He stood there as she walked onto the stage, bow in hand, dressed again as the Mockingjay. For some reason, they wanted him on, o at least near, the stage. Something about symbolism. He couldn’t care less. Not about Coin, standing several yards away, offstage. o about Snow, even closer, coughing blood out his puffed lips as he grinned.

Oh no. He was thinking of her. A word that dealt with her. With him. With them both. He’d heard it during his therapy. Prim had been repeating it over and over, and it wasn’t until now that he had grasped onto it, held onto it, like it was sanity itself. ‘Yours’. Yours. His. Mine. My ally. My Lover. Victor. Target. Mutt. Fiancée. Enemy. Neighbor. Safeguard. Mine. Mine. Mine.

A commotion starts, gasps and screams are heard over his thoughts. Peacekeepers are storming towards the stage. The Mockingjay has shot the wrong president. He knew it. He knew she was a mutt all along. It only took them this long to figure it out. He knew her true intentions for shooting Coin; he had seen the look she’d dado Haymitch. He was psychologically unstable on some parts, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t see things. The peacekeepers are moving, and he’s moving, and his mind is working, thinking Mine,mine,mine. To have. To hold. To kiss. To protect. To kill. To hurt. To love. To talk to, whisper to, live with. To-

“Let me go!”

She was reaching for her Nightlock, searching for it, like it was sanity itself. He couldn’t let her do that. She’ll just have to go insane. There was nowhere else to go. She already was, in his mind. Insane. She bit him. His Mockingjay. His girl. His mutt to kill. His target to destroy. His beast to injure, his to maim, to torture, to hunt, to strangle-

“I can’t.”

Because you're mine.