way no matter what Clarke's answer is. "This revolution is about everyone, about all of us. And we need a voice."

It's not. Not for her. It's too late for her. It's about him, everything is about him. If she needed a voice people listen to, it should've been him. People follow him. Not her. Never her. Then again, a boy from the Seam with olive skin and dark hair might not be the district twelve resident they want to be their symbol. They're all the same.

Maybe that's selfish. That she won't do something as simple as stand in front of a camera and recite a speech they wrote for her, even if it means a lot of lives might be saved. She doesn't care. Nobody ever came to save her. Except for one person. One person, and they left him behind to die.

We need a voice. She straightens her shoulders, flats her palms on the table as she refuses to look away from Diyoza, pushes, "Then you should've saved Bellamy." She shoves her chair back and stalks out of the room, slamming the door behind her. She pauses with her back pressed to the door, eyes closed as she tries to steady her breathing.

Unexpectedly, Charmaine speaks first. Clarke can just make out her muffled voice through the door, if she tries really hard. "Maybe you should have rescued him instead."

"No," Marcus insists and Clarke hates this. Hates being part of some plan nobody even bothered to tell her about. Hates that apparently Bellamy was never part of it. "No one else can do this but her."

A loud sigh follows and a beat passes. "That was definitely not the girl you described." Years ago, something like that might've stung her, might've made her reconsider what she was doing. Now, she knows better. She is not the girl they want her to be. She's just an angry, broken shell of the person she used to be. That's fine.

Her eyes spring open to find Shaw staring at her, eyebrow cocked and arms crossed over his chest. He doesn't say anything. Kane picks the conversation back up, "Obviously we need to make it personal. Remind her who the real enemy is."

There it is again. If only they spend half the energy and resources they spend on her on actually liberating the nation.

"She knows who the enemy is. That's not the issue. Unless she's forgotten." The president makes a point. Someday, somewhere, somehow Clarke will find a way to kill Wallace. That she won't forget.

"There's explaining and there's showing."

Shaw takes her by the arm suddenly, pulls her away around the corner. She jerks loose from his grip, narrows her eyes at him but he just grins, like this is the funniest thing ever. "They would've come out in a second. Their voices were getting closer. Would you have prefered getting caught?"

He raises his eyebrows when she doesn't answer right away and she digs her fingernails into the palms of her skin. "Just bring me back to my room."

/.\

"I can't believe you're going through with this," Wells tells her, perched on top of her new bed as she haphazardly packs her bag. Clarke missed having something to do, most of the time. Back in the Victor's Village, there wasn't much more to do, but at least she could keep busy. Painting, or baking, other stuff, too. Here, it's worse. They don't want her doing anything that might harm her, or might make her snap. She's their symbol. An unstable symbol, apparently. They'll see about that.

Her hands still, urging, "I need to see it for myself." Diyoza offered to transport her to district twelve, so she could see what Wallace did to her home. What he was capable of. She knew all too well what he was capable of, that wasn't the point. She knew it was just another ploy to get her to agree to be their Mockingjay, too, but she didn't care about that either. She wanted to see.

He presses one of his palms to his eye tiredly, before leaning forward, elbows bracketed on his knees. The bed dips as Clarke sits down beside him, puts her hand in between her shoulder blades. He worries about her. He shouldn't. Her fingers slide up to his shoulder and she squeezes, teasingly. "I still can't believe the mayor's son, the boy who would rather get in trouble himself before telling the teacher one of his bullies broke the chess board, joined the Rebellion."

A strike of sadness flashes in front of his eyes at the mention of his father, briefly, then it's gone and the corner's of his lips are turned up, melancholically. "After our fight—I don't know. I had to do something. You were right. I had to atone for my father's sins. I had to do something to prevent anything like that from happening ever again." He knocks his knee against hers, mocking her. "Besides, I knew one of these days they would get a hold of you. The girl on fire."

"You came for me, huh?" She lifts an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Not for someone else, let's say, I don't know… Raven?"

On her first day after being discharged, she'd joined Wells for lunch. Finn's girlfriend had been sitting at the same table, their shoulders brushing as they talked in low voices and ate their food. For the first time in her life, Clarke felt out of place with Wells, like she was intruding. She had barely had enough time to get reacquainted with him, and even if Raven did ask her to come back from the Games, that didn't mean they were buddies now.

"You seen Abby yet?" He'd asked after they exchanged awkward hello's, licking his plastic spoon clean as he took the lid off his cup of milk. Raven had scrunched at the sight and he'd taken a quick second out of their conversation to elbow her side and flash her a smile. It made sense now. How they'd met.

"Yeah, when I first got here," Clarke had admitted, ambiguous, picking at her beans with her fork. She wasn't sure how to be around her right now. She'd forgiven her, but that didn't change the fact everything was different now. That her mother hadn't killed her father. That they had spend so long living a lie. That they didn't really know each other.

Raven had looked like she hated herself for speaking even before she'd finished the sentence. "I got your mom out, before the firebombs."

"Thank you," Clarke had said, ducking her head, feeling like she owed this girl everything. Her mother. Her life. It hadn't felt fair. "You didn't have to do that."

"I didn't do it for you," she'd snapped, automatic, grip on her knife turning her knuckles white. She hadn't been trying to take credit, even if that was what Clarke was used to. Always owing someone something for food, or sponsors, or acts of rebellions. Her shoulders had sagged and she'd let out a sharp breath, voice softer this time around. "I did it for Abby."

Maybe there'd been more to the story. More things Clarke hadn't known about her own mother.

Wells had looked uncomfortable. "When Raven got lashed for slapping you—they injured her spine." Clarke heart had hammered in her chest with dread as she put down her fork. She didn't dare look at Raven. Not yet. It explained the makeshift brace she'd been wearing when she came to see her before the Games—it hadn't registered then, she hadn't been able to consider anyone else but herself and her fellow tribute, but it comes back to her in a flash of memory. The limp. The brace. The wince as she'd passed Wells and turned the corner. "Your mom—"

Her mother was a lot of things, but she had always been a good healer at least. Raven's face had been neutral save from the dimple above her brow, breaking him off as she'd stabbed her knife into something that apparently qualified as a potato, "Abby saved me."

Another thing she'd indirectly taken away from Raven. Those lashings… She should've—she should've done a lot of things, made a lot of things right. Clarke had only been able to offer her a tight-lipped smile, before shoving her chair back with an apologetic glance. She could use some fresh air. Since that was impossible, a room without people in it would do.

Before she could leave, Raven had cursed something under her breath and reached out, taking a hold of her wrist. When Clarke had stopped dead in her tracks, she'd quickly let go. "Listen. Finn..." She had swallowed thickly, looking for the right words.

"I didn't know." Clarke had reminded her before she could. She'd tried to make sense of it, explain herself, justify him, maybe. He wasn't just her boyfriend, Wells had told her, he was her family. At least that she could understand. "He probably thought he was never going to see you again—that he was as good as dead."

Her jaw had clenched. "He could've waited more than three days." Three days, and he'd been declaring his love for Clarke to the world, making her look desirable, never even mentioning the girl waiting for him back home. She hadn't looked like she wanted Clarke's pity any more than she'd been trying to take credit for anything, so the blonde swallowed down another useless apology.

Raven's dark eyes had slid shut for a second and then she'd pinched the bridge of her nose, shaking her head lightly. "It doesn't matter okay? I just—I just wanted to say I realize what his death would've been like—" They found a kid near the borderlines after one of their clandestine rebel meetings back in twelve, Wells told her later. He went to get a healer and Raven could only watch as he deteriorated after eating a handful of berries. It was more than horrible. Torture, he described it as. "If you hadn't… If you hadn't intervened—" Slid her knife into his neck, she'd meant. "And I… I shouldn't have said those things to you." It should've been you.

Whether that's true or not doesn't really matter, she had more than paid for it. Those lashings—Clarke had felt queasy just thinking how hard they must have gone after her to damage her spine. The victor's tongued had darted out to wet her lips, putting a hand on top of Raven's shoulder briefly. "It's okay." Maybe they could start again, the two of them.

"Stop," Wells tells her, warningly, knocking his shoulder against hers and pulling her back from the memory. "You never want to talk about it. The girl on fire."

"That's because I'm not her. I can't pretend I am. Everything I did—there were never any acts of rebellion." She searches his face, hopes he understands, doesn't hate her, too. "I wanted to die, Wells, during my first Games. And I wake up everyday wishing I had during the last one."

Maybe the fight is all we are. We torture, betray, kill. It's what Luna told her, when Clarke had wanted nothing more than to find another way. She's tired, too tired. There's no fight left inside of her, so maybe there's nothing left of her. She's accepted that.

Wells' eyes soften and she forces a weak smile onto her face. "I'm not convinced we know any better than to hurt and kill each other." Even the people they love, they hurt. Is that really a world worth saving? "They want me to get in front of a camera and give people hope that it can get better if they just work together? It's not possible."

Wells' arm comes up around her shoulders. He offers her a bright, hopeful smile. She wishes it was still one of those times that would be enough. Just Wells and his stupid, sanguine smile. "This is district thirteen, Clarke. Anything's possible."

/.\

Everything in district twelve was rubble. The sheds in the Seam, the Merchant houses, the black market, the bakery and the butcher's shop, her mother's practice—all leveled to the ground. All but the Victor's Village. It might've been some sort of distorted message Wallace had wanted to get across in case she ever came back or simply a sick twist of fate, maybe—but more than anything, it felt like the smallest of blessings.

The only things she manages to salvage is her father's old pin, the Iliad and some other old books and and a few clothes. She'd stopped in the doorway of his room a little too long, staring at everything, untouched, just like it was before they left for Polis a final time. She'd been tempted to step inside and lay down in the bed—she wondered if it still smelt like him, that if she laid down memories might engulf her and not cause unbearable pain at the same time. She might never leave, if she did that, so she couldn't risk it.

There'd also been Skye, who she smuggles inside the bunker, for Octavia. Even if she won't talk to her. It might help.

"How's the baby?" She'd huffed when Clarke found her in the medbay, doing inventory, on the day of the victor's official discharge from medical care. She found out Octavia was working alongside her mother, who was teaching her the ropes of the job, since there were too many people and too little healers. When the blonde had just blinked at her, dumbly, Octavia had shoved a stack of metal basins away a little too roughly and snapped, "That has your name written all over it. I can't imagine he came up with that one."

"O," she'd started, but her mouth had felt dry and her hands clammy and she wasn't sure what to say to that. She did come up with the—the baby. Stupidly, she'd assumed she might find some comfort from the only person who cared as deeply about him as she did. Stupidly, because she was also the only person who had both a right and a reason to resent her for what happened. Octavia had always been good at holding grudges.

"No. Don't call me that," she'd yelled, voice as steady as ever as she slammed the clipboard that had previously been tucked securely under her arm onto one of the gurneys angrily. "Who the hell do you think you are, Clarke?"

"Octavia," she'd corrected herself, pained. She'd wanted her to understand, needed her to. She'd wrung her hands together, to keep them from shaking, letting out a breathy noise. "You know I never—"

She hadn't let her finish, eyes tiny sliths, "If you really loved him, you wouldn't have fucking left him there."

Clarke had swallowed thickly, pulse a gallop. Loved him. He was her family. Octavia was her family. But maybe she didn't feel the same, not anymore. She hadn't been sure phrasing mattered at a time like this, but it'd felt important to her to establish a difference between leaving and being taken away. "I didn't… I didn't leave him."

"No, but he was in there because of you, wasn't he?" She'd spit, long brown hair braided back sloppily, some strands falling out of it as she shook her head vehemently. "They told me, Clarke. They told me that the only reason the Quarter Quell was with victors, was because of you! Because you made Wallace a promise and couldn't keep it." Clarke had just stared at her, jaw slacked.

Octavia had breathed in sharply through her nose, turning away from her for a second with her palms pressed to her eyes. When she turned back, her gaze had been even more determined. "Can you look me in the eyes and tell me that deep down, it wasn't your fault?"

Her tongue had darted out to wet her dry lips, and she felt like a statue, frozen in place, numb. It had been her fault, but it wasn't like she didn't already know that. Like she didn't already know she made his life worse just by being in it. "I don't know what you want me to say, Octavia."

"I don't want you to say anything," she grunted, chest heaving up and down irregularly, and it'd been clear this was the end of their conversation, the end of all of their conversations for a while. "Bring my brother back and then, maybe. Maybe we can talk."

Clarke had wanted to protest, tell her it wasn't in her hands, tell her she saw him every time she closed her eyes, tell her she didn't know how, yell at her that that was all she wanted, but she hadn't been able to get her voice to work. Back in district twelve, they'd been neighbours and they'd had her brother. Now, district twelve was annihilated and they really didn't have any reasons left to speak. Not even the cat changed that.

After she comes back from her visit, that day during supper, Wallace broadcasts the first nationwide message since the Games. The entire network had been down since the arena imploded on itself—not a single misplaced commercial, twisted propaganda video or re-run of old victor interviews shown since that night.

Wallace looks serene, not a hair out of place or a wrinkle in his three-piece suit. He talks about the supposed peace they've known since the last war, how Polis is dependent on the districts, but the districts are even more dependent on Polis. He forbids the image of the Mockingjay, calls it treason, punishable by death. It's all not very unexpected or revolutionary.

He doesn't falter, doesn't even blink when he now addresses a camera directly, closing up on his face. "Justice shall be served swiftly. Order shall be restored. To those who ignore the warnings of history, prepare to pay the ultimate price."

It's deadly quiet in the mess hall as the screen turns black. Her heart pounds loudly in her ears, eyes narrowed at nothing. She'd expected to feel angry, seeing his face. She did, but she also felt… Useless. Sitting here, eating dinner like… Like nothing happened. Like she didn't feel like half of her wasn't missing. Like Wallace wasn't trying his absolute best to make Bellamy pay for what she did.

"You should eat something," Wells tells her, nudging her hand with his when she still won't look away from the screen, slack-jawed. Static crackles through the room, and the tv flashes white. Cage Wallace's face appears.

