Coriolanus had been in a state of denial about the taxes, but now the reality of his family’s displacement hit him like a truck. How could he say good-bye to the only home he’d ever known? To his mother, to his childhood, to those sweet memories of his life before the war? These four walls not only kept his family safe from the world, they protected the legend of the Snows’ wealth. He would be losing his residence, his history, and his identity in one fell swoop.
They had six weeks to come up with the money. To scrape together the equivalent of Tigris’s income for the whole year. The cousins tried to assess what they might still have to sell, but even if they sold every stick of furniture and every keepsake, it would only cover a few months, at the most. And the tax bills would keep showing up, every month, like clockwork. They would need the proceeds from selling their possessions, however paltry, to rent a new place. Eviction due to tax troubles had to be avoided at all cost; the public shame would be too great, too lasting. So move they must.
“What are we going to do?” Coriolanus asked.
“Nothing until the Hunger Games are finished. You have to focus on them so you can get that Plinth Prize, or at least another one. I’ll handle this end,” she said firmly. She made him a cup of hot milk laced with corn syrup and stroked his throbbing head until he fell asleep. He dreamed violent, unsettling things, replaying the events of the arena, and awoke to the usual.
Gem of Panem,
Mighty city,
Through the ages, you shine anew.
Would the Grandma’am still be singing it in their rental in a month or two? Or would she be too humiliated to raise her voice again? For all his derision of the morning recital, the thought saddened him.
As he dressed, the stitches on his arm pulled, and he remembered he was supposed to drop by the Citadel to get them checked. Dark red scabs had settled on his scraped face, but the swelling had abated. He dabbed some of his mother’s powder on, and while it didn’t really cover the scabs, the scent soothed him a bit.
Their hopeless financial situation made him accept the tokens Tigris offered without hesitation. Why bother pinching pennies when the dollars had fled long ago? On the trolley, he choked down his nut butter on soda crackers and tried not to compare it with Ma Plinth’s breakfast rolls. It crossed his mind that, given his rescue of Sejanus, the Plinths might provide a loan, or even a payout for his silence, but the Grandma’am would never allow that, and the idea of a Snow groveling before a Plinth was unthinkable. The Plinth Prize, though, was fair game, and Tigris was right. These next few days would determine his future.
At the Academy, the ten mentors drank their tea and readied themselves for the cameras. Every day brought them more scrutiny. The Gamemakers had sent over a makeup person, who managed to tone down Coriolanus’s scabs and give his eyebrows a little shape while she was at it. No one seemed in the mood to talk about the Games directly, except Hilarius Heavensbee, who could talk of nothing else.
“It’s different for me,” said Hilarius. “I checked my list last night. Every single one of the tributes left has had food, or at least water, since they’ve been in the arena. Except old no-show Wovey. Where is she anyway? I mean, how would I know if she just curled up and died somewhere in those tunnels? Maybe she’s already dead, and I’m just sitting here like a jackass, playing with my communicuff!”
Coriolanus wanted to tell him to shut up because other people had real problems, but instead he maneuvered himself into a seat on the end, next to Festus, who was deep in discussion with Persephone.
Lucky Flickerman opened by recapping the remaining tributes and inviting Lepidus to take comments from the mentor pool. Coriolanus was
called upon first thing to respond to the Jessup scare. He made a point of complimenting Lysistrata’s brilliant handling of the rabies situation and thanking her for her generosity in the last minutes of Jessup’s life. He turned to the section where the fallen mentors sat, asked her to stand, and invited the audience to give her a round of applause. Not only did they oblige, but at least half stood up, and while Lysistrata looked embarrassed, he thought she didn’t really mind. Then he added that he hoped to properly thank her by fulfilling her prediction that the victor would be a tribute from District 12, namely, Lucy Gray. The audience could see for themselves how clever his tribute had been. And they shouldn’t forget how she’d stood by Jessup until the bitter end. Again, that was behavior you might expect of a Capitol girl, but of one from the districts? It was something to think about, how much they rewarded character in the Hunger Games victor, how much she reflected their values. Something must’ve hit home with the audience, because at least a dozen pings sounded from his communicuff right off. He held up the cuff for the camera and thanked the generous sponsors.
