Drip. Drip. Drip.
"Ma must have hung the laundry inside."
Drip. Drip. Drip.
"So cold. Need to put some coal on the fire. So cold. Where's my quilt? Sid, you got my quilt?"
Drip. Drip. Drip.
"Hattie bottling a new batch. Always stinks like this. First part of the run gets tossed. Throw out the heads, Haymitch. Stuff will kill you. It'll kill you."
Drip. Drip. Drip.
"Too late, Hattie. I'm already dead. Hey, Hattie?"
Drip. Drip. Drip.
"Hattie? Ma?"
There was no response. Something bad was happening.
"Ma?"
I snapped awake. Why was Hattie brewing in my kitchen? She'd get us all arrested. Why would no one answer me? This wasn't the kitchen. What the hell was happening? Why did I hurt so bad?
A greenish glow, like a tornado sky, filtered through the gloom. The sharp smell of alcohol married with chemicals lined my nose, coating my tongue. Drip-drip-dripping mixed with a distant murmur, words I couldn't quite make out. Cold metal pinned me to cold metal. Fear.
I blinked hard, and the world came into focus. Through the swampy light, I saw a high ceiling crisscrossed with pipes. I licked my sandpaper lips, trying to swallow. I reached to rub my eyes, but my hands couldn't make it past my belly. My fingers found a long row of stitches across my gut. I couldn't make sense of them. A steel table lay beneath me. No mattress, no sheet, no pillow. Metal cuffs with short chains bound my wrists and ankles. A strap crossed my chest. I was naked as a jaybird. Not a stitch on. No—wait. Something was left. My flint striker...
The memory swooped back into my brain. The cliffside. The bomb. Silka's dying gurgles. The warnings from above. Sparks flying. Fuse catching. The arc of the sunflower against the open sky. Then, that earsplitting sound.
I must be dead. I had felt my intestines sliding out. My body shutting down. I had wanted to go. The job was done; my poster was completed.
What had happened to me?
My flint striker rested on my heart, as it had in my final moment, only now it was fastened to my neck by a leather bootlace. Someone had tied it there, and it wasn't Ma.
Where am I, Lenore Dove? Where are you, my only love?
Tubes sprouted from my arms. One in my belly. I twisted my head to the right, and pain scalded my gut. A few feet away, faces pressed against a glass wall. Tongueless mouths opened. Avoxes, unclothed and dirty, pawed at the glass, begging me for something I couldn't give. Terrified, I turned to the left.
A moment of relief as I spotted my old friend, the gray rabbit from the arena. My dove in the coal mine, who warned of danger, who led me from the maze. Had it come to save me once again? Help me. Can you help me? The green eyes stared unblinking from the tank. It pressed into the glass. Why did it tremble so?
From the shadows, something struck. A six-foot snake swallowed up my ally. A lump moved in the sinewy body.
I slammed my eyes shut. This must be a nightmare. Or perhaps I'd gone to another world, a bad one. I tried to will myself back into unconsciousness, to escape this evil place. But in my heart of hearts, I knew it was real. I started shaking as hard as the rabbit. Harder. Awaiting my snake. *Please send the snake and end this.*
Muffled footsteps. A tug on my tubes. A woman in a mask swapped a full bag of clear fluid for an empty one.
"Where am I?" I rasped.
She ignored me. She just sponged my gut stitches with a foul-smelling liquid, sending shocks of pain across my trunk.
"Stop! You're hurting me!" I struggled. She didn't stop. I stopped, because moving made the pain worse.
She left. Murmurs again. This time I caught a few words. "Laboratory." "Sepsis." "Disruptive." A coldness surged from the needle planted in my arm. Nothingness.
When I woke again, I had new knowledge. In this place, disruption brought oblivion. Dispensed from afar like the drugs in Lou Lou's pump. I tried to be as disruptive as possible for the hours? Days? Weeks? I was imprisoned here. When I was conscious, the Avoxes pleaded. Padded feet brought pain. Grotesque mutts replaced the humans. More bunnies died. Nasty concoctions were forced between my lips. No daylight breached the walls, no ally comforted me. I was utterly alone and defenseless.