He introduces himself, like the entirety of the nation doesn't already know exactly who he is, tells them to drop everything to watch his broadcast. Dread. The only thing Clarke feels is dread. She feels exactly like she did before they announced the Quarter Quell. Something bad was about to happen and she could do nothing to stop it. They want to put a stop to the speculation about what happened in the Quarter Quell, Cage says. The only way they can do that is to have someone there who was also in the arena. Emori, or Echo, or—

"Bellamy Blake, welcome," Cage smirked at the camera, pleased.

The plastic fork in her hand snaps in half, and Wells' hand is on top of her arm immediately, whispering assuring words but she can't hear anything, can't see anything, not anything but him. She shoves her chair back, and it clatters back onto the floor as she strides up to the television screen, trying to get as close as possible. She can feel eyes, a million of them, boring into her back, into the side of her face, but she doesn't care.

She misses the first few sentences of their conversation, too focused on the sight of him to also register sound. Finally, she makes out a semblance of sentence from Cage. "... talk us through what really happened on that controversial, treasonery night?"

"Well," he starts, adam's apple bobbing up and down visibly. "We tried to play allies, and I think in the end, that cost us." He looks fine; he looks clean, shaven, just the remnants of cuts and bruises on his skin. Maybe they're not torturing him, not yet. The whites of his eyes are more red than they're supposed to be, the slight tremble in his voice when he speaks, his nails digging into the leather of his armchair. He's not fine. He's not fine. "I just wanted to save Clarke, that's all I wanted."

Cage reappears and Clarke frowns, impatient. She's not interested in him. "But you were caught up in Jacapo Sinclair's plan?"

"No, no. We didn't know. They separated us—which was part of their plan, I guess—and that's when I lost her." He looks like has to search too hard for memories that only happened days ago.

"And the baby?" Cage fills in for him, eager. Clarke wants to reach through the screen and strangle him. They send her in there, carrying a baby, setting her up to die. It didn't matter if it was real or not. Now he was trying to gain sympathy points on his behalf?

"Yeah, and the baby," he confirms, quietly, eyes darting everywhere but on the interviewer. "Then a cannon went off and I thought—I thought she was dead." She'd thought the same, back in that arena. She thought she'd lost him, forever. She almost killed Murphy because of it. "I had to find her, but then the lightning hit and the whole force field blew out."

Cage cocks an eyebrow. "Clarke blew it out."

"No." Bellamy's forehead creases, but he's insistent. Her eyes burn with unshed tears, at how much he believes in her, still, and she has to bite down on her tongue to keep them from falling.

"You saw the footage," Cage checks, in disbelief, and a small rectangle appears in the corner of the screen, replaying Clarke pulling back the arrow and firing it into the sky. Into the forcefield.

"No," he repeats, stern, but he swallows again, thick, like he might not believe it himself when he thinks about it. He sounds nervous, the slightest of trembles in his voice. The same insistence from before appears back onto his face and he shakes his head, as if to shake away the memories of that night. "She didn't know. Neither of us knew… That there was a bigger plan or… We had no idea."

Cage snarls nastily, condescending. "Well, Bellamy Blake, there are many who find it suspicious to say the least. It seems as if she was part of a rebel plan all along."

He huffs, rough, his jaw clenching. "You think it was part of her plan to be almost killed by Luna? Or to be—paralysed by lightning? She could've died." She hopes he believes that, too, isn't just defending her. She never knew, she would have told him. He has to know that. He forces himself to take a deep, shuddering breath. "No. We were not ever part of any rebel plan."

Cage nods, brief, and then Bellamy is talking again but it doesn't sound like him, not really. She doesn't quite know how to explain it, because to everyone else it might sound exactly like him. He's speaking, his mouth is moving, they're his words. "I think—I think she was just angry. At the Games. They take so much away from you…" He shakes his head, more to himself. "And I think, maybe she just wanted to, make a final statement."

A final statement? She'd been angry. She'd felt helpless. She'd thought he was dead. She saw no way out but to die and take that fucking arena with her. She wishes she could've succeeded at both, but she didn't. So yeah. A final statement, maybe.

"All right, I believe you," Cage says, eyes darting off screen for just a second. He conveniently doesn't ask him to elaborate on what the Games take from you. Everything you are, nights without waking up in a cold sweat, being able to look at yourself in a mirror. Just to name a few. "Thank you. I was going to ask you about the unrest in the country but I feel like you might be too upset to—"

"No, no," Bellamy quickly cuts him off, ensuring him as he wipes his palms on his thighs. "I can."

"You sure?" Cage inquires, his head slightly tilted, faux-concerned. He's a bad actor.

"Yeah. Absolutely. " He shifts in his chair, something hard washing over his face as he sits up. She likes to think she knows who he is, that a few days couldn't have changed so much, and that what follows next isn't him. It isn't. "I want everyone who's watching to stop and to think about what a civil war could mean. We almost went extinct once before, and now our numbers are even fewer."

"He's one of them," someone says, shoving his tray away roughly. She feels Wells' hand wrapping around her wrist, hovering beside her. Raven is not far behind him, face dark. Clarke doesn't know her well enough to gauge if it's in favor of Bellamy or not.

He inclines his head slightly, voice soft and hesitant as he stares at the camera. "Is this really what we want to do?"

"Traitor!" A woman yells, slamming her hands on top of a table and something crashes behind them, metal onto the floor, perhaps. Clarke cranes her neck to look over her shoulder, meets Luna's eyes just as she pushes open the door of the cafeteria and disappears behind them. What does she think about him, that he's right?

His eyes are glazed over and Clarke can't help but to want to reach out and comfort him, then something darker washes over them, disdain maybe. "Kill ourselves off? Killing is not the answer."

"I can't believe he's doing this!" A different woman this time, throwing her cup against the wall beside the television, water splattering everywhere. Clarke, she can't, she can't breathe. She's looking at him, and he looks the same, but he's saying things that don't make sense. He would want them to fight. "Everyone needs to lay down their weapons immediately."

Clarke can't listen to it. Not to the "He's not one of us!" or the "It's treason!" or the "Traitor!" or the "He's Wallace's puppet!" or the "Hang him!". Not to any of it. She turns around, watches all their faces, the betrayal, and she can't do anything but stand there, chest heaving up and down irregularly. She might be crying, she doesn't know.

His voice echoes through the room from behind her. "I'm calling for a ceasefire. I want everyone to stop the senseless violence. It's not the path to change. It's not the path to justice."

She opens her mouth, closes it again. She wants to defend him, but she doesn't know how. Wells pulls her away and doesn't stop dragging her along until they're inside of his room.

"There can't be a ceasefire," Raven speaks first, after the door falls shut behind behind him and Wells' has her propped on top of his bed, making the motions for her. "Not after everything Wallace's done."

It's clear her best friend agrees, but he checks to see the state Clarke's in before he responds. "Most people are still afraid to join the rebellion. He could have done a lot of damage."

It's a polite way of saying he just fucked them over. Clarke snaps out of her catatonic state, rolling the tiny shell between her finger and thumb. She'd taken it out of her pocket without even knowing it. "Why do you think he said that?" Her eyes rake their faces for answers, mostly Wells' because Raven is unreadable. She doesn't understand. Clarke knows Bellamy. She does. Out of all people, he would be for a rebellion. He was ready to murder Wallace himself. He would want people to fight.

"I don't know," he shrugs, but he's always been a bad liar. He glances over at Raven briefly, then grimaces. "Maybe he was forced."

"He didn't look that bad," Raven snaps, less concerned with Clarke's feelings.

Wells' opens his mouth, closes it again, conflicted. He probably doesn't want to defend someone who just publicly announced to be against everything he stands for, but he always tries to see everything from different sides. He's good like that. Then, settles on, "Maybe he made some kind of deal. To protect you."

Clarke's actually heart stops beating for just a second. He's still playing the game. She tucks the shell away in the inside pocket of her jumpsuit gingerly, then looks up at them. She finds Raven's gaze first, there's the dimple above her brow again, arms crossed over her chest. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips as she forces out, "I want to help. Nobody hates Wallace and everything he stands for more than me. I just keep thinking…"

Wells sinks down on the bed beside her, urging her on quietly. "Yeah?"

"I keep thinking… even if we win this, this war? What happens to Bellamy? You saw their faces, you heard what they said—he's not safe here. He's definitely not safe there, in Polis." Blood must have blood. "They tried to use him against me before, what's to keep it from happening again?"

Wells' exhales loudly, exchanging another glance with Raven before turning his gaze back onto her. "I don't think you realize how important you are to them."

"Yeah," Raven admits, uncrossing her arms. Some of the hostility deflates. "Their whole plan practically consists of you being their symbol of change. If you want something, you should just ask them. You have the leverage."

/.\

"Go away," Anya drawls, even though it's from sleep this time, not booze. Clarke doesn't budge and bends down to rip the covers off her head. "Get up, Anya. You can't wither away in this bed."

"Watch me," she mutters, defiant, rolling over onto her back and blinking at the bright lights in her room. Everything is bright and sterile down here, and none of it compares to actual sunlight. She rubs the sleep out of her eyes and Clarke notes she looks bad. Her hair is half-up in a messy bun, tangles in the loose strands, dark baggy circles under her eyes, red spots covering her skin. Anya without booze might be even worse than Anya with booze.

Clarke rolls her eyes. "They want me to film propos. Propaganda clips."

She demanded immunity for all the victors, full and unconditional pardons. Bellamy Blake. Emori St. Johns. Even Echo Olwyn? Yes. No punishment will be inflicted for them or any other tributes. District thirteen will try and save the hostages at the earliest opportunity. Those were her conditions.

Diyoza shot her down at first, uninterested. "Individuals don't make demands here in thirteen."

Maybe not individuals, but she was supposedly an entire movement. She channeled the Mockingjay, because that's what she wanted, right, and when the corners of Diyoza's lips turned up, amused, Clarke knew she'd won. "It's not their fault you abandoned them in the arena. They're doing what they have to do to survive."

It costs Clarke something, her pride least of all, but she gets what she wants. For them to be safe. They train her, learn her how to hold a gun, shoot it. Just for the movies though, she's not allowed to go into the field and fight. Can't have her actually be a part of the rebellion.

"Congrats," Anya says, gruff, sitting up.

Clarke bites down on her lip. "Can you come?"

Wells will just try and encourage her. She doesn't want to be encouraged. She doesn't want them to settle for 'kind of believable'. It has to feel real. If it doesn't the deal she made with Diyoza might not be honored and she knows what happened the last time she couldn't come through on a deal.

So Wells is off the table. Even Murphy nowadays regards her like she might blow up any second. She thinks Anya is the only one who isn't afraid she'll snap, or bend, or break if she just so much as glares into her direction and also knows her well enough to notice and call her out if she sounds too insincere.

She pinches the bridge of her nose, inhales sharply. "You know they cut me off, right?"

"You know you kind of owe me, right?"

She did volunteer for her, after all. It wasn't exactly fair, because Anya never asked her to and she would probably never be able to pull this card on her again, but Clarke felt like it was worth it. Everything depended on these propos now.

Anya's eyes snap to hers, sharp. A tense, almost hostile moment passes, and then she breaks the silence. "Fine." She lays back down, turns her back towards Clarke. "Have them get me when you start shooting. But not a minute before noon, or the deal's off."

Clarke slams the door on her way out, just for good measure.

Luna finds her in the crowd later, as Diyoza starts her speech. They haven't really talked. Not since the breakdown she had in the hovercraft. She doesn't know on whose behalf that is. Murphy locks himself up in his room most of the time, like Anya, but Luna's bed is empty more often than not. Ground privileges, Wells had informed her. Clarke spent most of her time with him, some of it with Raven, too, when she wasn't holed up with Sinclair. He'd taken her under his wing after he found out she used to dabble with electronics in the Hob, the black market back in district twelve.

"How were you part of this?"

"What do you mean?" Her voice is low, arms crossed over her chest as she looks around at the hundreds of faces surrounding them, listening to thirteen's president announce the victors will receive immunity. Another part of the deal. Clarke wanted it to be as public as it could be, to make backtracking from it as difficult as possible.

Clarke frowns at the side of her face, for a few moments, chewing on the inside of her cheek, crossing her hand over her body to take a hold of her other elbow, then elaborates. "When we first met, you told me no one of us deserved to live. What changed? How did you go from wanting the human race to die out, to wanting to save it?"

She could use some advice on that. Not that she wanted everyone to die, but she was also not particularly jumping at the opportunity to save everyone. Most of the time, she was so overcome on the hatred, she was just thinking about ways to get to Wallace and kill him. That was her focus.

"I didn't think it was real," Luna admits, blunt, with a light shake of her full mane of curls. "You and him. Sure, you were friends, maybe you cared about each other, but—" She lifts a shoulder, unsure, and Clarke forces herself to train her gaze on Diyoza and nowhere else. A moment flashes in front of her eyes. I need you. How he'd looked at her when she'd opened her eyes, so fond and vulnerable, the kiss they shared afterwards. She pushes it away. "I thought you were doing it for the sponsors. The baby was obviously fake and he was always looking at you like a kicked puppy. It seemed like a strategy."

A strategy. Yeah, perhaps. One that was going to keep him alive. That was always the goal. She's not sure she's even managed that. Still, it's not very pleasant to be reminded of all of this. It was very easy to shut that part of herself off, to regard it as weakness, remain objective. She saved the memories for her nightmares, because she couldn't escape those no matter how hard she tried, wasn't sure she could bear it all otherwise. Couldn't sit around all day and think about the mistakes she's made. The times she could've held him and didn't. "Why are you telling me this?"

Luna exhales loudly, glancing over at her out of the corner of her eye. "His heart stopped—he nearly died. It wasn't until then that I realized… you love him. I'm not saying in what way, maybe you don't even know it yourself." She lowers her voice for the next part, even though she might as well been yelling it into her ear, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up straight. "Anyone can see it."