As if unable to stand that much attention being showered on Coriolanus, Pup sat forward and loudly announced that he’d “Better get Lamina her breakfast!” and ordered up a storm of food and drink. No one else could compete, as she was the only tribute to be seen in the arena, so it was just one more way in which Pup was annoying. It gratified Coriolanus that no new pinging came from his rival’s cuff.
Knowing he wouldn’t be called upon again until the others had been interviewed, Coriolanus adopted an interested demeanor but barely listened to their pitches. The idea of approaching old Strabo Plinth for money — not blackmailing him, of course, but giving him the opportunity to make a financial gift of thanks — kept nagging at him. What if Coriolanus dropped by the Plinths’ to check on Sejanus’s health? That had been a bad cut on his leg. Yes, what if he just dropped by and then saw what happened?
Lucky interrupted Io’s thoughts on what Circ might do with the drone — “Well, if the light-emitting diodes on the drone aren’t broken, he might be able to fashion a flashlight of some sort, which would give him a great advantage at night” — to direct the audience’s attention to Reaper’s emergence from the barricade.
Lamina, who’d been collecting water, bread, and cheese from a half dozen drones, neatly lined up her provisions along the beam. She barely acknowledged Reaper’s entrance, but he walked over to her with purpose.
He pointed up at the sun and then to her face. For the first time, Coriolanus noticed the toll the long days outdoors were taking on Lamina’s skin. She’d been badly sunburned, and her nose was peeling in response. On close inspection, the tops of her bare feet were red as well. Reaper indicated her food. Lamina rubbed her foot and seemed to consider whatever his offer might be. They went back and forth for a bit, then both nodded in agreement. Reaper jogged across the arena and climbed up to the flag of Panem. He pulled out his long knife and stabbed through the heavy fabric.
Loud objections came from the audience in the hall. This disregard for the sanctity of the national flag shook them. As Reaper began to saw his way through the flag, carving off a piece the size of a small blanket, the unease grew. Surely, this should not go unchecked. Surely, he should be punished in some way. But given that being in the Hunger Games was the ultimate punishment, no one knew what form it should take.
Lepidus hurried over to Clemensia to ask what she made of her tribute’s behavior. “Well, it’s a stupid move, isn’t it? Who’s going to sponsor him now?”
“Not that it matters, since you never feed him,” Pup commented.
“I’ll feed him when he does something that merits feeding,” said Clemensia. “Anyway, I think you’ve got that covered today.”
Pup frowned. “I do?”
Clemensia nodded to the screen as Reaper jogged back to the beam. Further negotiation occurred between him and Lamina. Then, on what appeared to be the count of three, Reaper tossed up the wadded piece of flag as Lamina dropped down a piece of bread. The flag didn’t quite make it high enough for her to catch hold of. More negotiation ensued. When Reaper finally delivered it after several attempts, she rewarded him with a chunk of cheese.
It wasn’t an official alliance, but the exchange seemed to bond the two a bit. While Lamina shook out the flag and draped it over her head, Reaper sat against one of the posts and ate his bread and cheese. They didn’t speak to each other again, but a relative calm came over them, and when the pack appeared at the far end of the arena, Lamina pointed them out. Reaper gave her a nod of thanks before withdrawing behind the barricade.
Coral, Mizzen, and Tanner sat in the stands and made eating motions. Festus, Persephone, and Domitia all obliged them, and the three tributes shared the bread, cheese, and apples dropped by the drones.
Back in the studio, Lucky had brought his pet parrot, Jubilee, to the set, and he spent several minutes trying to coax it to say “Hi, Handsome!” to Dean Highbottom. The bird, a depressed creature in the midst of battling mange, perched wordlessly on Lucky’s wrist as the dean folded his hands and waited. “Oh, say it! Come on! ‘Hi, Handsome! Hi, Handsome!’”
“I don’t think it wants to, Lucky,” said Dean Highbottom finally. “Perhaps it doesn’t find me handsome at all.”
“What? Ha! Nooo. He’s just shy in front of strangers.” He held out the bird. “Would you like to hold him?”
