“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’s no response. Something bad is happening. “Ma?”
I snap awake. Why is Hattie brewing in my kitchen? Get us all arrested. Why will no one answer me? This isn’t the kitchen. What the hell is happening? Why do I hurt so bad?
A greenish tornado sky glow. The sharp alcohol smell married with chemicals lining my nose, coating my tongue. Drip-drip-dripping mixed with a distant murmur, words I cannot quite make out. Cold metal pinning me to cold metal. Fear.
I blink hard and the world comes into focus. Through the swampy light, a high ceiling crisscrossed with pipes. I lick my sandpaper lips, try to swallow. Reach to rub my eyes, but my hands can’t make it past my belly. Fingers find the long row of stitches across my gut. Can’t make sense of them. A steel table beneath me. No mattress or sheet or pillow. Metal cuffs with short chains on my wrists and ankles. Strap across my chest. Naked as a jaybird. Not a stitch. No, but something left. My flint striker . . .
The memory swoops 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 felt my intestines sliding out. My body shutting down. I wanted to go. The job was done, my poster completed.
What’s happened to me?
My flint striker rests on my heart, as it did in my final moment, only now it’s fastened to my neck by the leather bootlace. Someone has tied it there, and it wasn’t Ma.
Where am I, Lenore Dove? Where are you, my only love?
Tubes sprout from my arms. One in my belly. I twist my head to the right and pain scalds my gut. A few feet away, faces press against a glass wall. Tongueless mouths open. Avoxes, unclothed and dirty, paw the glass, begging me for something I can’t give. Terrified, I turn to the left.
A moment of relief as I spot 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. Has it come to save me once again? Help me. Can you help me? The green eyes stare unblinking from the tank. It presses into the glass.
Why does it tremble so?
From the shadows, something strikes. A six-foot snake swallows up my ally. A lump in the sinewy body.
I slam my eyes shut. This must be a nightmare. Or perhaps I’ve gone to another world, a bad one. I try to will myself back into unconsciousness, to escape this evil place. But in my heart of hearts, I know it’s real. I start
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 swaps a full bag of clear fluid for an empty one.
“Where am I?” I rasp. She ignores me. Just sponges my gut stitches with a foul-smelling liquid, sending shocks of pain across my trunk. “Stop!
You’re hurting me!” I struggle. She doesn’t stop. I stop, because moving makes the pain worse.
She leaves. Murmurs again. This time I catch a few words. “Laboratory.” “Sepsis.” “Disruptive.” A coldness surges from the needle planted in my arm. Nothingness.
When I wake again, I have new knowledge. In this place, disruption brings oblivion. Dispensed from afar like the drugs in Lou Lou’s pump. I try to be as disruptive as possible for the hours? days? weeks? I am imprisoned here. When I’m conscious, the Avoxes plead. Padded feet bring pain. Grotesque mutts replace the humans. More bunnies die. Nasty
concoctions are forced between my lips. No daylight breaches the walls, no ally comforts me. I am utterly alone and defenseless.
Fresh confusion as I surface in a nest of burnt orange. Somehow, I’m back at the tribute apartment. Across the room, Wyatt’s bed, bereft of covers, catches me off guard. Still haven’t had the space to mourn him.
Gingerly, I wiggle my fingers and toes. All the tubes and restraints have vanished, but a pump identical to Lou Lou’s has sunk its teeth deep into my chest, defying me to remove it. I fold back the fuzzy spread, the
fine sheets, and examine my gut wound. No stitches, just a puckered, angry scar, like a twisted smile. My thigh has fared better, but I’ll carry the mark for life. Still naked. I jump up, only to collapse back down on the bed, gripping the covers as the room spins. I wait for things to settle before a second attempt. With my feet carefully planted on the floor, I slowly rise.
My pajamas are still in a jumble on the floor where I left them the morning of the Hunger Games. With no other options, I put them on.
I wobble into the living room and steady myself against the doorjamb of the girls’ room. Bedding from our last sleepover drapes the furniture and floor. Dried blood spots from Lou Lou’s ear dot her pillow. Maysilee’s
pajamas sit folded in a neat pile on her bed. Nobody’s here because everybody’s dead.