Fresh confusion washed over me as I surfaced in a nest of burnt orange. Somehow, I was back at the tribute apartment. Across the room, Wyatt's bed, bereft of covers, caught me off guard. I still hadn't had the space to mourn him.
Gingerly, I wiggled my fingers and toes. All the tubes and restraints had vanished, but a pump identical to Lou Lou's had sunk its teeth deep into my chest, defying me to remove it. I folded back the fuzzy spread, the fine sheets, and examined my gut wound. No stitches, just a puckered, angry scar, like a twisted smile. My thigh had fared better, but I'd carry the mark for life. Still naked. I jumped up, only to collapse back down on the bed, gripping the covers as the room spun. I waited for things to settle before a second attempt. With my feet carefully planted on the floor, I slowly rose. My pajamas were still in a jumble on the floor where I'd left them the morning of the Hunger Games. With no other options, I put them on.
I wobbled into the living room and steadied myself against the doorjamb of the girls' room. Bedding from our last sleepover draped the furniture and floor. Dried blood spots from Lou Lou's ear dotted her pillow. Maysilee's pajamas sat folded in a neat pile on her bed. Nobody was here because everybody was dead.
"Mags?" I croaked. "Wiress?"
No answer. The whole building was as silent as a grave. The street outside the apartment was deserted. Locked down. Block barricaded off. I was indeed a dangerous young man. The charming rascal turned deadly rebel. Woodbine Chance has grown up into one of his loose cannon kin, fated to swing by his neck while District 12 looks on. Seized by an impulse to flee, I made for the elevator and pressed the button repeatedly. No humming, no lights, no escape possible.
In the kitchen, the table was bare, but the refrigerator held a platter of rolls and a shelf of pint-sized cartons of milk. Snow's diet after the deadly oysters. Though my stomach had shrunk to the size of a walnut, it still craved food. I dipped bits of bread in the milk and sucked them down. Being poisoned no longer worried me. If the president wanted me dead, why had he gone to so much trouble to keep me alive? He had big plans for me. The camera in the corner reminded me my every move was being watched, or at least recorded. No, at this point, definitely watched. Eyes on me, 24/7. I would not be allowed to die. I would be resurrected by the Capitol for their entertainment. Perhaps I was even being broadcast live now. Perhaps, as a victor, I would never be off camera again....
Exhausted by my excursion, I returned to bed and sank into a fitful sleep.
Days passed. My schedule was my own here. Nothing but time to consider the consequences of my actions in the arena. Snow's perfect little showpiece that I had undermined every chance I got. I took no pleasure in that now as I wondered who was paying the price for it. Beetee. Mags. Wiress. They were likely all being tortured to reveal the names of accomplices. The rebel sympathizers who crafted sunflower bombs and fuse necklaces. The Gamemakers and Peacekeepers who helped smuggle them in. I hoped they'd spared the prep team and Effie, who were completely clueless Capitol pawns. I doubted anyone suspected Drusilla and Magno Stift of being sympathizers, and I didn't care if they did. And Plutarch? I was still not sure of his role in all this, but he was right about the sun and the berms, and without that knowledge, it would have been impossible to carry out my mission. Was he an ally? A Capitol operative? Both? Impossible to know.
I didn't dare think about my loved ones back home. Everything I did, every choice I made, was based on the knowledge that my death protected them from harm. Snow had guaranteed that in the library. "With you out of the picture, Lenore Dove and your family should be free to enjoy long and happy lives." Like Beetee said, if he had died, Ampert would have still been alive. Snow wanted him to suffer the horror of watching his son's execution; it was pointless otherwise. But since Snow needed a victor for his perfect Quarter Quell, I guessed he changed his mind about killing me.
To make matters worse, Beetee's transgressions were clandestine and mine were televised to the entire country. Or were they? I had no idea how my efforts had been edited, blacked out, and card-stacked. It was possible that nothing significant had been aired, gutting the effectiveness of my posters, but perhaps lightening my punishment.
This I knew: I had been publicly challenging Snow and his Quarter Quell since I landed in the Capitol. Even after the private meeting in the library, I flaunted my defiance of him. If he served up poisoned oysters to Incitatus Loomy, the parade master, what feast must he have in store for me and mine?