The dean leaned back. “No.”
Lucky pulled Jubliee back to his chest and stroked his feathers with a fingertip. “So, Dean Highbottom, what do you make of it all?”
“All . . . what?” Dean Highbottom asked.
“All this stuff. All this different stuff happening in the Hunger Games.” Lucky waved his hand in the air. “All of it!”
“Well, what I’m noticing is the new interactivity of the Games,” said Dean Highbottom.
Lucky nodded. “Interactivity. Go on.”
“Right from the beginning. Even before, actually. When the bombing occurred in the arena, it not only took out participants, it changed the landscape,” the dean continued.
“Changed the landscape,” Lucky repeated.
“Yes. Now we have the barricade. The beam. Access to the tunnels. It’s a brand-new arena, and it’s made the tributes behave in a brand-new way,” the dean explained.
“And we have drones!” said Lucky.
“Exactly right. Now the audience is an active player in the Games.” Dean Highbottom inclined his head toward Lucky. “And you know what that means.”
“What?” said Lucky.
The dean spoke the next words slowly, as if to a small child. “It means we’re all in the arena together, Lucky.”
Lucky furrowed his brow. “Huh. I don’t quite get that.”
Dean Highbottom tapped his temple with his forefinger. “Think it over.” “Hi, Handsome,” squawked Jubilee despondently.
“Oh, there we go! I told you, didn’t I?” crowed Lucky.
“You did,” admitted the dean. “And yet it was still unexpected.”
Nothing much else happened before lunch. Lucky did the weather report district by district, with the added fillip of Jubilee’s company, but the bird refused to talk again, so Lucky began speaking for it in a high-pitched voice. “How’s the weather look in District Twelve, Jubilee?” “They’ve got snow, Lucky.” “Snow in July, Jubilee?” “Coriolanus Snow!”
Coriolanus gave the camera a thumbs-up when they cut for his reaction.
He could not believe this was his life.
Lunch disappointed, as the menu consisted of nut butter sandwiches, and he’d had nut butter for breakfast. He ate it, because he ate anything free, and it was important to keep his strength up. A ripple went through the hall indicating something was happening on the screen, and he hurried to resume his seat. Maybe Lucy Gray had surfaced?
She had not, but the pack’s morning laziness had given way to direction. The three strode across the arena until they were directly under Lamina’s beam. She took no notice at first, but Tanner smacking a sword blade against one of the poles brought her to attention. Lamina sat up and surveyed the pack, and she must have sensed a change in the air, because she pulled out her ax and her knife and polished them on the flag.
After a brief huddle, in which the District 4 tributes relinquished their tridents to Tanner, the pack split up. Coral and Mizzen each went to one of the metal posts that supported the beam, and Tanner stood directly under Lamina, holding the pair of tridents. Knives in teeth, Coral and Mizzen gave each other a nod and then began to climb their respective posts.
Festus shifted in his seat. “Here we go.” “They’ll never make it,” said Pup in agitation.
“They’re trained to work on ships. They climb ropes as part of it,” Persephone pointed out.
“Rigging,” said Festus.
“Yes, I get it. My father’s a commander, after all,” said Pup. “Rope climbing is different. The posts are more like trees.”
But Pup had been getting on everyone’s nerves, and even the mentors without a tribute in the confrontation seemed eager to comment.
“What about masts?” asked Vipsania. “Or flagpoles?” Urban chimed in. “They won’t make it,” said Pup.
While the District 4 pair lacked Lamina’s smooth style, they were indeed making it, slowly pulling their way higher and higher. Tanner directed them,
calling on Coral to wait a moment when Mizzen fell behind.
“Look, they’re timing it so they reach the top together,” said Io. “They’re making her choose who to fight, then the other one will reach the beam.”
“So she’ll kill one of them and climb down,” said Pup. “Where Tanner will be waiting,” Coriolanus reminded him.
“Well, I know that!” said Pup. “What do you expect me to do? It’s not like they have rabies and there’s a simple fix like sending in water!”
“Never would have crossed your mind,” said Festus.