She knew, she knew that was between them was real. That they had a relationship that wasn't just convenient companionship, not anymore, not for a long time. She knew how he looked at her, knew how other people interpreted that, how much he cared about her, for her. She didn't know—had she been so careless? So reckless, too? Had she played right into Wallace's hand? Clarke just blinks at the side of her face, as Diyoza concludes her announcement to mixed responses.

"It's not about whether we deserve to live, Clarke," Luna says, softly, and Clarke still doesn't understand. Her thick brows furrow together. "Maybe some of us don't." She has a whole list of them. "It's about what you believe. I still believe that there's some good left in this world, some truth to the lies," she notes, gaze soft and empathetic. Suddenly it clicks. Like you and Bellamy. Some good. Something hopeful. "I still believe that because of that, we should put an end to this war. If we don't, thousands more will die. There are children, innocent people out in the district." She puts her hand on top of Clarke's shoulder, briefly, "Their souls can still be saved." Maybe not hers or Luna's, but theirs. Then, before Clarke can say anything or even process her words, she disappears into the dissenpating crowd.

/.\

"Lincoln asked to keep these for him," Anya reveals, thrusting black fabric into her hands. She at least looks like she had a shower this morning, so that's good. She still looks frail, too skinny.

Lincoln. Her friend. Clarke doesn't dare look at the other woman, but forces a pained smile onto her face. She doesn't know who she's pretending for. "He's dead, isn't he?"

"Yes," she says, then awkwardly and a moment too late, reaches out to pat her on the shoulder. "He made Kane promise not to show you until you decided to be the Mockingjay on your own."

"It's beautiful," she admits, genuine. It's a uniform, all black, on the back it's decorated with subtle wings. Like the Mockingjay. She's touched, too. That he wouldn't let them use him as more leverage against her.

"At least you'll be the best dressed rebel in history." Anya, cynical, lips pursed as she perches herself on top of a table while Clarke slips out of her jumpsuit, and into the darker one Lincoln designed, straps herself into the armor. They're long past modesty.

"What am I even supposed to do?" The older victor asks later, when Kane brings in a prep-team to make Clarke's hair look presentable in it's signature plait and paint her face with dark colors, a bowl of carrots in her lap that she devours with a grimace on her face.

"I want to make sure it's convincing," Clarke says says, trying to keep her face as still as possible to keep one of the assistants from poking her in the eye with the pencil she's holding. "You were always honest with me. I need to… I need to be sure that it's…" She searches for the right words. She can't be weak, give Wallace more ammunition, can't stand there and sell lies. It has to be authentic. Everything depends on it. "Objective."

She cocks an eyebrow, like what Clarke is saying doesn't add up, breaking off a carrot in between her teeth. "When were you ever objective? When you volunteered for a deadly game so you could keep Bellamy safe?"

Maybe she is right. Maybe she's been weak this entire time, showed them too much of herself already. Maybe no one will believe a word out of her mouth. Maybe it's too late and she can't do anything to keep her promise this time either.

"Clarke," Kane walks in, cutting their conversation short. The blonde is still blinking at her former-mentor stupidly, until he repeats her name. "This is Harper McIntyre, in my opinion one of Polis' best up-and-coming directors."

"Heard a lot about you." Harper shakes her hand, firm and warm, like her smile. Her blonde hair falls over her shoulders, a small braid weaved into it, and when she turns her head to introduce her crew, Clarke notices half of her skull is shaved, a delicate, intricate, fine-lined geometric tattoo splayed across it. Capital fashion.

"This is Monroe, my assistant." Harper motions at a small pale girl, with ruddy hair plaited back from her face. She offers her nod in greeting. Their director tilts her head slightly, into the direction of a surly-looking, dark, broad guy. There's a beanie on his head and he's somehow sporting scruff and making it look good. "That's Miller. Our cameraman." Clarke meets his gaze, and he raises his eyebrows. He's not very impressed with her, she can tell as much, looking like he'd rather be anywhere but here.

Harper smiles, fond, almost, pointing her thumb towards the last unfamiliar face in front of the victor. "And that's Monty, our sound engineer." It's a timid looking, asian boy, who can't be much older than her. They all look young, too young. He smiles, tight-lipped, holding up a few fingers in a small wave.

"Nice to meet you," Clarke says, more out of habit, directs her next sentence to Monty, because he seems the nicest, a little bashful. "Did you all escape from—"

Harper shakes her head lightly, a sad twinge in her eyes as she interrupts her. "Don't expect too much chit chat on his behalf. He's an Avox. Polis cut out his tongue for stealing herbs from a garden when he was sixteen." She purses her lips in disdain, "Called him a traitor."

A crime against Polis is a crime against the whole nation, even if it's something as small as stealing some plants. Clarke holds back a snort, probably inappropriate. Harper sucks in a breath. "And it wasn't like that. We weren't rescued. We all fled, to come here. Come to you."

There's that familiar pang in her chest again. They all expect too much of her. With each second that passes, she's more convinced she won't be able to deliver.

"Don't get me wrong," Harper smirks, confident. "I would have loved to shocklash Wallace's fascist ass and hand him over to the rebels, but I was years away from being that close to the president. So we joined the movement."

"This is our home now," Monroe adds, boldy. "The place we want to fight for."

Home. District thirteen was a lot of things, but it wasn't her home. When she thinks of that, it's not district twelve either, not the big lonely mansion in the Victor's Village or the old house she used to live in with her mother. It's two arms wrapped around her as she hovers in that blissful state between waking up and being asleep, a warm smile, flower in her hair from baking, Octavia's brazen laugh, paint-stained fingers, that stupid cat scratching her leg for attention, Bellamy's nose nuzzling her temple, the smell of fresh stew, the warm sun on her shoulders when they would sit on the gr—

Kane claps her on the shoulder, encouragingly, breaking off her thoughts abruptly. "Let's get this show on the road, huh?"

She nods, straightening the top part of her armored uniform. It's not too heavy, but it's nothing she's used to. She stands in front of a big green screen Monroe put up, they aim a big fan at her head, plaster a flag with the Mockingjay symbol into her hand, tell her to get on a knee.

"Okay, Clarke. You start down on one knee. As you rise up, you're gonna put up the flag and deliver your line," Harper instructs her, explicit, waving her hands into different directions. It all sounds easy, and it probably is, but it feels incredibly dumb. She raises an eyebrow, checks, "You've read the script, right?"

Clarke nods, after a beat passes, because for some reason the question takes longer to register than usually. Because she's thorough, Harper reminds her, "You've just stormed the outskirts of Polis, arm-in-arm with your brothers and sisters."

"Okay," she forces out, avoiding Miller's judgemental gaze as he lifts the camera back onto her shoulder. He came here for her, so this must be hard to watch. Harper must notice her nerves, because she puts a hand on top of her shoulder. "Whenever you're ready, okay?"

She signals for her cameraman to start rolling, and nudges her head slightly at Monty, who steps closer and adjusts the microphone above her head.

"People of Panem. We fight, we dare, we—" She breaks off, ducking her head as she presses her thumb and pointer finger into her eye sockets, careful not to mess up the make-up. This is bad. Very bad. There's people out there giving their lives, and she can't even deliver a few lines?

Harper stays optimistic though, compliments her every take, even when she stumbles on the words or trips over her own feet, gives her instructions on how to stand or which tone to use. Things she usually doesn't need direction on.

"Clarke, that was…" Kane starts, unsure look on his face when they finish the first full take in which she isn't grimacing.

"I have a few notes," Anya cuts him off, shoving the empty bowl off her lap and striding closer to the group of people she's been snarling at since they came in. "People of Panem, we fight? We dare to end this hunger for justice? This is how a revolution dies."

"Anya," Clarke starts, because despite not having amounted to much, she's tired and she isn't in the mood for criticism unless it's actually helpful. She just looks like she's bored and is in for an argument.

"Shut up," she directs at her former-trainee, crossing her arms over her chest. Her expression is like she's perpetually smelling something particularly rank when she turns to Kane. "People never liked Clarke for the flaming dresses or the hairstyles or the men proclaiming their eternal love for her." Her eye falls on Monroe, who looks like she might pee herself, and she nods at her. "You. Name a moment where Clarke Griffin genuinely moved you."

Clarke feels awkward just standing there, props in her hands, listening to them talk about her like she's not there. She guesses Anya's right though. At one point Monroe believed enough in her to leave her home and find a new one on enemy territory. She needs to channel that, those moments.

"Uhm," Monroe stutters, glancing over at Harper for a second. "When she saved Myles from the Careers." Clarke stares down at her boots, teeth gritted together. She didn't want to relive all of this, pretend like she did it with a double-agenda in mind.

"Excellent example," Anya compliments, but remains condescending without a doubt. "Next?"

Harper lifts a shoulder, indifferent. "When she sang that song for Finn." Monty nods, obviously agreeing as he smiles her way.

"Yeah, a real tearjerker that one," Anya says, cynical as she rolls her eyes half-heartedly.

"When she wanted Gaia and Sinclair to be her allies," Miller assists, eyes flicking over to her for the briefest of moments. "Madi, too." Her sweet little girl.

Resigned, figuring they might as well indulge Anya's suggestions, Kane adds, arms crossed over his chest, "When she volunteered for you."

Anya claps her hands together. "Good job everyone. Now, what do all of these have in common?"

Harper looks at her, a beam slowly spreading across her face. "No one told her what to do."

"Exactly. How about we leave the pep talks to our dear Mockingjay?" She grimaces, waving a hand into her direction. "And somebody wash her face. She's still just a girl and she looks about my age right now."

Her first unscripted speech isn't much, not holed up down in a bunker, safe, away from any real battles, but it's a far cry from her earlier performance.

"We need to stop this war. Not because I said so, or Wallace did, but because the longer this drags on on, the more people will die. The only way to stop all of it, the war, the hurt, the bloodshed, is to fight. Together." That word had meant something special, a long time ago. That is what you and I do, we keep each other alive. Protect each other. Together. Maybe it still could. "We will win. So we can move past it, past the pain, get our second chance."

/.\

The day Sinclair and Raven manage to breakthrough the capital's defenses and broadcast her first propo, is also the day Wallace retaliates. Like he's been waiting in the shadows, planning this, expecting her to make the first move.

It's not Bellamy this time. It's Emori. She's sitting in the same chair as Bellamy had been, but there's some sort of metal collar around her neck, arms tightly tied to the handles of it. Her dark hair is plastered to her face and neck, chest heaving up and down with quick, shuddering breaths, as sweat trickles down her collarbone and disappears into her tank top. Her eyes shift around wildly.

A voice off camera asks her, "Can you confirm you're Emori St. Johns?"

"Yes," she whimpers, soft and then yelps out in pain as the collar lights up and seems to emit some kind of electric current, shocking her. "Yes," she confirms, steadier, once her eyes stop rolling into the back of her head and her fingers stop flexing around the handle of her chair. "My name is Emori! Emori St. Johns."

Murphy was still waiting in line—because they refused to bring it to him, he was waiting for his dinner just so he could scurry off back to his room—and Clarke's eyes found his instantly when his tray clattered loudly to the ground.

"Can you confirm you had direct relations with the so-called Mockingjay?"

Clarke's breath hitches in the back of her throat, nails digging into her thighs as she feels everyone's eyes on her. Everyone's, except for his. He's still frozen, staring up at the screen with glazed over eyes.

"Fuck you," she spits, actually spits at what Clarke assumes are the voice's feet, and she's rewarded with another shockwave. Her head falls forward, whole body straining to take the pain. When she lifts her head back up, her hair is stuck to her cheek. She inhales sharply, but doesn't say any more. In the bottom right corner of the screen, a rectangle shows footage of Clarke tending to Emori's wounds, back in the arena. She's pushing her hair back, gently, to assess the damage to her head, but they look close, closer than Clarke would have pegged them to be. Another clip, of them sharing a smile Clarke doesn't even remember, might have been edited.

"If we wanted to get a message across to the terrorist by the name of Mockingjay, many might think we should have started with Bellamy Blake. The father of her child. Can you explain why we didn't?"

She chuckles, stupid as she rises her chin to stare directly at the person across from her. "Because I stabbed a Peacekeeper." That girl will do anything to survive, probably tried to escape.

"You stabbed a Peacekeeper," the voice confirms, clearly unimpressed. "We have been kind to you. Saved you from the arena. You rewarded us by being ungrateful. And you know we don't condone violence here, Ms. St. Johns."

They don't condone violence, but they're electrocuting a girl on national television for the same old reason as always. Blood must have blood. Some of it they want to be Clarke's. The victor glances back over at Murphy, but his face is unreadable, hands limp at his sides. She wants to go over there, but isn't sure what to do, how to comfort him. When she saw Bellamy, all she wanted to do was watch his face forever. But it hadn't been like this, hadn't been literal torture.

Emori laughs, actually cackles, and then it breaks off and her whole body tenses as the collar around her neck buzzes. It stops, for just a second, and then starts back up. She cries out in pain, actual tears rolling down her cheeks and she sobs, but when the electricity fades, the sobs turn back into shakey laughter, body hunched over as far as it can be with her arms tied to the chair. "I never asked to be saved."

Another shock is released and her body convulses, shaking heavily, only the whites of her eyes showing. Some blood drips down the side of her mouth, eyes dazed and it looks like she has difficulty keeping her head up. Her voice drawls, slurs. "End it already." Her eyebrows are a hard arch, and her body shakes from a silent sob. "I want to go to John. Please."

She thinks he's dead. It's why she's no longer fighting, no longer trying to survive. Why the girl who cut off her own hand to live, is ready to give up. Clarke watches Murphy, the way the realization sets in on his face, the wetness of his cheeks, the utter and complete helplessness he must feel.

"How many days, Ms. St. John?"

She leans her head back against the chair, and the blood drips down her chin and onto her white tank top. "Three."

"Until what?"

He shocks her again when she doesn't respond, her eyes shut, but Emori barely reacts this time, like her body has nothing left inside, like her muscles can't contract any more. Her chin dips to her chest, head rolling from side to side, the corners of her lips turns up the slightest of slight. Clarke has to try hard to understand, but when she does, fright immediately settles in. "Until I'm free."