“Mags?” I croak. “Wiress?” No answer. The whole build-ing’s as silent as a grave. The street outside the apartment, deserted. Locked down. Block barricaded off. I am 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 make for the elevator and press the button repeatedly. No humming, no lights, no escape possible.
In the kitchen, the table’s bare, but the refrigerator holds a platter of rolls and a shelf of pint-sized cartons of milk. Snow’s diet after the deadly oysters. Though my stomach has shrunk to the size of a walnut, it still
craves food. I dip bits of bread in the milk and suck them down. Being poisoned no longer worries me. If the president wanted me dead, why has he gone to so much trouble to keep me alive? He has big plans for me. The
camera in the corner reminds me my every move’s being watched or at least recorded. No, at this point, definitely watched. Eyes on me, 24/7. I will not be allowed to die. I will be resurrected by the Capitol for their entertainment. Perhaps, I am even being broadcast live now. Perhaps, as a victor, I will never be off camera again. . . .
Exhausted by my excursion, I return to bed and sink into a fitful sleep.
Days pass. My schedule’s my own here. Nothing but time to consider the consequences of my actions in the arena. Snow’s perfect little
showpiece that I undermined every chance I got. I take no pleasure in that now as I wonder who’s paying the price for it. Beetee. Mags. Wiress.
They’re 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 hope
they’ve spared the prep team and Effie, who are completely clueless Capitol pawns. I doubt anyone suspects Drusilla and Magno Stift of being
sympathizers and I don’t care if they do. And Plutarch? I’m 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. Is he an ally? A Capitol operative? Both? Impossible to know.
I don’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 Beeteesaid, 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 guess 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 have no idea how my efforts have been edited, blacked out, and card-stacked. It’s possible that nothing significant has been aired, gutting the effectiveness of my posters, but perhaps lightening my punishment.
This I know: I have 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 has gone by, according to the shifting light on the street. Solitary confinement continues. The isolation is 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 long for company.
The rolls harden, the milk begins to turn, but I keep eating, driven by a convalescent’s ravenous appetite. I fantasize about food. Fresh plums.
Mashed potatoes. Rabbit stew. Stack cake. Will I ever taste stack cake
again? Unlikely. If I do make it home, I expect childhood celebrations will be a thing of the past. I won’t really be home anyway. I’ll 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 want at the turn of a faucet. No pumping and chopping required. Like my prison here.
Perhaps my victory celebration has been canceled due to my insurrection. Maybe I’m just being imprisoned for my public execution. One can hope.
I start spending long stretches in the tub. The towel I threw over the camera’s been removed and I don’t bother replacing it. They’d just drug me
and take it away. Might chain me up again. No point. I soak for hours and hours, replenishing the hot water, watching my fingers and toes get pruney as bits of dead flesh float off my scar. Images of the arena consume me.
Death upon death. Ones I didn’t witness, like the bloodbath, I imagine. I try to recall the other forty-seven tributes plus Lou Lou. Using Maysilee’s color system helps a bit, but about half elude me. District 5, District 8. All but forgotten.
Wyatt’s absence haunts me in the bedroom, so I take my spread to the couch and make camp there. The television, unresponsive to my attempts with the remote, begins to turn on and off on its own. I’m fed clips from old Hunger Games, curated especially for me. Gory snippets, terrorized children, despair. The early ones, which they rarely feature on Capitol TV,
are low-budget affairs with no attempt at the showiness that marks 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 weaves through my dreams. I startle from sleep, calling Lenore Dove’s name. The television glows. On-screen, a girl in a rainbow of ruffles sings 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 performs 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 command 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 shouts, “Bravo!” The crowd goes wild. The girl bows and extends her hand to a figure who’s standing just out of the spotlight. A silhouette of a man. Upright, trim. A crown of curls. He waits a moment, as if deciding whether or not to join her. Then takes a step forward as the screen goes 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’m sure she is. No wonder Lenore Dove never wants to talk about her. She knows the story, but it’s too secret, or perhaps too painful, to share even with me. I think about the bits of color Lenore Dove adds to her wardrobe,
the bright blue, yellow, and pink. Are 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’re still alive.
