Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The deer was dead. Not just dead—wrong.

Katniss nocked an arrow, her calloused fingers trembling as she tracked the creature through the skeletal trees. The forest stretched around her, a twisted sprawl of gray and silence, the once-vibrant canopy now a web of barren branches clawing at the ashen sky like the ribs of a long-buried beast. Winter had stripped the world raw, leaving behind a monochrome wasteland where frost clung to every surface like a shroud. The deer stumbled forward, its movements a grotesque parody of life. Its ribs jutted out like broken piano keys beneath patchy fur, and milky eyes rolled in a skull too gaunt to hold them. A low, wet gurgle rattled from its throat—a sound that made Katniss’s skin prickle. There were no deer. Not anymore.

"Don’t," Gale hissed behind her, his voice rough as gravel. His breath fogged in the air, mingling with the stench of decay that clung to the forest. "It’s bait."

She knew he was right. The woods had become a merciless teacher. Two weeks ago, a child’s cries had lured a scavenger team into the old coal mine. The boy’s skin had split mid-attack, revealing blackened veins and teeth like shattered glass. Katniss still heard his screams in her dreams.

The deer staggered closer, its hooves crunching brittle leaves. Katniss lowered her bow. Hunger gnawed at her ribs, sharp and insistent. "We need the meat."

"Meat’s poison now," Gale snapped, hefting his crossbow. His eyes, once bright with defiance, were now shadowed by a permanent wariness. "You’ve seen what happens. One bite, one taste—"

A scream tore through the silence.

Human. Close. Desperate.

They moved as one, sprinting toward the sound. Gale surged ahead, his boots kicking up ash, while Katniss scanned the trees for movement. Branches snagged her coat, their skeletal fingers clawing as if the forest itself conspired against them. They burst into a clearing where Peeta knelt beside a boy, his hands pressed to a mangled leg. The child—no older than twelve—was smeared with ash, his face contorted in pain.

"Tripwire," Peeta said tersely. His voice was steady, but Katniss caught the flicker of fear in his eyes. "Capitol-grade. Gale, tourniquet. Now."

Gale cursed, ripping fabric from his sleeve. Katniss turned, her bow raised. The underbrush rustled. Shadows pooled too thickly, too deliberately.

"Peeta—"

"I see them."

Three Shades emerged from the gloom. Droolers. Their jaws hung slack, black saliva dripping onto the frostbitten earth. Weakest of the mutations, but where there were Droolers, there were always—

A fourth figure dropped from the branches. Lithe. Silent. Stalker.

Katniss’s arrow pierced its throat before its claws found Peeta. The creature collapsed, twitching, its too-long fingers curling into fists. Gale’s crossbow bolts punched through two Droolers. The third lunged—

Peeta smashed its skull with a rusted pipe.

The boy whimpered. "They’re coming. All of them. They smell—"

"Can you walk?" Katniss hauled him up, ignoring his cry. The forest hummed now, a chorus of clicks and growls closing in. Too many. Always too many.

They ran.

The boy—Jesse, he gasped out between sobs—limped between them, his weight slowing their pace. Behind, the forest erupted in snarls. Katniss risked a glance back. Shadows writhed in the trees, flashes of bone-white claws and glinting eyes.

"Left!" Peeta barked, veering toward a narrow ravine. Gale shoved Jess into the crevice first, then Katniss. Peeta slid in last as the first wave of Shades crashed into the rocks above. Claws scraped stone, sending debris raining down.

Jess trembled, his breath shallow. "They won’t stop… they never stop…"

"Save your strength," Katniss muttered, but her mind raced. Jess’s leg was a ruin of flesh and blood. Even if they survived this, infection would claim him. Or worse.

Peeta met her gaze. He didn’t need to say it—they both knew.

The horde’s screeches faded momentarily, replaced by an eerie silence. Gale pressed his ear to the rock. "They’re circling. Looking for another way in."

Katniss nocked an arrow. "How long?"

"Minutes. Maybe less."

Jess fumbled at his coat, pulling out a small, crumpled photograph. A woman and a younger boy smiled up at him, their faces untouched by ash. "My mom… and my brother. They’re in District Eleven. If you make it out… tell them I tried—"

A rock dislodged above. Katniss shoved Jess aside as a Stalker’s claws raked the space where he’d stood. Gale’s bolt took it through the eye, but more poured into the ravine.

"Go!" Peeta roared, swinging his pipe. "I’ll hold them off!"

Katniss hesitated—not again, not him—but Gale grabbed her arm, dragging her and Jess deeper into the fissure. The last thing she saw was Peeta’s silhouette, backlit by the pale sun, as the horde descended.

They emerged miles later, the forest thinning into a scarred plain. Jess collapsed, his face gray. Katniss knelt beside him, but he gripped her wrist with surprising strength. "Don’t let me turn. Please."

Gale loaded his crossbow. "I’ll do it."

Katniss shook her head. "He’s still human."

"Not for long."

The boy’s breath hitched. "Do it. Before I—"

A single bolt. A still body.

Katniss stared at the photo in Jess’s hand. Another ghost.