The screen cuts to black and Clarke stares at it, almost dizzy. It's not long before noise shows on the screen and then Wallace appears in his office, as serene as ever, with a final message. "We, here at Polis, have always been fair and just. Thus, we will be offering your Mockingjay a chance to save her life."

If Clarke turns herself in, they won't execute Emori for her crimes against the capital. He's turning everyone against her. She'll seem selfish if she doesn't go, a traitor to those who stood by her, but if she does go, she'll be dead within a minute and the others still won't be safe. She'll show the general public she's not that different from Wallace after all, valuing her life above Emori's, like the capital has done for more than three quarters of a century.

Shaw lifts her out of her chair at one point, and she vaguely registers Wells' asking where he's taking her, but she can't look away, can't stop looking over at her shoulder at Murphy, who's looking right back at her, eyes narrowed darkly. Not even when the doors fall shut behind them and Shaw's grip on her arm loosens.

She already knows where he's taking her before they even turn the corner. "Maybe—maybe we can make a deal. M-my life for theirs," Clarke offers, still dazed, mind racing with possibilities. There has to be a way. A way to save her. All of them. Stop this.

Kane sounds resigned. "You really think they're just going to let her walk out of there?"

Clarke doesn't look at him, focuses her gaze onto Diyoza as she pushes her hair back from her face. She has to be the one to agree. "One, one life for three. That's, that's fair, right? Just?" Nobody says anything, a heavy and tense silence hanging between all of them. "If we get, we get Bellamy—he can be the Mockingjay."

"I can't let you do that, Ms. Griffin," she finally speaks, calm and collected, rising from the chair behind her desk. Clarke stops dead in her tracks, head empty safe from the president's voice and the sound of her own, heavy breathing. "I think you know that. I think you also know that if we give in now, it won't just be you that's dead, probably the other victors too, it will mean thousands more in the districts as well. Innocent deaths." That's what Luna said. "The Games won't ever stop. The revolution will." Diyoza offers her a close lipped smile. "Your life, as the Mockingjay, holds more value."

Clarke doesn't believe that. She can't. But deep down, she knows Diyoza's right about everything else. Walking in there, it would guarantee nothing, nothing but them losing this war. He would still kill Emori, kill the others, too. She might be right, but it doesn't mean she has to like this.

"She'll die right there if I don't do this," Clarke counters, but she knows she's grasping onto straws, pretending like Emori would still have a fighting chance. She wouldn't put it above Wallace to torture and execute all three of them and make her watch.

"She'll die if you do," Diyoza says, and to her credit, she does manage to look somewhat sympathetic. "I don't know Ms. St. Johns, but she's a sacrifice we have to make. We will honor her accordingly."

Accordingly. Like this was a sacrifice Emori was choosing to make. Clarke feels sick, sick to her stomach, she never wanted this. Never wanted more blood on her hands. Does she have a choice?

/.\

She doesn't know why, but when the deadline is closing in, she has to see him. Has to—she doesn't know what. Apologize? For sentencing his girlfriend to death? She's not—she doesn't know how to justify herself, just that this has to be done. For all of them.

After the message was broadcast, Murphy was arrested for stealing a gun and trying to shoot a guard with it when he wouldn't let him into Diyoza's office. Shaw brings her to his holding cell when she asks him to, and it's a bright, white room, more like an interrogation room than anything. He makes sure Murphy is still cuffed to the table before leaving them alone for a moment, informing her he'll be right outside.

"Just hear me out," he says, eyes red, hair greasy and falling into his eyes when he lifts his head off his hands to find her. He looks like he's been awake ever since they watched the broadcast. He pleads, and pleads, hands pressed together, "Clarke, please just look at me." She forces herself to look away from his hands, take her own out of her pocket and off her shell, meet his gaze. "You have to do this. You have to do this."

She steps closer, wanting to offer him some comfort, but not knowing how. Her mouth opens but then she closes it. Her hand lingers in the air, then it drops, defeated. Finally, she settles on, "I wish I could, Murphy."

He huffs, sitting back into his seat, eyes narrowed into dark sliths. His cuffs slide over the table loudly with every move of his hands. "Who the hell do you think you are, huh?"

That's not something she knows anymore. Who she is. It's not just that Diyoza wouldn't let her. It's also that Clarke believes this is the right thing to do. Not for Emori, not for Murphy, but for all of them. She has to bear that, bear that she would trade one life for thousands, that's on her. That's who she has to be. "I'm trying to save us."

"Save us?" He snorts, actually snorts, derisive, as he shakes his head lightly to himself. "Right, the Mockingjay. Saviour of us all." He yanks on his cuffs, like he's trying to get them loose and when he stands, his chair clatters to the floor loudly, making Clarke wince. That, or his words. His voice booms louder with each skeptical word. "Maybe you're forgetting that the last time you saved us, I was saving you!"

"I'm not forgetting," she responds, letting out a breathy noise as she bites back tears, jaw clenched. He jumped in front of her, right before lightning struck. The boy who would do anything to survive—he saved her, because he chose the rebellion over his own life, because he believed that was what right. She hopes he can do that again.

"If you haven't forgotten then you have to do this," he counters, rightfully so. Then his face softens, and Clarke's eyes linger on his hands again, wrists red and raw and bloody, as he holds them up as if he wants to reach out to her, shake her. "Please, you need to this."

She remains quiet, not sure what there's left to say. They both know there's no other option. No other option but for her to stay here. His breathing turns erratic, and he's yanking on the cuffs again, trying to get closer to her, trying to kick the table aside, but he can't. He's getting desperate now, and Clarke can't do anything but stand there and take it. "Too bad you aren't really in charge here. Imagine how many people you could leave behind to die to save your own ass then." He yells and she flinches at the tone of his voice, teeth gritted together. "Tell me. After you leave her there, after you murder her—who's next? Me? Bellamy?"

Her eyes snap up to his, already sharp on her face. Bellamy. Would she still feel the same way? She can't say that for sure. Maybe she's a hypocrite, maybe she should just turn herself in, save Emori no matter what it meant. She still can't get her mouth to move. "Okay," he reasons, shaking his head slightly, eyes raking her face as if to come up with a new plan to get her to agree, like there's still a chance she might. "I'm begging you, please. I love her. Do this."

"Emori, she'll…" Clarke starts, but what is she supposed to say? That she'll be fine? She can't promise that. She can just watch something cold and hard wash over his face as he straightens his posture, hands limp in front of him as tears trail down his cheeks. "Hey. Look at me."

She does, another face to add to the long list of faces that haunt her in her dreams, another face broken beyond repair. "If she dies, you die."

Shaw pulls her out of the room, tries to start up small-talk on the way back to her own but it's a one-sided conversation. She feels like there's been an extra layer of dirt covering her skin ever since their conversation. She can't help but think, think that if it was Bellamy they were threatening to kill, she might already be in Polis. Can't help but blame herself for all of this. She might have started a revolution, but she also started this. Alliances. People they could hurt to hurt her.

She stands under the cold spray of water in her bathroom and scrubs and scrubs and scrubs until her skin is red and raw, and it still doesn't feel like enough. She stands in front of the mirror for a long time, stares at the scars and the tears dripping down her chin. She doesn't know what time it is, but she knows the deadline is close, too close. She doesn't recognize who she is. The old Clarke would have never prioritized her own life above someone else's. She knows she's not being fair to herself, because it's not just Emori, it's everyone in the districts. She knows that, and yet… Yet, she hates herself more than ever before.

She stares at the the wet, messy braid she haphazardly threw together out of habit and has to steady herself on the sink as her body erupts into violent sobs. Bellamy. He would always tug on it, playfully or fond or for reassurance, reassurance she was still the person she always was, the person he could trust. He always wanted her to be better, do better. Would he still be able to look at her after this? Would she ever see him again? She's holding the scissors in her shaking fingers before she knows it, and for the first time, lets herself grief the person she used to be.

/.\

"Remember. This is how far your Mockingjay will go. She will betray her own friends if it benefits her, and only her," Wallace introduces the broadcast, sour look on his face, like he's actually regretful about this. Like he would actually mourn Emori after… After she's gone. "She's given us no other choice."

"You don't have to watch this," Wells tells her, already tugging on her hand as Raven comes up on her other side while the mesh hall fills up. They're both out of breath, like someone warned them she was here. People in district thirteen understand her, are on her side, but they still look at her, look at her like—like they can't believe she actually went through with something like this.

"I do," she states, as Emori appears on the screen, remaining stiff under Wells' touch, frozen to the ground. Emori's in the same chair, wearing the same blood- and sweat-stained white clothes as before. She looks barely conscious, drifting in and out of it.

"Come on, Clarke. Let's just leave," Raven offers, this time, softer than usual, but the blonde just shakes her head. No. She did this. She has to face the consequences of that.

She's still wearing the collar, and her body convulses as it starts buzzing. Clarke still hopes something will happen, that he'll stop and show mercy or someone will come in and stop them, or, or anything. The buzzing turns louder and louder until it's all they hear, even louder than the screams coming from Emori, the flesh of her neck burning under the electric current. Clarke cries silently as she watches more blood drip down Emori's chin, trickle out of her ears, fall from her eyes and trail down her cheeks like they're tears. How's this different? How is this different from watching and accepting children kill each other in an arena?

Her body stills, no signs of fight left anymore, and the buzzing stops. The screen cracks, as a chair collides with it, a guttural scream echoing through the mesh hall. "Murphy," Clarke breathes, throat dry, quickly reaching up to wipe at the wetness on her face and Wells hand tightens around her own. Two guards have him by the arms. Raven's narrowed eyes dart over to her best friend's, in a not-so-hushed whisper, she questions, "Who the hell let him out?"

Her breathing stutters in the back of her throat as he informs her, calmly, even though he's still struggling against the guards, "I thought saving you would be a survivor's move, that in the end, I would be better because of it." He wipes at his cheeks, roughly, his wrists are still bound together with cuffs. "But it cost me everything."

It's clear he thinks he should've let her die, that night, in the arena.

"I'm sorry, Murphy, I am," she forces herself, forces her voice to be steady, forces herself not to choke on the tears, because that's the truth. She wishes—she wishes so many things. But she never wished for this. She steps closer to him, despite everyone around her thinking she's crazy for it. "I don't know what to tell you. There was no other way."

"You got it all wrong, Clarke," he hisses, and the corners of his lips are turned up in a smirk, eyes cold. He barely tries to escape the hold of one of the guards anymore, like he's sure he'll get his chance. "I don't want you to say anything. I want you to feel what I feel, and then… I want you to die."

"Get him out of here," Raven commands, sharp, stepping in front of Clarke as her entire body starts shaking against her will. She tried to be strong. She tried to. Wells' arms wrap around her frame and she blacks out for the rest of it, only remembers waking up in her bed, jolting awake from another haunted dream.

The deaths don't stop after that.

Dante rounds up each and every victor that's left, goes door to door in every district. Executes one every day Clarke doesn't turn herself in, justifies himself by saying no victor could be trusted. That one of them confessed they were all in on this, all working together with the rebels. Bellamy? Emori? Echo? A victor's purge. Kills their families, too, says their lies of omission were crimes towards Polis as well. Do you see how far your Mockingjay will go? Becca Amaryllis, from district seven is the first. How many lives she will waste for an useless cause? Roan Borealis, Azgeda. His wife, his mother. How many more people will she sacrifice? Tor Lemkin, from Podakru, and his eight year old daughter Reese. When will she give in? Kyle Wick and his little brother, Boudalan. Paxton McCreary, Louwoda Kliron. What are the rebels doing to her to make her this heartless? Clarke stops showing up to the daily viewings after the eighth day. Is this your hero, this commander of death, who chooses who lives and who dies?

"We have to make a move. We're losing credibility. Sitting back, doing nothing," Kane reasons, pensive, during one of their many meetings, leaning back against the table.

"Your propos aren't doing their job, that's painstakingly clear." Diyoza shakes her head, dismissive. Wallace had countered with propos of his own, started a smear campaign on his own, showing old footage of Clarke killing people, in the Games, districts falling apart and burning to the ground, calling her the commander of death, with the Mockingjay symbol flashing across the screen afterwards each time. "Polis' hold on the districts is still too big."

Clarke sits their quietly, lets them argue as she picks at the loose skin around her fingernails until the flesh stings and bleeds. She's nothing more than an extension of them, a puppet, something she swore she would never become again.

"DePalma is not much more than a drunk, but she was right. Her influence is the biggest when she improvises." The way he talks about Anya doesn't give her much hope for how they speak about her behind her back. Not that she cares much. "The opportunities for spontaneity are obviously lacking below ground."

Diyoza cocks an eyebrow. "You're suggesting we toss her into combat?" She crosses her legs, searches his face for any facetiousness. "I can't sanction putting a barely trained civilian in battle for the dramatic effect. We're not Polis."

Kane doesn't budge. "That is exactly what I'm suggesting. Put her in the field."

She taps a finger on top of the table, like she's considering it. "We can't protect her."

Marcus goes off into a rant that Clarke guesses sure is convincing. She's what people respond to, the symbol, and she can't be coached into it. He suggests a low-level warzone, something less dangerous. Diyoza hasn't spared her a single glance, but she tilts her head slightly, like her resolve is faltering.

Shaw clears his throat, and Clarke hadn't even noticed he hadn't assumed his regular post outside the door after dropping her off. "District three. There've been reports of heavy bombing last weeks, but at this point there's no military targets left." Her head snaps towards him and he shuffles his feet a little, one corner of his mouth lifted up slightly, arms behind his back. "Ma'am."

Kane gives her a pointed look and Clarke sits up. This, this could be a chance to actually make a difference. Not pretend like she was. Diyoza sighs, rubbing her temples. She worries her bottom lip for a second, eyes raking her desk like it holds an answer. Then her eyes flick back up. "We can't guarantee her safety."

"You'll never be able to guarantee my safety," Clarke cuts in, pressing, "I want to go."

Diyoza finally meets her gaze, challenging. "And if you're killed?"