“Of course, it would’ve,” snapped Pup. “Shut up! All of you!”
A silence fell, but largely because Coral and Mizzen were nearing the top. Lamina’s head went back and forth as she decided who to confront. Then she headed for Coral.
“No, not the girl, the boy!” exclaimed Pup, jumping to his feet. “Now she’ll have to fight the boy on the beam.”
“I’d do the same thing. I wouldn’t want to fight that girl up there,” said Domitia, and murmurs of agreement came from a few of the mentors.
“No?” Pup reconsidered. “Maybe you’re right.”
Lamina reached the end of the beam and swung the ax down at Coral without hesitation, just missing her scalp but shaving off a tuft of hair. Coral retreated, lowering herself about a yard, but Lamina struck at her a few more times, as if to drive the point home. As expected, this gave Mizzen time to mount the beam, but when Tanner threw the trident up to him, it peaked about two-thirds of the way up and fell back to the ground. Lamina took one last swipe at Coral and then moved swiftly for Mizzen. He was no match for her sure-footedness on the beam and only managed a few hesitant steps as she bore down on him. Tanner did better with his second throw, but the trident bounced off the underside of the beam and landed in the dirt. Occupied by crouching to try and catch it, Mizzen straightened up just as Lamina came in, bringing the flat side of the ax against the outer part of his knee. The force of the blow threw them both off balance. But while she recovered by straddling the beam, Mizzen fell, losing his knife and just barely catching himself with one arm.
Even the sound system in the arena picked up Coral’s war cry as she gained the top. Tanner ran down to her end and managed to hurl the trident within range. The easy way Coral snatched the weapon from the air drew a few exclamations of admiration from the Capitol audience. Lamina gave Mizzen a glance, but his helpless condition posed no immediate threat, so
she turned and braced herself for Coral’s attack. Lamina had better balance, but Coral’s weapon had more range. After Lamina managed to block the first few jabs with her ax, Coral wove the trident in a twisting move that distracted the eye before it plunged into her opponent’s abdomen. Coral released the weapon and stepped back, using her knife as a backup, but none was needed. Lamina fell off the beam and died on impact.
“No!” cried Pup, and the word echoed around Heavensbee Hall. He stood stock-still for a long moment, then picked up his seat and left the mentor section, ignoring Lepidus’s outstretched mic. He slammed his chair down next to Livia’s and strode out of the hall. Coriolanus thought he was trying not to cry.
Coral crossed to Mizzen and stood over him for a disconcerting beat, in which Coriolanus wondered if she was planning to kick his arm free and send him after Lamina. Instead she sat down on the beam, locking her legs for support, and helped him to safety. The ax had damaged his knee, although it was difficult to gauge to what extent. He half slid, half lowered himself down the pole, closely followed by Coral, who picked up the unused trident from the ground where Tanner had abandoned it. Mizzen leaned back against the pole, testing his knee.
After performing some kind of dance over Lamina’s body, Tanner bounded over to them. Mizzen grinned and raised his hands for a victory slap. Tanner had just made contact when Coral drove the second trident into his back. He fell forward into Mizzen, who, braced by the pole, shoved him away. Tanner turned in a circle, one hand swatting uselessly behind him as if to dislodge the trident, but the barbed tines were buried deep. He fell to his knees, his expression more wounded than shocked, and collapsed facedown in the dirt. Mizzen finished him with a knife to the neck. He then went back and sat against his pole while Coral tore a strip of fabric from Lamina’s flag cloth and began to bind his knee.
At the studio, Lucky’s face stretched into a comedic mask of shock. “Did you just see what I saw?”
Domitia had quietly gathered her things, her lips pressed together in disappointment. But when Lepidus pushed the mic at her, she spoke in a calm, detached voice. “It’s a surprise. I thought Tanner might win this thing. And he probably would have if his allies hadn’t betrayed him. I guess that’s the takeaway. Be careful who you trust.”
“In and out of the arena,” said Lepidus, nodding sagely.