Forty years. Not all that long after the Dark Days. If District 12’s forgotten her, it’s unlikely she’s remembered here in the Capitol. No, wait. Someone here remembers the Covey. Someone who knows how they name their babies and love their birds. Intimate, personal knowledge. The information I attributed to Capitol informers could have an entirely different source. I do 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 recall 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 lose 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 hammer away until a burst of bullets above my head breaks my focus.
A pair of heavily armed Peacekeepers has materialized, their rifles trained on me. Behind them, my prep team huddles and would likely flee if Effie Trinket didn’t have a firm grip on their grooming belts. “Well,” she
says with false cheeriness, “who’s ready for a big, big, big night?”
The Peacekeepers slap on handcuffs and propel me into the center of the room, where my prep team stares at me, aghast. I’m skin and bones, wearing dirty pajamas, and my bare feet bleed freely from the broken glass.
Somewhere in the last few weeks, my nails have turned to claws, my hair to fur. I’ve 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 say.
But you can’t keep Effie down. She holds 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 dresses me in another Uncle Silius ensemble.
I finger the champagne bubbles embroidered in the jacket. “Where’s Magno Stift?”
Effie’s nose wrinkles 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 sighs. “He’ll only make a scene, and it’s hard enough being a Trinket.” She arranges my flint striker over my shirt. I try to shove it back under my collar, but she resists. “He said to keep it out, where everybody can see it.”
“Magno did?” I ask Effie.
“No.” She clips off the end of the rose, slides it into a buttonhole and gives it a tap. “He did.” She steps back. “You look very presentable.
Remember, positive attitude.”
Despite my finery, I’m shackled and transported in the van, which feels so dark and desolate without Maysilee, Wyatt, and Lou Lou. No
greenroom for me this time. Still rattling my chains, I’m escorted beneath the stage and shoved into a chair, with four guards assigned to me.
Effie, to her credit, stands by me. When the Peacekeepers object, she says, “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 says.
I think 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’re right to chain me like a beast. I feel grateful to Effie. “I won’t hurt you,” I mutter.
“I know that,” she says. “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’s surprisingly touching. “Thanks, Effie.”
“But they really are for a greater good. The Hunger Games.” And now she’s lost me.
The area beneath the stage begins to fill with people and their handlers. The activity centers around five metal plates that will ascend with the featured players of the night. Proserpina and Vitus jitter on one circle in
anticipation, tweaking each other’s makeup. Drusilla, who appears to be wearing a stuffed eagle on her head, teeters on six-inch heels. Magno reels in, decked in live-reptile fashion, and a few assistants balance him on his spot, with crossed fingers. I crane my neck, trying to find my mentors.
Finally, Mags arrives in a wheelchair while a still-mobile but distressed Wiress twitches her head about in a birdlike fashion, a steady stream of words spouting from her lips. Very bad things have been done to them. Mags spots me and tries to rise before she’s shoved back in her chair. No reunion for us.
Their torturous treatment makes it impossible to deny my family’s certain punishment. Are they already dead? Or will Snow arrange, as he did with Beetee, for a time when I can personally witness their suffering?
The anthem plays and I hear Caesar Flickerman welcome the
audience to the second Quarter Quell’s Victor’s Ceremony. He calls the
Games historic, unparalleled, unforgettable, and as devastating a reminder of the Dark Days as the country has ever witnessed. He begins to introduce my team as a hubbub of shouting and whooping comes from the audience. Up go Proserpina and Vitus, clapping for themselves. Drusilla follows, in a dramatic pose that mimics the eagle’s outstretched wings. As his plate rises, Magno almost tumbles off, but catches himself and crawls back aboard. He makes his entrance on one knee, his hands in a victory clasp above his head.
The Peacekeepers haul Mags to her feet. She and Wiress, arms encircling each other’s waists, lean against each other for support.
Freed of my shackles, I’m held in place on my plate until it begins to rise. What did the audience see during the Hunger Games? Will they boo or applaud for me? And who am I supposed to be? Is it possible I’m still a beloved rascal? Or are they salivating to see the murderous monster from District 12? Effie Trinket, the only one I might ask, has melted into the shadows.
I brace myself, preparing to be pelted with rotten fruit or jeered off the stage. Bright lights partially blind me, and I lift my hand to shield my eyes. When they adjust, I realize the entire audience has given me a standing ovation. Mad cheers and hot tears.