If she's killed… Well. It's a risk she's willing to take. She's going stir-crazy here, holed up, in the dark, no news from Polis, sitting on her hands. "Make sure you get it on camera."

/.\

"I know they wanted you to have a weapon for the sake of the propos," Raven tells her, hair pulled back in her signature sleek ponytail, shoving something into her hands. "And because I'm me, I couldn't just make you a fashion accessory."

"Raven," Clarke starts, eyes focused on the bow in her hands. It's beautiful, hand-crafted. A little piece of Bellamy she can carry with her in the field, since this was always his thing. Her mind lingers on one of the many afternoons they spent in the woods, sun hot on their skin as he taught her the ropes, firm hand pressed in between her shoulder blades. Ready to be a badass, Clarke, he'd asked her the first time. She gets a feeling Raven knew as much. "I'm so happy you're here, you know that, right?"

One of her perfect brows arches, and she hides a smirk. "Of course you are. I'm awesome." She limps over to a nearby table, takes some arrows of it and shows them to her. "In fact, I'm so awesome, I made you an entire arsenal of arrows."

The arrows have different colored endings. Blue, yellow, red. Regular, incendiary, explosive. Raven explains, proud smile on her face. She's in her element, Clarke can tell as much.

"You can tell Luna I made her a special Raven edition axe, too, if she wants."

"Luna?" Clarke wonders, surprised, fingering the different arrows. It's been a while. She draws one, aims at a target in the distance. Raven hurries over, lowers her bow with both of her hands, gingerly. "Let's not play with the red ones inside, okay? They're the explosive ones."

"So?" It was just a little target practice.

Raven deadpans, "It explodes."

When Clarke nods, putting the arrows away, the bronze skinned girl lets out a sigh of relief, rubbing her forehead. "Luna is part of your field team. She's been out there before. Thought they would've told you." At least it's someone she knows.

"It's kind of crazy, huh?" Raven says, when Clarke doesn't say anything and the silence drags on between them. "They had all of this and they just left us to fend for ourselves."

Clarke exhales loudly, looking around the room, observing their weapons, armor and vast supply of munition. "Yeah." They claimed they barely survived down here, that they wouldn't have been able to launch any attacks, or counter-attacks. That Polis would've retaliated with twice the firepower and annihilated district thirteen, like they're doing to the rest of the country. But this, Mount Weather, is a bunker. Bunkers are build to survive bombs.

"Looks like choosing who lives and dies is their speciality, too," she mumbles, more to herself probably, disassembling a fire-weapon on the table on front of her skillfully.

Clarke knows she has to be in training within five minutes, but something gnaws at her. Something she can't quite explain. Their speciality, too. Rationally speaking, Clarke knew she meant Polis, but still. Maybe she meant her as well. Started to believe their words about the Mockingjay, too ."You know I would've never picked myself over her, right?"

Her hands freeze, and she considers her next words carefully. "If you're asking me if I know you were saving our people and not your own ass, yes." She wipes her grease-stained fingers on her leg, lifting a shoulder indifferently. "Just know there will be people that won't feel the same."

Clarke nods, after a moment, blinking profusely, trying to keep the tears at bay. She knows that, she's known that. She's just so afraid that—that the one person she needs to understand, needs to forgive her, won't. "I'm sorry," she croaks, when Raven's small arms wrap around her frame tentatively, cheek resting against her hair. "I didn't meant to cry."

Raven pulls back to look at her, and Clarke reaches up to wipe a stray tear away with her knuckle. She lets out a shaky breath, mustering together a weak smile. "I just—it was always easier, with him, by my side, you know? I just…" They always said they would do it together, the head and the heart. It's really hard to function when half of her is broken, gone, incomplete. "I miss him."

Raven squeezes her upper arms, assuringly, brown eyes softer than she's ever seen them. She really has no business discussing this with the girl whose boyfriend she murdered, but Raven doesn't seem to mind. "We'll get him back."

Clarke nods, and she wants to believe that, has to. She sniffs, wiping a tear from her nose with the sleeve of her jumpsuit. "I'm sorry for being such a mess."

Raven raises her eyebrows, cynical. "Hey. Nothing like a little pain to remind you you're alive, right?"

/.\

Harper is sweet, sits besides her in the hovercraft and talks her through the propo they're going to try and shoot to keep her mind of the fact she's back into a similar aircraft that took her to the arena. Clarke would have thanked her, but she's too on edge, too afraid for what's to come, emotions still strung high from the dream that woke her up less than an hour ago.

She'd opened her eyes to find herself back in his room, something warm pressed against her back and splayed across her abdomen. She had to blink at the bright sunlight for a few moments, after having been locked up under the ground for so long. Then, she shifted her head to find a big olive-skinned hand on top of her belly and her heart had started to pound loud in her ears, pulse rattling in her throat.

Slowly, she turned her head on her pillow, only for her gaze to meet a familiar messy mop of curls, freckled face, broad shoulders, pressed to her back. His eyes were closed, still fast asleep, which was rare by the usual times she woke up. She placed her hand over his, just to check if it felt real, too, then picked it up so she could turn around and press her cheek against his chest to feel the steady thumps of his heartbeat. Those beats she could still hear if she closed her eyes and tried hard enough.

"You're awake early, princess," he mumbled, groggy with sleep, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head and tightening his arms around her, pulling her closer even if that was hardly possible. He pulled back slightly to peek at her through one eye, when she didn't respond. He smoothed some hair back from her face. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she smiled, pressing her lips over his heart, before resting her cheek there again and closing her eyes. "I'm just happy."

"Clarke," he said, but then her shoulder moved, like someone was pushing her. He repeated her name, but it didn't sound like him. It was Wells. Out in the real world. It hadn't been a nightmare, or a memory, but something that could have been, a dream, and somehow, that was worse.

Even now, her skin still prickled uncomfortably, and she was sweating for no reason, short strands sticking to the back of her neck. They all must assume it was because of the same reason Harper had, and she wasn't going to be the one to change their minds about it. Happiness, when was the last time she'd been able to say that she was happy? It wasn't a priority. They had to get through this first.

"We gotta be fast, in and out," Shaw reminds them when the hovercraft lands on the ground, accompanying her and the camera crew alongside Wells, who'd been training for a while now. Luna's not there, so maybe Raven was wrong after all.

District three isn't much different from district twelve. Most of it is rubble, just a few buildings left standing. A dark woman comes to meet them, eyeing Clarke warily. "You're alive. We weren't sure."

"Clarke, this is Commander Baum, district three," Shaw informs her, coming up beside her. Then, like he's reading it out of a script, he explains, "Clarke has been recovering but she insisted on coming and seeing some of your wounded."

"We have plenty of those," Commander Baum confirms, leading them through the debris. "And I prefer Indra." On the way to the field hospital, she explains the bombs, their unpreparedness, the mass grave a few blocks away until they stop in front of a curtain, haphazardly hung up with rusty nails to cover the entrance of a building. "Any hope you can give them, it's worth it."

Shaw ducks under it first, the camera crew next. She wants to follow them, but Indra takes her by the arm. "Hey," Wells starts, but Clarke brushes him off. It's not like Indra will kill the Mockingjay in broad daylight when they're both on the same side. "It's okay. I'll be inside in a minute."

He nods, wary, but steps inside anyway. Indra lets out a heavy sigh, adjusting her rifle on her shoulder. "I wanted to thank you."

"Thank me?" She's never met this woman, barely even been here for five minutes. Besides, Indra is the one actually fighting, actually making a difference. Clarke can hardly say the same.

"For Gaia," she elaborates simply, giving her a small nod. Right. This was her district. "She was my daughter. After her first—" She shakes her head lightly, breaking herself off. "She was never the same. But you never treated her any different, so I thank you for that."

"I'm so sorry," Clarke starts, pained, wrapping her arms around herself like that might make it hurt a little less. Gaia was kind, caring. She didn't deserve to die like she did. She can't imagine what it's like, having to lose a child, not once, but twice. "I wish I could saved her."

Indra nods, brief, then her expression hardens. "We're at war, and a warrior does not mourn those she's lost till after the battle is won." It's a bandaid on a bullet hole, just postponing the inevitable, but Clarke gets it. She hasn't let herself mourn a lot of people either, just in case the pain becomes too overwhelming. It's not something she can afford right now.

They go inside, the rest of them waiting patiently in front of the next curtain. Wells looks relieved to see she's okay. She offers him a reassuring smile.

"Polis has done everything they can to break us," Indra tells them, hand lingering on the second curtain, like she just wants them to have another second.

"Aren't you worried, having all your wounded in one place?" Wells' inquires, looking around the passage-way they're in. There's some blood on the walls and the concrete floor, and the smells not so great. It's probably where they keep their dead, before moving them to the grave.

"I think it's better than leaving them out there to die," Indra counters, unbothered. "If you have any other options, I'm all ears." Then, she pulls back the sheet, revealing dozens and dozens of wounded and sick, on top of makeshift cotts or just on the cold ground. There's clearly not nearly enough healers for all of them. Any hope. How is she supposed to give them hope? How is she supposed to give them anything? She's barely holding on herself.

She grabs Harper's wrist, pleads, "Don't film me in there. I can't help them." The director unwraps her fingers from her wrist carefully, squeezing them softly. "Just let them see your face, Clarke. That's enough. Show them you care."

She nods, gulping down a deep breath before passing the curtain. Her eye falls on a little boy, coughing until blood starts dripping down the corners of his mouth, her heart wrenching in her chest. He's just a boy. She kneels down beside him, pats his back until he's calmed down enough. "Just breathe. It's alright."

Finally, after a few moments, his breathing steadies and she helps him lay back down, propping him up a little so it'll be easier to breathe, taking a cold washcloth out of a bucket next to his cott and pressing it to his forehead. She offers him a weak smile, that she hopes is comforting enough, "Hey. You're okay."

He returns the smile, barely, but it's there, and his eyes close, his body tired. He probably won't have much longer. The ragged, audible, irregular breaths, the cyanosis around his lips, the vague blackness around his nose. He probably inhaled smoke, from the bombs. There's nothing they can do for him, not fast enough anyway. He's going to suffocate on his own blood, all because—all because of what? She pushes the damp hair away from his forehead, bites back the tears. He's just a boy.

"Clarke Griffin?" Someone says, after a while, and she turns her head. A lot of them are staring at her, ranging from confusion to awe to anger. She checks to see if the boy's still asleep, and when she's sure he is, she slowly rises to her feet, wiping her damp hands on the back of her thighs.

"What are you doing here?" The same woman, she assumes, asks, bandage wrapped around her head.

"I came to see you," she croaks out, and it's true. She wanted to see, for herself. The damage that had been done. Wanted to see what Wallace had done to his own people, her people.

"What about the baby?" She questions, bewildered, and Clarke's heartbeat picks up. The baby. Something that was supposed to be hers and Bellamy's, but was never real. It was never real, but it was still a part of him, a part of their story, and it was hard to leave that behind. Part of her didn't want to lie to this woman, to these people, but she knew she had to.

She still has to swallow down the tears, shaking her head lightly. All this pain, all this bloodshed, and they still care about how she's doing. It's too much. Has she done enough for them? Is she doing enough? "I lost it."

"Are you fighting, Clarke?" A man asks, sitting on top of one of the cotts. His arm in in a sling, his face bruised. "You here to fight with us?"

"I am," she confirms, because she is, even if she doesn't have much to show for it, "I will." She will. For them. This has to end. No matter what, no matter what the cost.

She doesn't know how long they stay there, talking to the wounded, helping the healers, listening to their stories and offering them any sort of comfort she can. At one point, Shaw tells her it's time to go, and it's not until they're halfway back to the hovercraft that she lets a tear fall. Wells' arm wraps around her shoulder, because he knows her too well, still does, "Your mom will be so proud of you, when she sees this footage."

Clarke shifts her head to look at him, but then Indra tells them to stop, holding up a hand as she fumbles with the radio on her hip. "There's a problem."

"What kind of problem?" Shaw inquires, pulling his rifle of his back. Indra motions for them to follow her, quick, "Incoming bombers from the north. We need to find cover!"

They must know she's here. They must want to try and kill her.

They take cover inside an abandoned building, wait for most of the planes to pass them. "This doesn't make sense, they're going south," Shaw hisses, poking his head around the wall he's hiding behind to observe the planes. Miller is crouched down beside him, and his forehead creases, "That's towards the hospital, right?"

"They're targeting the hospital," Indra confirms, crushed, as they watch a bomb drop from the distance, the explosion that follows deafening. That boy, the other children, the women and men. Innocents.

"No, no, help them, get them out," Clarke yells, running back out onto the rubble. She's not there. She's here. She waves her hands over her head, until Wells tackles her to the ground, her palms scuffing on the debris. "Clarke, stop!"

"No," she cries out, trying to break free from his grip, watches them drop more bombs, some of them circling back around. There's just wounded people in there, children, babies. She's here, goddamnit. She's right here. She elbows Wells in the stomach, and he hisses out in pain, leaving enough room for her to escape.

She reaches for a red arrow blindly, aiming it up ahead as the planes cross them overhead. She fires it into the wing of one of the crafts, and it's engines start smoking, before it crashes into a building not too far for them. She's already drawing the next when Wells pulls her back into the building, assisted by Shaw this time. "Clarke, you can't just fire at random planes. You just alerted them of our presence!"

"I don't care," she snaps, pushing Shaw aside as she crouches down, trying to steady her breathing, covering her ears with her hands, stars blooming behind her eyelids. How many more people are going to have to die in her place? How many more?

Indra comes up with a plan for them to hide out until the aircrafts all leave, and leads them to safe location, Wells' arm clasped around her arm firmly the whole way there. She doesn't know how long it takes, waiting there, maybe minutes, hours, days, but when Indra leads them to the roof next, it's too late. She's always too late. The building the hospital was located in was blown to the ground, annihilated, just a big cloud of black smoke indicating what used to be there. There's no way anyone survived that.