They found Peeta at dusk, bloodied but alive, leaning against a shattered oak. His coat was torn, his hands raw, but he managed a tired smile. "Took you long enough."

Gale snorted, but relief softened his edges. "You’re welcome."

As they trudged back to District 12’s ruins, Katniss replayed Jess’s words. They’re in District Eleven. The radio tower’s static echoed in her mind. We could reach them. We could save them.

But Gale’s voice cut through her thoughts. "We need to hit the Capitol’s supply train. Medicine. Weapons. Now."

Peeta’s jaw tightened. "And how many more Jesses will die for it?"

Katniss said nothing. The wind carried the distant howl of Shades, and in her pocket, the photograph burned like a promise.

That night, Katniss climbed the watchtower, its metal groaning in the wind. She unfolded Jess’s photo, tracing the faces. District Eleven.

A crackle. A voice.

"—any survivors… frequency 12.7… safe zone—**"

The transmission died, but Katniss’s hands shook. Alive. They’re alive.

Below, Peeta sketched by firelight, his drawings filled with coiled Stalkers and crumbling towers. Gale sharpened blades, his gaze distant.

We could end this, she thought. Or die trying.

The static hissed again, a siren’s song in the dark.

The forest whispered its dead, but Katniss leaned into the wind, the photograph clutched tight. Somewhere, a mockingjay sang—a fractured melody, warped by the endless winter.

We’re coming, she vowed. For Jess. For all of them.

And in the ruins, the radio tower’s ghostly frequency hummed on.

Chapter Text

The bunker door screeched shut behind them, an agonizing wail of metal against metal, as if the world itself protested their retreat. Gale slammed the bolts home with a force that echoed through the cold, damp corridor, his movements fueled by desperation and grief. Katniss leaned against the door, her heartbeat loud in the suffocating silence, each thud a painful reminder of those whose hearts no longer beat. The oppressive air was thick with the scent of rust and desperation, mingled with the acrid tang of fear that seemed to cling to their very souls. Someone had painted a crude mockingjay on the concrete wall—its wings outstretched defiantly, a splash of rebellion in the dreary surroundings. The faded paint spoke of a hope long abandoned, yet stubbornly persisting. Fitting. They were all trapped birds now, yearning for a sky that no longer existed, their wings clipped by a reality too cruel to comprehend.

The lingering memories of their desperate journey flickered like shadows against the walls of Katniss's mind, each recollection a dagger to her heart. She recalled with painful clarity the moment they had found Rue—a young survivor clinging to life amid the ruins of her former world, a delicate flower somehow blooming in a wasteland of despair. It was just days ago when they had stumbled upon her, huddled in the shadow of a collapsed building, her face pale and eyes impossibly wide with fear, reflecting horrors no child should ever witness. The village, once alive with laughter and movement, a tapestry of everyday joys now forever lost, lay silent and charred under the oppressive sky. Smoke still curled from the remnants of homes, carrying with it the acrid scent of shattered dreams. Rue, alone and frightened, a tiny figure dwarfed by the magnitude of destruction around her, had whispered of how the Shades took her parents and siblings, their screams a haunting echo locked inside her, a trauma that would never fade. Desperately, she had clung to Katniss's arm, her small fingers digging into flesh, searching for the safety she had lost, a lifeline in a world that had become a nightmare.

But the hope they offered was fleeting, as ephemeral as morning mist burning away under a merciless sun.

By midnight, Rue's rasping breaths had faded to silence, each labored inhale a battle lost, each exhale a farewell to a future that would never be.

No fever ravaged her body, no grotesque transformation altered her form. There was no dramatic struggle, no chance for last words or tearful goodbyes. Just a quiet, choking surrender as the infection, that insidious specter, devoured her lungs from within, stealing away her life with cruel efficiency. Katniss watched helplessly, her own breath catching in her throat, as Peeta tended to the girl's lifeless body, his movements tender, treating Rue with a dignity the world had cruelly denied her. His gentle hands, once used to create beautiful things, now tasked with this final, heartbreaking act of care. Gently, reverently, Peeta folded Rue's arms over her chest, arranging her as if in peaceful sleep, their latest attempt at solace in a land of forgotten children. Another soul lost to the abyss of their growing collection of nameless ghosts, another light extinguished in a world growing ever darker.

"They’re getting smarter," Gale said, his voice a taut wire ready to snap. He paced the cramped armory like a caged predator, energy crackling and sparking in the dark. "That tripwire wasn’t random. They’re herding us."

"Or the Capitol is," Peeta countered, his hands still engaged in the solemn ritual. He didn’t look up, his eyes focused on the small, still form before him. "Voss’s Reapers plant traps. Remember the acid pits near Seven?"

Katniss traced the scars on her forearm absentmindedly, jagged lines etched into her skin from a Shade’s bite two winters back. The fever had nearly taken her then, a furious blaze that burned through her veins. When she’d finally woken from the clutches of that fevered nightmare, Peeta was there, sketching her face in charcoal with meticulous care, whispering, "I need to remember you right. Before they make me forget again."