I’m the hero of the moment. The star of Panem. The victor of the Quarter Quell. And that can only mean that President Snow has won the day.
People in the crowd begin to chant a mishmash of sounds that reduce to “Show it! Show it! Show it! Show it!”
I turn to Caesar for direction and he draws a line across his abdomen.
My scar. They want me to show them my scar. There appears to be no choice. I pull my silk shirt up, unzip my pants as far as modesty allows, and display my scar. The applause lasts for a full five minutes.
Giant screens throughout the auditorium come to life with the anthem playing over a fluttering flag of Panem. Caesar guides me to an upholstered chair positioned in the center of the stage for the recap. It is my first
glimpse into how my Hunger Games were broadcast to the public.
The recap opens 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, lifts the lid on a wooden box filled with envelopes.
They widen the shot to include President Snow, who intones, “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 leans over and carefully selects
the envelope marked with a 50 and reads 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 start drawing the names at the reapings, beginning with District 1. “Silka Sharp!” “Panache Barker!” They machine-gun through the tributes with a quick shot of each and a counter in the corner of the screen that tracks from one to forty-eight. Being the home of the victor, District 12 is allowed a bit more time. Drusilla, yellow hat feathers bobbing, gets in her “Ladies first!” before “Louella McCoy!” My sweetheart marches up.
“Maysilee Donner!” There’s 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 cover Wyatt, and then Drusilla calls my name.
Lenore Dove’s refusal to perform has not made this version. Not tearful enough for Plutarch and too Covey for Snow. But there’s no Ma or Sid either. The omission chills me. Why isn’t Plutarch’s footage here? “Ladies and gentlemen, join me in welcoming the District Twelve tributes of the Fiftieth Hunger Games!” says Drusilla, as if daring District 12 to do anything else. “And may the odds be EVER in your favor!” I’m obliterated by a swirl of confetti.
I want to scream out the truth. A boy’s head was blown off! People in 12 were shot! My reaping was rigged! But I just sit there, mute and radiating implicit submission. Snow has me by the short hairs and he knows it.
Incitatus Loomy could not have masterminded a finer parade. The
frantic backstage prep never makes an appearance, just a majestic, orderly rollout of the tributes. There’s a final aerial shot of all twelve chariots cruising along the route in perfect sync, which ends about fifteen seconds before that blue firecracker exploded, sending the whole event into chaos. This is 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’s time for
the interviews and all forty-eight tributes are in the house.
The Careers have been edited to appear smarter, the Newcomers less unified. Does anyone even notice this besides me? Lou Lou’s reduced to a girl wearing live-reptile fashion, Maysilee’s and Wyatt’s memorable turns are entirely ignored, and I get 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 laughs, and I give them this grin that confirms 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’s just a jackass.
Now we’re rising into the arena. The opening sequence is a love letter to the Gamemakers as we savor the beauty of flora and fauna. For me, though, it calls to mind the deceptively sweet, brain-clouding smell of the air.
The jackass, meaning me, grabs his gear and hightails it out of there and then we get to watch the bloodbath, where eighteen kids are killed in
excruciating detail. The audience before me gasps and cries out in glee, though they’ve seen it all before. Wyatt dies a selfless hero protecting a bewildered Lou Lou, who manages to scamper off unscathed. Maysilee fights, then follows Lou Lou to protect her. So many Newcomers fall. Two doves, the boys from 7, all of 8 and 9, Lannie and the other girl from 10,
Tile from 11. With Wyatt, that makes sixteen. The only Career casualties are 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 sicken as the poisonous fruit and water kicks in. Carat from 1 and Urchin, the boy from 4 who knocked me off the chariot, writhe to death. That accounts for the twenty kids I saw in the sky that first night. The rest of the Careers have formed their pack on the snow-capped mountain.
Up until this point, I think the recap’s been a fair record of what occurred in the arena. However, on Day 2, things start to go wonky. At some point, Maysilee, on her own, kills the boy from District 1, Loupe, which I believe to be true because she told me this. There are a lot of
tributes still recovering from the poison and the Career pack’s hunting Newcomers. That, too, seems likely. But the recount of what happened in
the woods, my tale, begins to deviate almost immediately. Timelines are twisted. Connections misleading. It’s less flat-out lying than lying by omission. For instance, I see myself fighting squirrels, although they weren’t around until the third day when I fought them to save Ampert. But we haven’t even met up yet, so I seem to be trying to save my own life.