She picks up the nearest thing she can see, which is an old 'keep out' sign and flings it over the edge of the building, chest heaving up and down harsh and uneven as she lets out a defeated, guttural scream, screaming into the void, screaming at nothing and no one. There's no one left. There can't be. She left them there, and now they're all dead. Too bad you aren't really in charge here. Imagine how many people you could leave behind to die to save your own ass then. She runs a trembling hand through her hair, flinching at the sting it causes on her scraped palms. She kicks at nothing, thrusting her bow on the ground and using her free hand to wipe at the tears that won't stop fucking falling. "Goddamnit!"

"Clarke," Harper urges, soft and careful, and the other blonde's head snaps towards her. To her surprise, they're all staring at her, Miller's camera pointed at her face. "Can you tell everyone what you're seeing?"

She inhales sharply, turning her back to them as she looks back at the building. All of them, they're gone. Harper keeps pushing, insistent, "Clarke, what do you wanna say?"

She turns back around, stares straight into the camera and for a second she thinks she might snap at them, for trying to film this, for trying to use this as propaganda. But it is what is and despite everything, she hasn't forgotten who the real enemy is. She clears her throat, brushes at her cheeks with her wrists roughly, steadies her voice. She doesn't want the message to be anything but clear.

"I want the rebels to know that I'm alive. That I'm in district three where the capital—" Her voice breaks and she has to clench her jaw and turn her face to keep from breaking out into another sob. She takes a deep breath, has to be strong. "Where the capital just bombed a hospital. A hospital filled with unarmed men, women and children." She points behind her, at the dark cloud filling up the sky. The wind blows a few loose strands into her face, and she pushes them back, narrowing her eyes at the camera. "There will be no survivors."

Wallace made sure of that. And she has to make sure that the people, her people, will fight back. Has to make sure his people realize what they're doing, that the cause they're fighting for is not noble or just, that the person they're fighting for would never fight for them.

"If you think for one second that the capital will ever treat us fairly, you are lying to yourselves," she assures them, briefly looking back over her shoulder to emphasize her next words, "Because we know who they are and what they do." She points back at the building, determined. "This is what they do!" She lowers her hand slowly, balling it into a fist, defiant, "And we must fight back."

She takes a second, to collect herself, gritting her teeth together. "I have a message for President Wallace." She steps off the ledge, closing the distance between her and Miller. "You can torture us," Emori, "and bomb us," all those innocent people, "and burn our districts to the ground," twelve is nothing but wasteland like so many of the others, like they're worth nothing, just collateral damage, "but do you see that?" She raises her eyebrows, the hint of a smile on her lips as she points back at the warzone behind her. He wanted the Mockingjay, the commander of death? He's got her. "You see that, Dante? Fire is catching."

She stops in front of Miller, channeling much of what she felt back in that arena. If they were going to hurt her, kill her, burn her, she was going to do the same, going to do it twice as well. "And if we burn, you burn with us!"

/.\

Diyoza is ecstatic about the new footage and Raven and Sinclair finally manage to tag-team hack their way into the airwaves for nationwide broadcasting, increasing their own by a tenfold. Which means, that as soon as Polis starts their daily transmissions of the executions, forces everyone to watch them, they can hijack the broadcast and air their own home movies.

Except that day, they don't show an execution.

She's not very keen on watching herself give that speech, relive all of that again, so she arrives a little late to the mesh hall. She's barely pushed the door open, or she's frozen dead in her tracks. Bellamy.

"...she was our favorite tribute, by far. I think that's what's particularly painful about this, don't you think, Mr. Blake? For you as well?"

He doesn't respond and Clarke's hand comes up to cover her mouth, fingers shaking. He's changed so much already. There's bags under his eyes, eyes bloodshot and wild, his hair plastered to his forehead. What are they doing to him? It's hard to watch someone who once gave her so many hope, maybe still does, look so hopeless.

"Clarke," he speaks finally, quiet and broken, and he even sounds different, forehead creasing. Her heart breaks at the sound of her name. He looks like everything takes a tremendous amount of strength, strength he doesn't have. "I forgive you, alright? I'll do that for you."

She closes her eyes, inhaling sharply as she grits her teeth together to keep from crying. Forgiveness was always hard for them, would always be hard for them. After the things they did, they way they thought about themselves, they way they would always blame themselves first. But she remembers that dark night, one of his worst nightmares, what she could do for him then, what he couldn't do for himself. What he is doing for her now.

"That's very honorable of you, Bellamy," Cage implies, off-screen and Clarke can't look away from him, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how badly she wanted to take his place, wishes it was her. "Such a sweet gesture for a girl who has inspired such violence. You must love her very much, to be able to forgive her like that."

It's easy to love someone because, but to love someone despite—despite their flaws and their mistakes and their worst terrors. That was rare, special. They could do that for each other, too.

Again, he remains mute, as Cage rambles on, "I don't think that I could, if I were in your shoes, of course. Unless," he exclaims, greedy almost, like he just realized something, but it sounds anything but spontaneous, "Unless you think that perhaps she's being forced into saying things she doesn't even understand, Bellamy?"

"Yeah," he agrees, absently—and she used to be able to read him so easily, what he was thinking, how he was doing, and she doesn't know if it's just the screen or if something's changed, if maybe she doesn't know his as well anymore and it's killing her—then lifts his head, "Yeah. That's exactly what I think. I think they're using her. I doubt she even knows what's happening, what's at stake."

"Now, Bellamy, I doubt the rebels will show her this, but just in case, what would you tell Clarke, if she were listening?" Eager, Cage pushes, "To Clarke Griffin, what would you say?"

"I think…" He breaks off, before dragging his eyes back up to the camera, clearing his throat. His eyes look empty, void of all the warmth that used to be inside of them, all the love for her they used to hold. "I would tell her to use her head." His eyes rake the camera, like he might find her looking back and agreeing. "Yes. Don't let them force you to play a role, Clarke. I know you never wanted this, never wanted a rebellion." Is he still trying to save her? In case they lose the war? "The things you did in the Games were never intended to start something like this. Don't let them change you into something you aren't." Does he still remember? That night before her first Games? Who you are and who you need to be to survive are two very different things. Maybe he's just trying to survive there, too. His brow creases, fingers curling into fists on top of his thighs. "Do you know what they really want? Can you trust the people you're working with?"

It cuts off, and they show her dumb speech, and all she wants in that moment is for her to have never recorded it. Later, they tell her it aired in every district, but not Polis. Sinclair designed the firewall himself, and he did it a little too well. Him and Raven have been trying to get in for days, barely coming up for air.

Wells storms after her, finds her in her room. She doesn't have to look to know it's him, back still turned to the door. She opens her mouth, closes it as she takes the shell out of her pocket, running her thumb over it's ribbed surface. You and me, he told her, when he gave her this. Eventually, she settles on, "Did you see what he looks like?"

She turns to face him, when he remains quiet. He looks uncomfortable, uncertain. She's so tired of people looking at her like she might break. She's broken a million times over by now. There's nothing she can't handle. "I hate to play the devil's advocate here, Clarke, but—" He breaks off, swallowing thickly as he avoids her gaze.

"Just say it," she pushes, angry. It's easy to judge him like this. They don't know, haven't got a clue what they're doing to him there. Haven't got a clue what he would do for her, what she would do for him. "Say what you want to say."

"What he said just pushed the revolution back again. He knows… He knows he's supposed to be the father of your baby. If he can't trust you, if he doesn't believe in you, who will?" Wells shakes his head lightly, fixated on her hand, on what's inside of her palm. "If they tortured me, put a gun to my head, I would still—I would still try and do the right thing."

She doesn't doubt that. She doesn't doubt that for a second. She also doesn't doubt Bellamy isn't doing the exact same thing. Doing the right thing. For his sister. For her. What he thinks is right.

"That's rich, coming from the son of the man who pulled a lever and killed two hundred innocent people," she counters, heated, even if she knows she is't being fair. They're not their parents. "He's the same guy who volunteered for his sister, who was there for me after every nightmare, who, who defended you to me, over and over again, just because he didn't want me to lose you, too."

"No, I don't think he is," Wells says, softer this time. "I think he's defending himself. Everyone has a choice, Clarke. Some harder than others, I know that, I'm not judging that. But how can he sit there, in Polis, and defend the people who destroyed his district? Tried to murder his family?"

He would never do that. Never once has he ever put himself above anyone he cared about. He would protect Octavia, protect her with his life. She knows that. She knows that in her heart. Maybe, a part of her didn't want him to be honest, either. Wanted him to protect himself. If he would be honest—that would mean things would be worse for him, deadly, even. Wallace wouldn't have any use for him anymore, wouldn't be able to use him in his propos.

"He doesn't know," she says, everything falling into place. If he knew, maybe that would give him some strength, some strength to fight back in his own way, some strength to hold out until he could see them again. "Nobody's seen what they did to twelve. We have to show them."

/.\

They'd gone to twelve with Diyoza's permission, who Clarke had seemed to win some trust from. Wells had shown them around, told them the events of the night of the Games, when everything had started, everything had ended. She didn't want to be back there, not really. She had already seen what Wallace did, what was left. It wasn't much. During lunch, they'd caught her humming the words to the song she sang to Finn, and Monroe quietly asked her if she could sing it for them. Reluctantly, she'd agreed, figuring there's no real harm there. And will you take a life with me? A life with me? It's was an old song from a district that no longer existed, bringing up memories that felt like they were from a different lifetime. We live as one. We live alone. I am your soldier. I will atone. She's not a very good singer, but her father would always disagree, would have her sing the song for him while he worked on his blueprints, or made dinner, or sketched with her. And will you take a life with me? This world will burn, save what you need. It was strange how something so familiar, something she's sung so many times, could mean something so different now. I am fearless, I am to fight, I am to die. She doesn't feel as fearless, nowadays, not like she did then. You're in my sight. And will you take a life with me? Blood must have blood. My body bleeds.

They'd used it for their their newest propo, used another part of her, but Kane had them change 'blood must have blood' to 'blood must not have blood', playing it over the footage of district twelve and three. It doesn't matter in the end, that another one of her tragedies is exploited for someone else's gain, it doesn't matter because it works and the districts start retaliating. It actually works. They're fighting back, attacking peacekeepers, taking back their buildings and food supplies, rioting, blowing up important Polis' properties. Anything and everything.

So it's not unexpected, when Wallace fights back as well. Moves and countermoves. At one point, she's called to the command center by Shaw, and for once, she's thankful she doesn't have to break down in the middle of the mesh hall.

She can feel Shaw's eyes boring in the side of her face as she blinks at the screen half the room is already staring at. It's him. She'd been prepared for his, prepared for the pain and the anguish and the self-hatred, but it still hits her like a punch in the gut, all at once. "Tonight, we've received reports of derailed trains, of granaries on fire, of a savage attack on the hydroelectric dam in district five."

What did they do to him? His voice shakes more and more with every word he says, no longer trying to hold back the tears brimming at his eyes as he speaks. "I'm begging you. Please show restraint and decency—" The screen transitions to her, of the footage they made of her in district three, which means Raven and Sinclair must have finally managed to break through the capital's firewalls. She hears Kane whisper about as much, shifting in his seat with nervous excitement.

Bellamy appears back on the screen, his face blank as a lone tear trails down his cheek. He blinks away more of them, sniffing quietly before he checks, stunned, "Clarke?"

"He sees it, he sees our propo," Diyoza declares, pressing her fist to her bottom lip, and biting down on the knuckle of her pointer finger, eyes fixated on the screen. They're watching this, the same thing as her, and they're elated. Are they not seeing what they've done to him? That they broke him?

"Clarke, is that you?" He repeats, shifting in his chair, like he can somehow get closer to her. His voice is rough, strangled. She's not sure she can handle more of this. More of him watching her play the Mockingjay, more him watching her be fine without him.

"Bellamy," she rasps, thick, pressing a hand to her chest instead of reaching out for him. This isn't her Bellamy. He looks so… Fearful. Despondent. Battered. But it is still him. The mess of hair on top of his head. The scar above his lip. The specks of gold in his brown eyes. It's excruciating.

"If we burn, you burn with us!"

"Clarke." For a second there's something there she recognizes, something to hold on to, his brows a hard arch and his hands stilling on top of his thighs, the only sound his voice and the loud rush of blood in her ears. It echoes, in her head, it echoes and echoes and she's not sure she can hear anything else ever again.

Someone off screen asks him to continue, snapping him out of it, reducing him back to nothing. No darkness, no light, just a void. "You were telling us about these savage attacks, remember?"

He fumbles with the collar of the crisp white shirt they put on him, but it doesn't budge. "Yeah." He sits back, but his whole body remains tense. "I was. The attack on the dam was a callous and inhuman act of destruction. Think about it. How will this end? What will be left? No one…" His tremulous voice breaks back off, another few seconds of her propo playing on the screen. When he's back, his eyes are squeezed shut. He starts talking again, like he can only remember what he's supposed to say if he doesn't look, doesn't think, focuses on the darkness beneath his eyelids. "No one… No one is safe. No one.." His eyes spring open, brown eyes fixated on the screen. He inhales sharply, something defiant settling over his eyes all at once. "They're coming, Clarke. They're going to kill everyone. And in district thirteen you'll be dead by morning—" The screen cuts to black, but not before the image of the mockingjay flashes across it one more time.

"He's warning us," Kane says, a question mark in his voice, then he decides, "That was a warning." Her head spins, and spins, legs like lead. They're coming, Clarke. What did he do? Why did he do that?

"Yes, it was," Diyoza confirms, already throwing around commands at her people. Clarke feels dizzy, light headed, like the blood flow to her brain was cut off. Like her head doesn't work anymore, like her heart's trying to take over by force. He just risked everything. Did the one thing he promised not to do. He promised to make it out. It didn't matter if that was an arena or Polis. He was supposed to make it out. Out of all the things she did, all the things she said, she thought she'd made that clear.

"We have to get him out," she whispers, once she can get her mouth to move, her voice unfamiliar to her own ears, the room around her going crazy. Looking at their radars, satellites, speculating about how he could've heard, could've known. Strategizing a way to call them off, a way to fight back. Starting a drill, loud sirens booming through the bunker, making it even harder to think.