Gale slammed his fist against the wall, the sound a desperate punctuation in their shared grief. "We need to hit back. Hard. There’s a Capitol supply train moving through the valley tomorrow. Medicine. Weapons. We take it, we—"

"And how many do we lose this time?" Peeta’s voice cut through the air with an edge that spoke volumes of his weariness. "Five? Ten? Like the dam raid? Like the—"

"Enough." Katniss stepped between them, the word tasting like blood and ashes. "We’re not the Capitol. We don’t throw lives away."

Gale’s eyes burned with a fire that threatened to consume him from the inside out. "We’re not living, Katniss. We’re just not dead yet."

The argument died there, its remnants settling like dust in the tense air, buried under the weight of the unspoken. It was a familiar battleground, one they’d crossed a hundred times since the world had ended. Gale saw numbers—resources and tactics in a relentless battle for survival. Peeta saw stories—of hope and humanity in the face of annihilation. And Katniss? She saw a ticking clock, its hands inching closer to midnight, counting down on all of them, an unyielding reminder of their fragile mortality in a world that offered no assurances.

Katniss turned to the mockingjay on the wall. The paint was fresh, the edges still smudged where small fingers had struggled to stay within the lines. Rue had done this. She remembered the way she’d lingered near the supply crates, her hands stained with whatever pigments she could scavenge—charcoal, rust, even the faint blue of an old tarp.

"She wanted to leave something behind," Peeta said softly, following her gaze. "Said it was for her parents. So somebody would know we're here."

Katniss’s throat tightened. The mockingjay’s wings were uneven, one larger than the other, but there was a defiance in its posture that mirrored her own. Rue had never seen a mockingjay in real life—they were extinct, like so much else—but she’d heard the stories. The symbol of rebellion. The spark that refused to die.

"She was brave," Gale muttered, his voice quieter now. "Braver than most."

Katniss stepped closer to the wall, her fingers brushing the rough surface. The paint was still slightly damp. She could almost see Rue standing there, her small frame trembling as she worked, determined to leave her mark in a world that had tried to erase everyone.

The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken decisions. Finally, Katniss turned to face them. "We can’t keep running. We can’t keep losing people like Rue."

Gale crossed his arms. "So what’s the alternative? Sit here and wait for the Shades to find us?"

"No," Katniss said, her voice firm. "We fight back. But not like the Capitol. Not like Voss. We fight for them." She gestured to the mockingjay. "For Rue. For everyone who didn’t make it this far."

Peeta nodded slowly. "The radio tower. If we can get it working, we can reach the other districts. Coordinate. Share resources. Maybe even find a way to stop this."

Gale’s jaw tightened. "And if it’s a trap? If Voss is waiting for us?"

"Then we make sure it’s worth it," Katniss said. "We don’t throw lives away. But we don’t hide either."

Hours later, Katniss sat by the flickering light of a single lantern, its weak flame casting long, dancing shadows across the damp walls. A map spread across her knees, its edges frayed and worn, marked with the desperate scrawls of survivors long gone. Her fingers traced the paths they'd taken, each line a testament to their struggle, each crossout a reminder of roads now closed forever. Peeta sketched beside her, his pencil moving in quick, sure strokes, capturing the haunting beauty of their lost world. His art was all that remained of the vibrant colors that once filled their lives, now reduced to shades of gray and the stark contrast of graphite on paper. Gale sharpened his blades with grim determination, the rhythmic scrape of metal on stone a harsh counterpoint to the oppressive silence, each stroke honing not just steel, but their resolve to survive.

The mockingjay watched over them from its perch on the wall, its painted wings catching the faint light, a silent guardian of their fragile hope. Katniss traced its outline with her finger, the rough texture of the paint beneath her touch a tactile link to the world above. In that moment, the crude image seemed to come alive, a symbol of all they had lost and all they still fought to reclaim.

We're coming, Rue, she thought, her heart aching with the weight of promise. For you. For all of us. For every child silenced, every dream shattered, every life cut short by the merciless tide of destruction that had swept their world away.

And in the distance, barely perceptible but unmistakable, the faint hum of static whispered through the air. It was a sound that didn't belong in this dead world, a hint of technology still functioning somewhere beyond their reach. To Katniss, it was both a promise and a warning – a reminder that they were not alone in this struggle, but also that dangers unknown still lurked in the shadows.

The bunker was silent now, save for the soft scratch of Peeta's pencil, capturing memories on paper before they faded completely, and the occasional sigh of wind through the cracks in the walls – nature's mournful lament for a world forever changed. Outside, beyond their meager shelter, the world was shrouded in darkness, a vast unknown filled with terrors they had yet to face. But here, in this moment, the mockingjay's wings stretched wide across the concrete, a defiant splash of color against the grim backdrop of their existence.

Katniss leaned back, her eyes fixed on the crude painting, finding strength in its simple lines. For the first time in months, she felt something stir within her chest, a feeling almost foreign after so much loss and despair. It was small, fragile as a newly sprouted seedling, but undeniably present.

Hope. Tentative and trembling, but alive.