“Everywhere,” Domitia agreed. “You know, Tanner was a very good-natured sort of person. And District Four took advantage of that.” She looked sadly at Festus and Persephone, suggesting this reflected badly on them, and Lepidus gave a disapproving click of his tongue. “It’s one of the many things I’ve learned from being a mentor in the Hunger Games. I’ll always cherish my experience here, and I wish all the remaining mentors the best of luck.”
“Well said, Domitia. I think you’ve just showed your fellow mentors how to be a good loser,” said Lepidus. “Lucky?”
The cut revealed Lucky trying to lure Jubilee off the chandelier with a cracker. “What? Aren’t you going to talk to the other one? What’s his name? The commander’s kid?”
“He declined to comment,” said Lepidus.
“Well, let’s get back to the show!” called Lucky.
The show was over for the moment, though. Coral finished bandaging Mizzen’s knee and collected their tridents, yanking them from her victims’ bodies. Mizzen limped as the pair walked unhurriedly across the arena to their preferred tunnel.
Satyria came over and had the mentors rearrange their chairs into two neat rows of four. Io, Urban, Clemensia, and Vipsania in the front. Coriolanus, Festus, Persephone, and Hilarius in the back. The musical chairs continued.
Perhaps the indignities of being Lucky’s dummy had become too great, because Jubilee refused to come down from the chandelier. Lucky leaned heavily on his stringers in Heavensbee Hall and in front of the arena, where the crowd had set up cheering sections for the various tributes. Team Lucy Gray was well represented by young and old, male and female, and even a handful of Avoxes — but they didn’t really count, having been brought along to hold signs.
Coriolanus wished Lucy Gray could see how many people loved her. He wished she knew how he advocated for her. He’d become more active, pulling Lepidus over during quiet stretches and praising Lucy Gray to the skies. As a result, her sponsor gifts had reached a new high, and he felt confident he could feed her for a week. There was really nothing left to do but watch and wait.
Treech came out long enough to snag Lamina’s ax and for Vipsania to feed him. Teslee retrieved another fallen drone and collected some food
from Urban. Little else occurred until late afternoon, when Reaper wandered out of the barricade, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He seemed unable to make sense of the scene before him, the stabbed bodies of Tanner and particularly Lamina. After walking around them for a time, he lifted Lamina up, carried her over to where Bobbin and Marcus lay, and arranged the three in a row on the ground. For a while, he paced around the beam, then he dragged Tanner over beside Lamina. Over the next hour, he collected first Dill and then Sol, adding them to his makeshift morgue.
Jessup remained the only one left out. Reaper was probably afraid of contracting rabies. Once he’d neatly lined up the others, he swatted at the flies that had gathered. After pausing a moment in thought, he went back and cut off a second piece of the flag, draping it over their bodies and causing another wave of outrage in the hall. Reaper shook out Lamina’s flag remnant and tied it like a cape around his shoulders. The cape seemed to inspire him, and he began to spin slowly, looking back over his shoulder to watch it fly out behind him. He ran then, spreading his arms out as the flag streamed in the sunlight. Exhausted by the day’s activities, he finally climbed into the stands and waited.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, feed him, Clemmie!” said Festus. “Mind your own business,” said Clemensia.
“You’re heartless,” Festus told her.
“I’m a good manager. It could be a long Hunger Games.” She gave Coriolanus an unpleasant smile. “And it’s not like I’ve abandoned him.”
Coriolanus thought about inviting her to the Citadel for his follow-up appointment. He could use some company, and she could visit her snakes.
Five o’clock rolled around with the dismissal of the student body, and the eight remaining mentors gathered for beef stew and cake. He couldn’t say he missed Domitia, and certainly not Pup, but he missed the buffer they had provided between him and the likes of Clemensia, Vipsania, and Urban. Even Hilarius, with his woeful tales of being a Heavensbee, had become a strain. When Satyria released them at around eight o’clock, he headed straight for the door, hoping it wasn’t too late to have his arm checked.
The Citadel guards recognized him, and after they searched his book bag, he was allowed to keep it and go down to the lab unescorted. He wandered a bit before finding his destination, then sat in the clinic for half an hour before a doctor appeared. She checked his vitals, examined the stitches, which were doing their job, and told him to wait.