Please, remain calm and begin evacuation protocol. Proceed to your nearest stairwell and descent to level 40.

They're not listening. They don't understand. She slams her hands on top of the table, demanding their attention. "We have to get him out, before they—before they kill him." It feels like forever that Diyoza stares her down, which in reality can't be more than a few seconds.

Blast doors will be sealed in six minutes. This is a code red alert.

The president turns to Shaw, who's already typing away on one of their computers furiously. "How much time do we have?"

"Three Polis squadrons just entered our airspace. They're a few seconds from range."

"Diyoza," she demands, again. She refuses to be invisible, not now, not after they made her be visible so many times, when all she wanted was to disappear. She needs her word on this. The other woman barely glances over at her, presses, "Shaw?"

"They hit the far edge of the northwest quadrant," he explains, glimpsing back at his computer. "Penetrated 40 feet. Only minor damage, ma'am."

"Radiation?"

"Uhm," he types and types, every tick of his fingers like a tiny explosion to Clarke, then, "None detected."

Please remain calm and begin evacuation protocol. Proceed in orderly fashion to your nearest stairwell. Four minutes until the blast doors close.

He'd want her to check on Octavia, he'd want her to be safe. But, Clarke, she can't move, can't do that for him unless she knows, she knows he's going to be safe, too. That he wasn't going to die trying to save them when they hadn't even tried to do the same for them.

"Diyoza," Clarke orders, requests, begs—she's not sure anymore. The president holds up a hand, pensive look on her face as she studies the computer, over Shaw's shoulder. "Everyone, cease fire. Stand down. They're only bombing where we revealed ourselves. They don't know what we have or where we have it." She straightens her posture, makes sure to look at each and every person in the room so they understand. "I'd like to keep it that way. Make sure everyone gets down into the bunkers. We'll wait this out." She nods at her people confidently, arms crossed behind her back. "This is what we were built for."

Slowly, she turns to Clarke, her Mockingjay. "As for you—I suggest you get down to the basement before the blast doors close." The tension in her shoulders deflates a little, eyes softening just a bit. "I will not forget what he did for us tonight, I promise you that. We had eight extra minutes of civilian evacuation thanks to Bellamy."

Clarke clenches her jaw, it will have to do, but doesn't say anything before she rushes down the stairs with two minutes to spare. Octavia. She has to make sure, for him, that she's safe. For when he comes back.

"Mom," she exhales, just inside the blast doors, hands on her shoulders, practically pulling her away from one of her patients she was trying to help on top of one of the bunkbeds. "Where is Octavia?"

She opens her mouth, looking over her shoulder and then Clarke's. Her brow furrows together. "I don't know. She was just behind me."

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why couldn't she ever just listen? Why couldn't she just ever just do what she was told? Clarke steps back behind the blast doors, looks back up the stairs, one of the guards reminding her it closes in thirty seconds. She ignores him, taking a hold of the railing and look up the metal stairwell. "Octavia?"

"I'm here," she yells out suddenly, ten seconds to spare. That damn cat is perched under her arm as she almost trips into Clarke's embrace, the blond demanding they hold open the doors. They make it in just on time, slipping into the basement. Clarke leans back on one of the walls, out of breath. "You went back for the stupid cat?"

"I wasn't going to leave him behind," she narrows her eyes, brazen, that familiar sparkle of Blake defiance in her eyes. They're the same age, but she looks so much like a little girl, face clean, hair shiny and untangled, and shoulders not carrying the weight of the entire world. She wonders if she can ever look like that again, calm. Peaceful. "I'm not you, Clarke."

"I know," Clarke says, resigned, pinching the bridge of her nose. She doesn't want to fight with her anymore. If she thinks she left him behind, if she has to think that to not give in to the pain of missing her brother, if she has to blame her, Clarke can let her. "I know."

They walk further down the hallway, stopping in front of an empty bunk. Octavia sits down, cat on her lap. The mattress dips as Clarke tentatively sinks down beside her, flinching as there's another distant explosion making the walls shake, grain falling from the ceiling onto the floor.

"Everyone is counting on you, they're always counting on you," she mumbles, after the blasts die out, for now, staring down at Skye as she pets her, long brown hair falling down the shoulder the farthest away from Clarke. She was never the type to hide her emotions.

Yeah. They do. She's their symbol. Clarke doesn't say anything, lets her process her thoughts and feelings on her own for a few moments, only breaking her gaze on the side of her face to accept a blanket and a flashlight from one of the guards.

"I counted on you," she clarifies, finally meeting her eyes. In some way, Octavia trusted her with her brother, but it isn't as black and white as she always made it out to be. Maybe she left him there, maybe she didn't, maybe she never had a choice. "But—I saw the way you looked, in the mesh hall, a few days back. When… When they interviewed my brother."

"I didn't see you," she replies, lame. Even if she hadn't been focused on him and him alone, making herself so upset she had to throw up in her room afterwards, she's not sure she would have even gone over to her. Seeing him in the way Octavia holds herself, her smile, her sharp cheekbones, her dark hair, that raging fire always bubbling under the surface—she's not sure she would've been able to take it.

Her jade eyes search Clarke's face, unashamed, then she swallows thickly. Almost involuntarily, she says, "I know you did your best."

Clarke's mind flashes back to a time when Octavia had called her best not good enough, when she'd hurt her brother by leaving him. It seemed good, that she didn't feel the same anymore, not this time. Even if she left him and hurt him this time, too.

"Yeah," she says, absently, reaching out to scratch Skye's furry skull. Octavia leans her head on her shoulder and they sit like that for a while. It's easy to pretend like this, like they're back in the Victor's Village, listening to Bellamy read the Iliad out loud to them, a sketchbook in her lap and the cat in Octavia's. The sun on their shoulders.

"I forgot to tell you," she announces after a while, nonchalant, like they never even stopped talking to each other. Beaming. It's as much of a compromise Octavia is going to give her. A new start for the two of them. An apology was never in the cards. "I got promoted at the hospital."

Clarke musters a smile, one of the first genuine ones in a while, albeit weak. Octavia could do anything she set her mind to, always a fast learner. She remembers the day she came home with a baby bird, his wing broken. It took weeks of dedication, but she nursed it back to health. "Your brother would be really proud of you."

She falls asleep on her shoulder at one point, and Clarke lies her down on the bed carefully, scurrying off the cat when she protests. She covers her with a blanket, brushing some of her hair back from her forehead pensively, when her eye catches Luna's. She strides over there, carefully. "Hey, can I sit?'

"Sure," she answers, corners of her lips turned up solemnly, scooching aside even though there's plenty of room beside her. Luna stuffs her hands into the pockets of her jumpsuit.

"Why didn't you come?" Clarke starts, after the silence becomes a little too much to bear. "To district three, I mean."

"I wasn't doing well. I have bad and good days like most of us," she discloses, voice a little tighter than usual but never wavering. It must be nice. To be able to believe everything happens for a reason, to still believe in something. "I couldn't go there and watch more people suffer. Seeing what they did to Emori, what they—" She cuts herself off, beautiful curls moving alongside her head as she shakes it.

Clarke trains her gaze on the wall in front of them, same as her. Sometimes Clarke doesn't even know why she keeps going, where she finds the strength to. Why she doesn't just put down her weapons and give in. She feels like she's just going through the motions, following orders and barely making a difference that's worth all of the pain. Finally, she builds up the courage to ask. "How do you live with it?"

"I drag myself out of nightmares and there's never any relief in waking up," Luna confesses, pulling a hand out of her pocket, flats her palm to reveal a necklace, pendant shaped like a sharp shark tooth, a crescent moon engraved into it. Her gaze lingers on it, something dark washing over her eyes, thick brows creasing together. The walls around them shake again, the blast of a remote explosion. "When Elio died in my arms, I knew I would never be the same. Someone who could do something like that, to her own brother, who reveled in the rage and the death and the violence, she didn't deserve to live."

She lifts her chin, closing her fingers back around the pendant as her eyes meet Clarke's, like she's looking straight into her soul, knows what she struggles with. "It's not something I can control, I can't control the past. I have to accept that." Control. Clarke's not sure she can let that go. It's part of why she feels so out of her element, why she feels like she can never quite catch up with everything. "But I can control not giving in. It's better. Better not to give in to it. It takes ten times longer to put yourself back together than it does to fall apart." She sounds so calm, sure, almost melodic, other hand coming up to rest on Clarke's knee. "So trust me when I tell you, if I found peace—you can."

/.\

Diyoza has her in front of a camera the next morning, outside, telling the world they survived an attack by the capital with no casualties, that they remain fully operational. Clarke can almost make herself repeat the words, too. If it weren't… If it weren't for—

"Clarke, it's 'thirteen is alive and well and so am I'," Harper reminds her, patient, cameras pointed at her, when she remains frozen in her spot, staring at the ground. At the berries. Squashed under her boots. Everywhere. Thousands of them. "Clarke?"

Her hands start to shake, and she looks up at Harper, tries to gauge if she understands, if she understands that this—what it means… Instead, she smiles, encouraging, signaling for Miller to step closer. "Tell me about the berries, Clarke. Tell Wallace thirteen is alive and well."

It's nightlock. The berries, they're nightlock. They're nightlock and it's a message. A message for her. Her voice sounds distanced when she uses it, rough from disuse. "He's going to kill Bellamy."

"Let's try that again," Harper says, unaware that Clarke is unraveling right in front of her. "Monty step a little closer, I can barely hear her."

"He's going to kill Bellamy," she repeats, but maybe she's not really talking, maybe there's not actually sounds coming from her mouth. Sweat covers her skin. Her short strands of blonde hair stick to the back of her neck. She's outside, but she feels like she can't breathe, like the trees are closing in on her, like this is the end.

"Thirteen is alive and well and so am I," Harper prompts, again, looking at the rest of her crew helplessly. "Clarke?"

"I can't do this," she exclaims, and this time she's sure they hear her, because they're all looking at her like—like she's crazy. Maybe she is. Maybe she is when all it takes is some berries to set her off. But he's just going to keep—he's never going to stop. And if she had Bellamy, maybe that would be something she could bear, with him by her side, but not now, not like this, not when—

"Miller, cut the cameras," Harper instructs him, curt, stepping closer to the victor, sympathetic. "It's okay, Clarke."

"No," she counters, resolute. No, it's not. She's never going to be okay again. She doesn't know why she ever thought any different. "He warned me." Every person in your life that you care about and that I have to get rid of to make you understand—that's all on you. "He warned me about this. He's doing this because I'm the Mockingjay." She slides a hand into her hair, to push it back, presses it to her forehead and she feels like everything's spinning, spinning out of control. "He's punishing Bellamy to punish me."

Harper puts her hand on top of her shoulder but Clarke startles, jerks away at her touch. "No, I can't do this." She's done so much for them, brought him into so much danger and Wallace is still winning. She can't stand here, knowing—knowing what he's doing right now, who he's killing. Fighting for a lost cause. Fighting when she's already lost everything, is losing him. "Don't make me do this."

"Let her go," Kane says, taking mercy on her, but she's already storming back inside the elevator. He might already be dead. He might already be dead. Bellamy—

"So this is it? The end?" Wells finds her, because of course he does. He sinks down onto the ground, across from her. She doesn't know how long ago she went back inside, it could be hours, minutes. "You're going to hide down here in these vents forever?"

Not too long ago, she was here with Murphy. When he wished Emori dead. He hadn't meant it. He hadn't meant it and Clarke murdered her. Not with her own hands, but with her own words. There would always be blood on her hands, always one more name to add to the long list of casualties in a fight she isn't allowed to participate in. Always one more person she used to call a friend that wouldn't be able to look at her anymore.

"I can't be the Mockingjay." Not when everyone she cares about turns up dead. Not when she can't do what they're making her say. Have hope, fight back. "I can't do it anymore. I'm done."

"Well, Mockingjay or not, you're still my best friend," he reminds her, emphatically, leaning an elbow on top of his knee. "And the reason I'm here is to let you know they're rescuing them. They're rescuing Bellamy." If anything, she appreciates the fact Wells knows her well enough to not pretend she would be broken down over Echo, or any other victor for that matter, like this. Not like this.

"What?" She lifts her head, meets his eye, pushing herself up on her palms to sit up better, look at him better. A rescue mission? How would she—why… Why now?

He shifts, so he can lean forward, assure her with his hand on top of her foot. Hopeful, always hopeful. "The dam that went down in five, it took out most of the power to Polis. Knocked out the signal defences. Raven's in their system right now, wreaking havoc like only she knows how." Knowing her, she's enjoying it, too.

"How much longer?" She sniffs, already moving to get out of the vents. It's not much of a struggle to find the nearest exit. She's gotten pretty well acquainted with these secrets halls during her time here.

"I don't know," Wells pants, as he pushes himself out skillfully, wiping his hands on the back of his legs. He tilts his head towards a hallway, motioning for her to follow him as he continues his earlier train of thought. "Probably until the capital can get the power back on."

They turn the corner, and it's not hard to figure out where they're going. She wraps her arms around her waist as they walk, tries not to focus much on what it all means. Tries to focus on one detail at a time. She pinches both of her sides the entire walk there, making sure she's awake, that this isn't another cruel dream. "They know where he is?"

"Yeah. Tribute centre. One of Kane's spies tipped them off," he discloses, stopping in front of the door of the command centre. He stills, fingers wrapped around the door handle, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he searches her face. Finally, when Clarke is about to push the door open herself, he speaks. "Diyoza knows—she knows Bellamy is Polis' weapon, the same way you're ours. As opposed to having two pointing at each other, on different sides of this war, she's going to get them." Together.

The room buzzes with guards strategizing, consulting with Diyoza, yelling out updates to each other and new commands. Nobody really notices them come in, or particularly cares about the mental breakdown she just had. She spots Sinclair first, working furiously in the corner. They stand behind Raven, watch her type and click away on a computer, several different screens lodged in front of her. Still, she manages to inform them, "Luna's outside. Doing a propo." She grabs a hold of the desk and pushes herself off, so her chair slides over to the next row of computers, and she can start typing there.