Maybe a week had gone by, according to the shifting light on the street. Solitary confinement continued. The isolation was almost scarier than the creepy lab. You know when you're starting to miss hanging out with the mutts, you're in trouble, but I longed for company.
The rolls hardened, the milk began to turn, but I kept eating, driven by a convalescent's ravenous appetite. I fantasized about food. Fresh plums. Mashed potatoes. Rabbit stew. Stack cake. Would I ever taste stack cake again? Unlikely. If I did make it home, I expected childhood celebrations would be a thing of the past. I wouldn't really be home anyway. I'd have a house in the Victor's Village, with all the niceties Beetee alluded to. Reliable electricity, warm and cool air, flushing toilets, and all the hot water I wanted at the turn of a faucet. No pumping and chopping required. Like my prison here.
Perhaps my victory celebration had been canceled due to my insurrection. Maybe I was just being imprisoned for my public execution. One could hope.
I started spending long stretches in the tub. The towel I'd thrown over the camera had been removed, and I didn't bother replacing it. They'd just drug me and take it away. Might chain me up again. No point. I soaked for hours and hours, replenishing the hot water, watching my fingers and toes get pruney as bits of dead flesh floated off my scar. Images of the arena consumed me. Death upon death. Ones I didn't witness, like the bloodbath, I imagined. I tried to recall the other forty-seven tributes plus Lou Lou. Using Maysilee's color system helped a bit, but about half eluded me. District 5, District 8. All but forgotten.
Wyatt's absence haunted me in the bedroom, so I took my spread to the couch and made camp there. The television, unresponsive to my attempts with the remote, began to turn on and off on its own. I was fed clips from old Hunger Games, curated especially for me. Gory snippets, terrorized children, despair. The early ones, which they rarely featured on Capitol TV, were low-budget affairs with no attempt at the showiness that marked today's extravaganzas. Just a bunch of kids thrown into an old arena with some weapons. No costumes or interviews.
One evening, a haunting melody wove through my dreams. I startled from sleep, calling Lenore Dove's name. The television glowed. On-screen, a girl in a rainbow of ruffles sang a familiar tune with unfamiliar words.
*It's sooner than later that I'm six feet under.*
*It's sooner than later that you'll be alone.*
*So who will you turn to tomorrow, I wonder?*
*For when the bell rings, lover, you're on your own.*
She performed on a stage with a shabby backdrop before a Capitol audience in old-fashioned clothes. Great-Aunt Messalina and Great-Uncle Silius would fit right in.
Her voice, that accent, the way those fingers commanded the guitar strings—a Covey girl, for sure. But not mine...
*And I am the one who you let see you weeping.*
*I know the soul that you struggle to save.*
*Too bad I'm the bet that you lost in the reaping.*
*Now what will you do when I go to my grave?*
Sniffles from the audience. Someone shouted, "Bravo!" The crowd went wild. The girl bowed and extended her hand to a figure who was standing just out of the spotlight. A silhouette of a man. Upright, trim. A crown of curls. He waited a moment, as if deciding whether or not to join her. Then took a step forward as the screen went black.
The reaping, she said? Must be. Why else would a Covey girl be in the Capitol? Could this girl be District 12's one and only victor? Suddenly, I was sure she was. No wonder Lenore Dove never wanted to talk about her. She knew the story, but it was too secret, or perhaps too painful, to share even with me. I thought about the bits of color Lenore Dove added to her wardrobe, the bright blue, yellow, and pink. Were they scraps from this girl's dress? A way to keep her memory alive? What color name did this rainbow girl carry to the Tenth Hunger Games? What happened to her after? Did she come home? Did she die in the nightmarish lab? What did she do to be erased so completely?
Who was the guy she reached out to at the end of her number? Her district partner possibly, who'd have died in the arena. It was someone she cared about, from the look of it. Or perhaps it was someone else, someone hosting the show. An earlier Flickerman. They'd be forty years older now if they were still alive.
Forty years. Not all that long after the Dark Days. If District 12 had forgotten her, it was unlikely she was remembered here in the Capitol. No, wait. Someone here remembered the Covey. Someone who knew how they named their babies and loved their birds. Intimate, personal knowledge. The information I attributed to Capitol informers could have an entirely different source. I did the math. Fifty-eight minus forty. Eighteen. President Snow would've been eighteen during the Tenth Hunger Games. The Covey girl would have been no older. The curly-headed man in the shadows that she reached out to... was it him?
