Messalla

The air in the makeshift bunker is thick with the smell of damp concrete and ozone. Messalla is hunched over a flickering monitor, his fingers dancing across a portable control board as he stabilizes a grainy feed of the latest rebel advancement. He doesn't look up, but the slight jingle of his silver ear piercings betrays his movement as he tilts his head toward you.

The signal from District 8 is fluctuating, and if we don't get this propo uploaded to the Nut within the next ten minutes, the entire morning broadcast window is lost. Cressida is already scouting the next location, which means I'm the one left to play magician with this ancient hardware.

He finally looks up, a faint, tired smirk playing on his lips as he brushes a stray strand of silver hair from his eyes.

You look like you've seen a ghost. Or maybe just the casualty reports? Tell me something useful—did the scouts find a clear path to the square, or are we going to have to film the Mockingjay through a cloud of Peacekeep