"Why?" Clarke blurts out. It was bad enough they made her do it. Was it really necessary to bring Luna into this as well? Propos or no propos, the rebellion was well on its way.

"She has to keep talking," Wells says, already in on the plan, broad arms crossed over his chest. "Raven and Sinclair took over their system."

"Since they're down to generator power, there's a more limited range of frequencies available. We're filling them all up with Luna," she clarifies, matter-of-factly, all the while still fixated on the electronica in front of her. "Jamming their entire system with noise."

She nods her head to the side, and Clarke follows the line of motion to the big screen in the front of the command centre, watches her, her friend. "My name is Luna Murchadh. Victor of the 74th Hunger Games." Her jumpsuit is tied around her waist, white tank top covering her upper body. She looks up at the sky, corners of her lips turning up slightly as she closes her eyes, feeling the warm sun that's about to set on her face. The hint of a smile fades as fast as it appeared and she ducks her head to look at the camera. Her jaw flexes, just a third of a second. "But you know that already." She inhales, slow, and the necklace around her neck catches Clarke's eye as her chest expands. Elio's. "Thirteen is alive and well, as well as me. The truth is," Luna breaks off, and she stares at something beyond the camera, wistful.

"Early defense warning, internal communications, everything," Raven lists, long ponytail swaying over her shoulder as she pushes her chair back to her original spot. "As long as the broadcast goes through, the retraction team should be able to get in and out undetected."

Clarke looks back at the big screen as she hears Luna sighs. "—the truth is... Not the myths about a life of luxury or the glory for your district." It's what they want you to believe. "You can survive the arena. That's what I did. Even when they send me in there with my brother. Then I found out the Games never stop. The moment you leave, you're a slave. They sell you, they sell your body." Clarke heart pangs at the admission. Not her, too. "If you're considered desirable, the president gives you as a reward or allows people to buy you. If you refuse, he kills someone you love." She grins, spiteful, but her eyes are glazed over with tears. "You see, after what I went through, I didn't have much fight left in me. So I accepted my fate. Waited to die. Hoped my release would come quick."

"We're inside Polis airspace," Diyoza's voice booms through the room, but Clarke can't tear her eyes off of Luna. Luna, who's so strong. Who she hadn't seen break down like this since she heard her brother beg for her help in the arena, another cruel muttation from Wallace.

"To try and make me feel better, to fix me, my suitors would make me presents—money or jewellery." Her thumb comes up to wipe at the single tear that's threatening to fall from her eye. "But I found a more valuable form of payment. Secrets."

"Switching to night view," a voice crackles over the radio. "Command, we have visual on the tribute centre. Initiating final approach."

"I know about all the depravity, the deceit and cruelty of the Polis elite," she mentions, off-handedly. "But the biggest secrets are about our president. Dante Wallace."

"I'm losing them," Sinclair speaks, for the first time, the screen malfunctioning on Luna's face, last words sounding distorted. Clarke steps closer to her, as if she might be able to do something to stop it, to keep her live across the nation. "Their defense system is rebooting, coming back online."

"They must be diverting power from another source," Raven curses, and she and her mentor talk in more cryptic terms Clarke can't make sense off. Then, Sinclair informs Diyoza, "I'll try to filter the transmissions, but another sixty seconds and we'll be cut off."

"Should we call back the hovercraft?" Shaw prompts, and he means well, but Clarke can't have this. Heart hammering loud in her chest. She can't have this now that she's so close. "Madam?"

With her hands on the table, leaning forward, Diyoza looks from Sinclair to Luna and back to Shaw, contemplative, and she can't think about it. Can't think about them pulling back when they're so close. So close. Their only shot. If they don't make it now, they won't have to again, because he'll be dead. He'll be dead. She won't ever be able to hold him again, won't ever be able to listen to him telling her to be careful or praise her paintings like it's the best he's ever seen every time or explaining constellations she'll never see, won't ever be able to look into his brown eyes and see all the love she doesn't deserve staring right back at her.

"Broadcast me." Her mouth moves before she can register it and Diyoza's face snaps to hers in quiet surprise, maybe a little impressed. Clarke's brain has always performed it's best under pressure. Steady, even, rational, she explains. "If Wallace is watching this, maybe he'll let the signal in. If he sees me. Put me on air. So he sees me."

There's a beat of silence, then their president nods, resolute. "Put her on." She points at a guy who immediately hurries over to put some sound equipment on her, while Sinclair assures her, "He'll only see you." Not them, just her. She'll be their target, one more time.

"President Wallace, are you there?" She clears her throat. "It's Clarke."

Kane has his arms crossed over each other, standing beside Diyoza, thumb pressed to his bottom lip. "He might not even be watching," he reasons, "There's no guarantee."

There's no guarantee he isn't either. He could never resist an opportunity to taunt her, though. She fumbles with the microphone, loosens it around her neck. "President Wallace. I need to speak with you. Can you hear me?"

She repeats the question a few more times, and then, a condescending sneer on his face like always, "Miss Griffin, what an honour like always. I don't imagine you're calling me to thank me for the berries." She has to bite back a victorious grin, forces her face to be neutral.

She cocks an eyebrow, tries to rile him up like only she can. "You think you can shake my resolve? With a little nightlock? I was ready to sacrifice myself back then because it was me against Polis. Now I don't have to resort to doing the same. We have you outnumbered."

His stupid sneer never falters, horror settling in the low of her belly as she tries to swallow down the thickness in her throat. "Maybe so." His amused grin widens, pausing for just a beat. "But we'll both take losses. Echo and Bellamy among them."

It's not so much of a warning as it is a fact. Even if they win this war, Bellamy is in Polis. He'll make sure to take Bellamy with him, if only so she can suffer a final time. If only to make a point.

He has her momentarily struck, knows just which buttons to push, but she pulls herself together, remembers she has to keep him talking. He doesn't know they're rescuing him, he doesn't know that. They have the upperhand. There's still a chance—a chance that what he's saying doesn't have to be true.

Her brow furrows together, as she racks her brain for something to say, something that might change his mind. Maybe she's speaking more to herself, her voice too quiet, too guilty. "I never asked for this, I never asked to be in the Games. I never asked to be the Mockingjay. I just wanted to save Bellamy. Keep him safe." It was all just a set of circumstances that led her to this point, led her to lead her people, led her away from Bellamy. All of a sudden, it's like she snaps, voice breaking, "Please just let him go. I'll do anything. I'll, I'll stop fighting. I will stop being the Mockingjay. I'll disappear. Please. I'll do anything."

"Miss Griffin." He tuts disapprovingly. "You couldn't run from this any more that you could have from the Games." Maybe that's true, maybe there's no going back. She doesn't want to go back, doesn't want anyone to ever have to go through what she went through again. That's her head. Her heart, however. Her heart—

"Please," she begs, quivering. Resigned. One hand comes up to tuck a loose strand behind her ear, and she takes a step forward, towards the camera, never once breaking her gaze on the screen. "You won. You beat me. Please just let him go. I'll turn myself in."

He doesn't look the slightest bit phased, actually looks disappointed she's not playing along with him, giving up on his games. "We're long past the opportunity for noble sacrifice, Miss Griffin."

Her nostrils flare, and her fingers curl into fists. If she's no longer enough, what is? If he wants control, she'll give him that, too. "Then tell me what to do. What you want."

"I know what you are. Who you are. We're not that different you and I," he counters, folding his hands atop his desk. "You think you're doing what's right for your people, same as me. Except I know you can't see past your narrowest concerns." Bellamy—he might be, a narrow concern, to him. Not to her. "I doubt you know what honesty is anymore."

"You're the one who's always asked me to lie," she snaps, glancing over to Diyoza briefly and forcing herself to calm down. Forcing her voice to be even, but it comes out hoarse at best. "About Finn, why I did what I did. Then forced me to lie again, over and over. Pushed me into a corner. With those pictures of me and Bellamy? But I was always honest about my feelings about him, wasn't I?" That's why he's using him against her, isn't it? Because even if the baby was never real, and they never fell in love, she never lied about loving him, about him learning her to let someone back in. That he was special to her. "I never lied about that."

A slow grin spreads across his face, and even if they're winning, why does it feel like she just lost? Calm and composed, he replies, "Miss Griffin. It's the thing we love most that destroy us. I want you to remember I said that." She just blinks at him, blinks at the screen, waits for what she's sure to come, pulse rattling fast in her throat. "Don't you think I know you friends are in the tribute centre?" Before she can even register what he's saying, he turns his attention to someone off screen, coldly instructing them to, "Cut them off."

Then the screen goes black. She takes in a deep gulp of breath, steadies herself by grabbing a hold of the nearest object she sees, a desk—vision starting to blur. She knows what this means.

"What happened?" Wells wonders, and Raven confirms her worst fears, solemnly, "He knows they're there."

"It's a trap," she whispers, pressing a hand to her head. It's pounding, hurting, a headache coming up steadily. With her free hand she yanks the microphone away from her neck, like that might help her breathe. Wells strides over to her side quick, arm snaking around her back and helping her stand up straight.

"There's no signal, Clarke," she vaguely registers someone say, it's still Raven talking, she thinks, "We can't contact them."

"No," she grumbles, sharp, finding the strength somewhere inside to push Wells away from her. "He knew the whole time. Taunting me. He knew the whole fucking time." She lets out a sob, pressing her palms to her eyes, rasping, "Did I really lose him tonight? Did I lose him?"

"Clarke," Wells says, quiet, putting his hand on top of her arm. Tears spring from her eyes as she takes a hold of her friend's shirt, holds onto as to not break down completely, as to not let her knees give in completely. "I lost him."

"You don't know that, Clarke," he mutters, own eyes brimming with tears, seeing his best friend like this, other hand coming up to wrap around her other arm, trying to ground her. This is district thirteen, Clarke, anything's possible, he told her once. Always trying to share his eternal optimism with her. It's not enough, not this time. "You don't know that."

Static crackles over the radio, everyone on edge, and then she hears it. "Madam president? We're back in the air. Returning to base as we speak. Both targets were acquired."

/.\

She yanks open the first closed curtain in the medbay, but it's not him. It's Echo. She's covered in small lacerations, eyes bloodshot, brown hair chopped uneven, some strands longer than others, in the middle of being restrained by one of the healers.

"If it isn't the woman of the hour," she bites, tearing her arm from the healer's grip and pulling out the IV-line he just put in. She must notice Clarke staring, because the corner of her lips turn up, spiteful, "Cute, huh? Death by a thousand cuts."

How do you talk to a girl you never once lost a wink of sleep over? Who was never the person you intended to save? Who was just collateral damage? She doesn't have to, because Raven pulls back the curtain, snarling, "She saved you."

Echo cackles, actually cackles. "Saved me. The mighty Mockingjay. How lucky I am." Something dark and hard washes over her face, gaze insistent on Clarke. "There would have been nothing to save us from. If not for you."

Raven pulls Clarke out, without another word, closing the curtain behind her. Instead of a thank you—that girl is always saving her—she stammers, "What are you doing here?"

All the anger deflates, and now she's just frowning. "I don't get it." She exhales, sharp, shaking her head lightly. "Every gun was back online and pointed at our aircraft and they flew right past them, Clarke." There's that dimple again, right above her brow. Disbelievingly, she concludes, "They let them go."

Clarke searches her face, can't think straight enough right now, to connect the dots, what it all means. Abby comes up to her, breaking off her train of thought, squeezing her hand softly to get her attention. "He's in there. The gas they used on the guards knocked him out, too, but it's wearing off. You should be there, when he wakes up."

She gives her mother a quick hug, "Thanks mom," then sends Raven an apologetic glance. They'll talk later. She slides open the door to his room, and for a moment her heart stops beating. Is this real? Is he really there? She steps closer to the gurney in the middle of the room, gingerly. She swallows, thickly, hand hovering in the air.

"Bellamy?"

His eyes snap open, and it's really him. It's really him. "Bellamy," she breathes, letting the tears escape, as she leans down to embrace him, her whisper ghosting across his skin as she buries her face into his shoulder. "You're home."

"You're really here." His arms are warm and strong around her, but instead of pulling her in closer—she's knocked back, back of her head hitting the floor with a loud thud, vision blurring. She hisses in pain, and he's on top of her, hands around her neck, fingers digging into her skin. Hands she knows so well, hands she's sketched so many times. She tries to choke out his name, tries to feel around, for something, anything she can use against him. Maybe he hates her. Hates her for what she's done. To Emori. To everyone else. For leaving him there. Leaving him behind.

At first she feels panic, a lot of it, but then she's just calm, because this is Bellamy. It's her Bellamy. She circles his wrists with her hands, but it's no use, he's too strong. She stares up at him, at his bloodshot eyes, tries to get through to him one more time. When that doesn't work, she just settles on trying to memorize all the specks of gold inside of them one last time, struggling to get in any air at all. Maybe it's right like this. Maybe it's okay. She wants to tell him that, that it's okay. It's okay. She gives in, lets herself give in. The people who love us hurt us the most.

Her vision gradually turns black, stars blooming behind her lids, and he's crying, tears dropping onto her skin, he's crying, but he doesn't stop, not until, "Bellamy, get off her! Get off her!" and someone's pulling him back, Wells, and she can take her first breath of air in a full minute as his hands temporarily slip off her neck. Then he's back on top of her, Wells not strong enough on his own, he's that dedicated to wanting her to die, so Shaw has to come in as well, commanding, "Let go!"

They get him off her eventually, and she can breathe, but she takes no comfort in that. Not when he's kicking and screaming trying to get lose, trying to get to her, hurting himself so he can get to her. Trying to get to her so he can kill her, choke her until—he's hurt her the way she's hurt him.

More guards rush in to try and contain him, a healer charging ahead with a syringe. She lays there on the floor, arms limp at her sides, tears spilling from the corners of her eyes and trailing down her temples silently, dripping into her hair and onto the floor, stridor evident in every wheezing breath she takes in. She's lost him.

She got him back, but she's lost him.

/.\