I recalled the library, his knowing smirk...
"Bet I know a thing or two about your dove."
"Like what?"
"Like she's delightful to look at, swishes around in bright colors, and sings like a mockingjay. You love her. And oh, how she seems to love you. Except sometimes you wonder because her plans don't seem to include you at all."
Oh, Lenore Dove, what have I done to you? How will you pay for my surviving the Hunger Games?
I lost it, smashing a chair into the window, shattering glass onto a table of china kittens, then pounding at the bars with a heavy lamp. I hammered away until a burst of bullets above my head broke my focus.
A pair of heavily armed Peacekeepers had materialized, their rifles trained on me. Behind them, my prep team huddled and would likely flee if Effie Trinket didn't have a firm grip on their grooming belts.
"Well," she said with false cheeriness, "who's ready for a big, big, big night?"
The Peacekeepers slapped on handcuffs and propelled me into the center of the room, where my prep team stared at me, aghast. I was skin and bones, wearing dirty pajamas, and my bare feet bled freely from the broken glass. Somewhere in the last few weeks, my nails had turned to claws, my hair to fur. I'd killed multiple times and preserved no life but my own. I left a simple district piglet and returned as the murderous beast that they always suspected lay in wait.
"Just need a flower for my lapel," I said.
But you couldn't keep Effie down. She held up a white rose. "Got it. Why don't we start with a shower? You'll want to look your best for your Victor's Ceremony."
No execution, then. At least, not yet.
Soaped up, rinsed off, trimmed, shaved, teeth brushed, feet bandaged. Revulsion at my scar expressed and dealt with, the team dressed me in another Uncle Silius ensemble.
I fingered the champagne bubbles embroidered in the jacket. "Where's Magno Stift?"
Effie's nose wrinkled in disgust. "More toads. He's still recovering, but he's planning to make an appearance tonight since you're the victor."
"I'm going to tell everyone you dressed me."
"Please, don't." She sighed. "He'll only make a scene, and it's hard enough being a Trinket." She arranged my flint striker over my shirt. I tried to shove it back under my collar, but she resisted. "He said to keep it out, where everybody can see it."
"Magno did?" I asked Effie.
"No." She clipped off the end of the rose, slid it into a buttonhole, and gave it a tap. "He did." She stepped back. "You look very presentable. Remember, positive attitude."
Despite my finery, I was shackled and transported in the van, which felt so dark and desolate without Maysilee, Wyatt, and Lou Lou. No greenroom for me this time. Still rattling my chains, I was escorted beneath the stage and shoved into a chair, with four guards assigned to me.
Effie, to her credit, stood by me. When the Peacekeepers objected, she said, "He's the second Quarter Quell victor. Drusilla and Magno are not available. Someone should be with him to honor his achievement."
"Your funeral," a Peacekeeper said.
I thought about the things I did in the arena. Things they definitely would have shown. Killing the pair from District 4. The brutal ax fight with Silka. Maybe they were right to chain me like a beast. I felt grateful to Effie. "I won't hurt you," I muttered.
"I know that," she said. "I've known who you are ever since you helped with my makeup box. And I know your position could not have been easy."
It was surprisingly touching. "Thanks, Effie."
"But they really are for a greater good. The Hunger Games."
And now she'd lost me.
The area beneath the stage began to fill with people and their handlers. The activity centered around five metal plates that would ascend with the featured players of the night. Proserpina and Vitus jittered on one circle in anticipation, tweaking each other's makeup. Drusilla, who appeared to be wearing a stuffed eagle on her head, teetered on six-inch heels. Magno reeled in, decked in live-reptile fashion, and a few assistants balanced him on his spot, with crossed fingers. I craned my neck, trying to find my mentors. Finally, Mags arrived in a wheelchair while a still-mobile but distressed Wiress twitched her head about in a birdlike fashion, a steady stream of words spouting from her lips. Very bad things had been done to them. Mags spotted me and tried to rise before she was shoved back in her chair. No reunion for us.