An unusual energy filled the lab. Quick footsteps, raised voices, impatient commands. Coriolanus listened hard but he couldn’t make out the cause of the activity. He did hear the words arena and Games more than once, and wondered about the connection. When Dr. Gaul finally appeared, she made only a cursory check of his stitches.
“Another few days,” she confirmed. “Tell me, Mr. Snow, did you know Gaius Breen?”
“Did I?” asked Coriolanus, picking up on the past tense immediately. “I do. I mean, we’re classmates. I know he lost his legs in the arena. Is he —”
“He’s dead. Complications from the bombing,” said Dr. Gaul.
“Oh, no.” Coriolanus couldn’t process it. Gaius, dead? Gaius Breen? He remembered a joke Gaius had recently told him about how many rebels it took to tie a shoe. “I never even visited him in the hospital. When is the funeral?”
“That’s being worked out. You must keep it to yourself until we make an official announcement,” she warned him. “I’m only telling you now so that at least one of you will have something intelligent to say to Lepidus. I trust you can manage that.”
“Yes, of course. That will be strange, announcing it during the Games.
Like a victory for the rebels,” said Coriolanus.
“Exactly. But rest assured, there will be repercussions. In fact, it was your girl who gave me the idea. If she wins, we should compare notes. And I haven’t forgotten you owe me a paper.” She left, pulling the curtain closed behind her.
Free to go, Coriolanus buttoned his shirt up and collected his book bag. What was he supposed to write about, again? Something about chaos? Control? Contracts? He felt fairly sure it began with a C. When he approached the elevator, he found a pair of lab assistants ahead of him, trying to maneuver a cart into the car. On the cart sat the large tank filled with the snakes that had attacked Clemensia.
“Did she say to bring the cooler?” asked one of the assistants.
“Not that I remember,” said the other. “I thought they’d been fed. We better check. If we’re wrong, she’ll go ballistic.” She noticed Coriolanus. “Sorry, need to back out.”
“No problem,” he said, and stepped aside so they could wheel the tank out. The elevator doors closed, and he could hear the whir of it ascending.
“Oh, sorry, it will be back in a minute,” the second assistant said.
“No problem,” Coriolanus repeated. But he was beginning to suspect a very great problem. He thought of the activity in the lab, and the Games being mentioned, and Dr. Gaul promising repercussions. “Where are you taking the snakes?” he asked as innocently as possible.
“Oh, just to another lab,” said one, but the assistants exchanged a look. “Come on, the cooler takes two.” The pair receded into the lab, leaving him alone with the tank. “In fact, it was your girl who gave me the idea.” His girl. Lucy Gray. Who’d made an entrance into the Hunger Games by dropping a snake down the mayor’s daughter’s back. “If she wins, we should compare notes.” Notes about what? How to use snakes as weapons? He stared into the undulating reptiles, imagining them being let loose in the arena. What would they do? Hide? Hunt? Attack? Even if he knew how snakes behaved, which he didn’t, he doubted these would conform to any norms, as they were genetically designed by Dr. Gaul.
With a sharp pang, Coriolanus had a vision of Lucy Gray in their final meeting, clutching his hand as he promised her they could win. But there was no way he could protect her from the creatures in this tank, any more than he could protect her from tridents and swords. At least she could hide from those. He didn’t know for sure, but he was guessing the snakes would head straight for the tunnels. The dark would not impair their sense of smell. They would not recognize Lucy Gray’s scent, just the way they had not recognized Clemensia’s. Lucy Gray would scream and fall to the ground, her lips turning purple, then bloodless, while bright pink and blue and yellow pus oozed onto her ruffled dress — That was it! The thing the snakes had reminded him of the first time he’d seen them. They matched her dress. As if they had always been her destiny . . .
Without knowing quite how, Coriolanus found the hand-kerchief in his hand, neatly balled up like a prop in one of Lucky’s magic tricks. He moved to the snake tank, his back to the security camera, and leaned over, resting his hands on the cover as if fascinated by the snakes. From that vantage point, he watched the handkerchief fall through the trapdoor and disappear beneath the rainbow of bodies.