Their torturous treatment made it impossible to deny my family's certain punishment. Were they already dead? Or would Snow arrange, as he did with Beetee, for a time when I could personally witness their suffering?
The anthem played, and I heard Caesar Flickerman welcome the audience to the second Quarter Quell's Victor's Ceremony. He called the Games historic, unparalleled, unforgettable, and as devastating a reminder of the Dark Days as the country had ever witnessed. He began to introduce my team as a hubbub of shouting and whooping came from the audience. Up went Proserpina and Vitus, clapping for themselves. Drusilla followed, in a dramatic pose that mimicked the eagle's outstretched wings. As his plate rose, Magno almost tumbled off, but caught himself and crawled back aboard. He made his entrance on one knee, his hands in a victory clasp above his head. The Peacekeepers hauled Mags to her feet. She and Wiress, arms encircling each other's waists, leaned against each other for support.
Freed of my shackles, I was held in place on my plate until it began to rise. What did the audience see during the Hunger Games? Would they boo or applaud for me? And who was I supposed to be? Was it possible I was still a beloved rascal? Or were they salivating to see the murderous monster from District 12? Effie Trinket, the only one I might ask, had melted into the shadows.
I braced myself, preparing to be pelted with rotten fruit or jeered off the stage. Bright lights partially blinded me, and I lifted my hand to shield my eyes. When they adjusted, I realized the entire audience had given me a standing ovation. Mad cheers and hot tears.
I was the hero of the moment. The star of Panem. The victor of the Quarter Quell. And that could only mean that President Snow had won the day.
People in the crowd began to chant a mishmash of sounds that reduced to, "Show it! Show it! Show it! Show it!"
I turned to Caesar for direction, and he drew a line across his abdomen. My scar. They wanted me to show them my scar. There appeared to be no choice. I pulled my silk shirt up, unzipped my pants as far as modesty allowed, and displayed my scar. The applause lasted for a full five minutes.
Giant screens throughout the auditorium came to life with the anthem playing over a fluttering flag of Panem. Caesar guided me to an upholstered chair positioned in the center of the stage for the recap. It was my first glimpse into how my Hunger Games were broadcast to the public.
The recap opened on the reading of the card, which I watched from home with Ma and Sid in the spring. A little girl dressed all in white, the picture of innocence, lifted the lid on a wooden box filled with envelopes. They widened the shot to include President Snow, who intoned, "And now, to honor our second Quarter Quell, we respect the wishes of those who risked all to bring peace to our great nation." He leaned over and carefully selected the envelope marked with a 50 and read the card inside. "On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district will be required to send twice as many tributes to the Hunger Games. Two female and two male. In this doubling of reparations, we remember that true strength lies not in numbers, but in righteousness."
Bam! They started drawing the names at the reapings, beginning with District 1. "Silka Sharp!" "Panache Barker!" They machine-gunned through the tributes with a quick shot of each and a counter in the corner of the screen that tracked from one to forty-eight. Being the home of the victor, District 12 was allowed a bit more time. Drusilla, yellow hat feathers bobbing, got in her "Ladies first!" before "Louella McCoy!" My sweetheart marched up. "Maysilee Donner!" There was Maysilee, Merrilee, and Asterid clutching one another in the crowd. One of the tearful good-byes captured by Plutarch. "And the first gentleman who gets to accompany the ladies is... Wyatt Callow!" They briefly covered Wyatt, and then Drusilla called my name. Lenore Dove's refusal to perform had not made this version. Not tearful enough for Plutarch and too Covey for Snow. But there was no Ma or Sid either. The omission chilled me. Why wasn't Plutarch's footage here? "Ladies and gentlemen, join me in welcoming the District Twelve tributes of the Fiftieth Hunger Games!" said Drusilla, as if daring District 12 to do anything else. "And may the odds be EVER in your favor!" I was obliterated by a swirl of confetti.
I wanted to scream out the truth. A boy's head was blown off! People in 12 were shot! My reaping was rigged! But I just sat there, mute and radiating implicit submission. Snow had me by the short hairs, and he knew it.
Incitatus Loomy could not have masterminded a finer parade. The frantic backstage prep never made an appearance, just a majestic, orderly rollout of the tributes. There was a final aerial shot of all twelve chariots cruising along the route in perfect sync, which ended about fifteen seconds before that blue firecracker exploded, sending the whole event into chaos. This was all the country saw anyway. You had to be there in person to know about the crashing chariots and me holding Snow accountable for Louella's death. Which, as we know, also didn't happen because, look, it was time for the interviews and all forty-eight tributes were in the house.
The Careers had been edited to appear smarter, the Newcomers less unified. Did anyone even notice this besides me? Lou Lou was reduced to a girl wearing live-reptile fashion, Maysilee's and Wyatt's memorable turns were entirely ignored, and I got one snarky exchange with Caesar:
"So, Haymitch, what do you think of the Games having one hundred percent more competitors than usual?"
"I don't see that it makes much difference. They'll still be one hundred percent as stupid as usual, so I figure my odds will be roughly the same."
The audience laughed, and I gave them this grin that confirmed me as a stuck-up, selfish jerk. No mention of my support of the Newcomers. No silly interplay about making booze for Peacekeepers. The rascal was just a jackass.
Now we were rising into the arena. The opening sequence was a love letter to the Gamemakers as we savored the beauty of flora and fauna. For me, though, it called to mind the deceptively sweet, brain-clouding smell of the air.
The jackass, meaning me, grabbed his gear and hightailed it out of there, and then we got to watch the bloodbath, where eighteen kids were killed in excruciating detail. The audience before me gasped and cried out in glee, though they'd seen it all before. Wyatt died a selfless hero protecting a bewildered Lou Lou, who managed to scamper off unscathed. Maysilee fought, then followed Lou Lou to protect her. So many Newcomers fell. Two doves, the boys from 7, all of 8 and 9, Lannie and the other girl from 10, Tile from 11. With Wyatt, that made sixteen. The only Career casualties were a boy and girl from District 5. Eighteen in all.
*Oh, hello again, jackass! Sure, take your time. Catch your breath on the rock. Check out your pack. Don't worry about the Newcomers, they've got this. Ooh, look at that pretty woods. Have a nice hike!*
A bunch of us sickened as the poisonous fruit and water kicked in. Carat from 1 and Urchin, the boy from 4 who knocked me off the chariot, writhed to death. That accounted for the twenty kids I saw in the sky that first night. The rest of the Careers had formed their pack on the snow-capped mountain.
Up until this point, I thought the recap had been a fair record of what occurred in the arena. However, on Day 2, things started to go wonky. At some point, Maysilee, on her own, killed the boy from District 1, Loupe, which I believed to be true because she told me this. There were a lot of tributes still recovering from the poison and the Career pack was hunting Newcomers. That, too, seemed likely. But the recount of what happened in the woods, my tale, began to deviate almost immediately. Timelines were twisted. Connections misleading. It was less flat-out lying than lying by omission. For instance, I saw myself fighting squirrels, although they weren't around until the third day when I fought them to save Ampert. But we hadn't even met up yet, so I seemed to be trying to save my own life. They showed Lou Lou gasping in the flowers, only I was nowhere in sight. Later, I was just running from the butterflies without even a glimpse of my fleeing with her body, hiding in the willows, and bringing on the shockers as punishment. What they showed during the actual Games, I didn't know, but in the recap, I wasn't even attempting to protect any of my allies. Day 3, the squirrels, as if making a second appearance, swarmed Ampert, and then there was a reveal of his skeleton on the ground. Again, I was nowhere to be found. In fact, our picnic, the campout, the bombing of the tank, my rampage, and the arena going haywire—not a bit of that appeared.
The horrors of the volcano took center stage. The tributes experienced the flame-shooting eruption, asphyxiation by the ash cloud, burns from the chemical lava. Twelve died. The rest barely escaped and headed across the meadow to the woods.
Cut to me, waking up blanketed by the sparkling ash. I got back to the business of trudging north. With the tank plot erased, my whole agenda seemed to have been about getting to the end of the arena, which was, I guessed, my cover story. It rained, but they'd concealed all the bombing's damage. The arena was as perfect as ever. I got trapped in the hedge, followed the gray rabbit to freedom, and ran into Panache and company.
I didn't know who that was on the screen, so brutally killing those Careers from District 4. I guessed it was me, but I couldn't own it. I stopped thinking of myself as the jackass because it seemed too complimentary for the creature I'd devolved into. Didn't help when they showed every syllable of my toadying, babbling speech to Panache, who was finally silenced by Maysilee's dart.
"We'd live longer with two of us." Oh, Maysilee. I was mortified to be sitting here.
For a bit, things got back on course again. Maysilee and I looked out for each other, and Silka and Maritte took out Ringina and Autumn in combat. But in a mind-bending realignment of events, Maysilee and me drawing off the porcupine mutt and Maritte and Maysilee killing the three Gamemakers at the berm had vanished. Somewhere in time, Maritte and Silka chased us through the woods, and Buck, Chicory, and Hull died from the quills, but it appeared the porcupine just wandered off on its own.
Was it Day 4 or 5? Maysilee and my attempts to carve our way through the hedge had merged into one big sequence that involved the ladybugs and blowtorch. We were on the cliff that looked down on the treacherous rocks, but they steered clear of the generator. They'd edited out the cannon announcing Maritte's death and with it the part where Maysilee said she was just going back for the potatoes, so it looked like we'd really decided to split up. To my surprise, they kept my discovery of the force field. I guessed they needed it for Silka's death?
The pink birds attacked Maysilee and she screamed. For the first time, I looked like I might be redeemable because I ran to her aid. Oh, no. They hadn't turned this into a redemption story, had they? Selfish rascal learns to care about others? Please tell me no.
Day 5 or 6? Who knew? It was just one big, big, big day.
My delivery of milk from Snow had evaporated. As I ran through the woods, they'd added the sound of Wellie screaming, which didn't happen. I appeared to have finally remembered that I belonged to a wider alliance so I was going to the rescue, when the cannon sounded and I came upon Silka, Wellie's head in hand.
Smash cut to the golden squirrels stripping Maritte to the bone. No matter that she'd been long dead by this time. But people must know that. Maysilee and Maritte appeared in the sky together. Did no one remember? Did they just not care? Or during the Games, did they show the audience a different sky? Or none at all? And did they intentionally save Maritte's death to increase tension at the end? The Gamemakers must have been scrambling like crazy to control the narrative by this point. Whatever the case, the audience here in the auditorium had embraced this version, cheering and jeering on cue. Their lack of discernment transformed the recap, validating it as truth. I hoped those in the districts could still see it as the piece of propaganda it was, but there was no telling what they'd been fed.
We were back to Silka and me facing off, knowing we were the final two. Without words, we quickly engaged in battle. Fatal wounds were exchanged. I ran to the hedge.
On the cliff, Silka cornered me, threw her ax. I dropped. They cut to her anticipation and then back to me, convulsing. This must have happened after I lost consciousness.
The ax rebounded and buried itself in her head. And then?—and then?
Silka died, her cannon fired, and I was hanging on by a thread. The sunflower bomb, the quartz, the flint striker—there was no record of any of them. All of them gone or tucked away from sight. The hovercraft removed Silka's body. Trumpets declared my victory. A claw closed around me.
Were there rules about breaking out of the arena and using the force field to win? Possibly they were implied, but I had never heard them mentioned. So, what was I? A rascal? A cheater even? Maybe. But clearly I did not rise to the standard of a rebel.
The camera pulled back slowly as they carried me away, for the first time revealing the arena as a whole. It looked like a giant eye. The Cornucopia marked the pupil. The wide circle of spring-green meadow made up the iris. On either side, the darker green of the forest and mountain terrain narrowed to points, forming the whites of the eye. Well, the symbolism had been lost on no one. Even the little kids in the Seam knew the Capitol powers were watching us.
I wondered if they ever considered that we were watching them, too.
All eyes on me now, as I rose to my feet before the thundering crowd. The anthem played as President Snow descended from the heights on a crystal platform, a bloodred rose in his lapel. In his hand, he held a golden crown.
Some victors bowed, some knelt, but I just stood there trying to read his expression as he approached and placed the crown on my head. Heavy. Entrapping.
"I guess Snow lands on top," I said under the applause. Utterly guilty on all possible counts, I awaited his sentence.
He merely smiled and said, "Enjoy your homecoming."