They show Lou Lou gasping in the flowers, only I’m nowhere in sight. Later, I’m 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 don’t know, but in the recap, I’m not even attempting to protect any of my allies. Day 3, the squirrels, as if making a second appearance, swarm Ampert, and then there’s a reveal of his skeleton on the ground. Again, I’m 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 appears.
The horrors of the volcano take center stage. The tributes experience the flame-shooting eruption, asphyxiation by the ash cloud, burns from the chemical lava. Twelve die. The rest barely escape and head across the
meadow to the woods.
Cut to me, waking up blanketed by the sparkling ash. I get back to the business of trudging north. With the tank plot erased, my whole agenda
seems to have been about getting to the end of the arena, which was, I
guess, my cover story. It rains, but they’ve concealed all the bombing’s damage. The arena’s as perfect as ever. I get trapped in the hedge, follow the gray rabbit to freedom, and run into Panache and company.
I don’t know who that is on the screen, so brutally killing those
Careers from District 4. I guess it’s me, but I can’t own it. I stop thinking of myself as the jackass because it seems too complimentary for the creature
I’ve devolved into. Doesn’t help when they show every syllable of my toadying, babbling speech to Panache, who is finally silenced by Maysilee’s dart.
“We’d live longer with two of us.” Oh, Maysilee. I am mortified to be sitting here.
For a bit, things get back on course again. Maysilee and I look out for each other, and Silka and Maritte take 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 have vanished. Somewhere in time, Maritte and Silka chase us through the woods, and Buck, Chicory, and Hull die from the quills, but it appears the porcupine just wanders off on its own.
Is it Day 4 or 5? Maysilee and my attempts to carve our way through the hedge have merged into one big sequence that involves the ladybugs and blowtorch. We’re on the cliff that looks down on the treacherous rocks,
but they steer clear of the generator. They’ve edited out the cannon announcing Maritte’s death and with it the part where Maysilee says she’s just going back for the potatoes, so it looks like we’ve really decided to split up. To my surprise, they keep my discovery of the force field. I guess they need it for Silka’s death?
The pink birds attack Maysilee and she screams. For the first time, I look like I might be redeemable because I run to her aid. Oh, no. They haven’t turned this into a redemption story, have they? Selfish rascal learns to care about others? Please tell me no.
Day 5 or 6? Who knows? It’s just one big, big, big day.
My delivery of milk from Snow has evaporated. As I run through the woods, they’ve added the sound of Wellie screaming, which didn’t happen. I appear to have finally remembered that I belong to a wider alliance so I’m going to the rescue, when the cannon sounds and I come upon Silka, Wellie’s head in hand.
Smash cut to the golden squirrels stripping Maritte to the bone. No matter that she’s been long dead by this time. But people must know that. Maysilee and Maritte appeared in the sky together. Does no one remember? Do 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 has embraced this version, cheering and jeering on cue. Their lack of discernment transforms the recap, validating it as truth. I hope those in the districts can still see it as the piece of propaganda it is, but no telling what they’ve been fed.
We’re back to Silka and me facing off, knowing we’re the final two. Without words, we quickly engage in battle. Fatal wounds are exchanged. I run to the hedge.
On the cliff, Silka corners me, throws her ax. I drop. They cut to her anticipation and then back to me, convulsing. This must have happened after I lost consciousness.
The ax rebounds and buries itself in her head. And then? — and then?
Silka dies, her cannon fires, and I’m hanging on by a thread. The sunflower bomb, the quartz, the flint striker — there’s no record of any of them. All of them gone or tucked away from sight. The hovercraft removes Silka’s body. Trumpets declare my victory. A claw closes around me.
Are there rules about breaking out of the arena and using the force field to win? Possibly they are implied, but I have never heard them mentioned. So, what am I? A rascal? A cheater even? Maybe. But clearly I do not rise to the standard of a rebel.
The camera pulls back slowly as they carry me away, for the first time revealing the arena as a whole. It looks like a giant eye. The Cornucopia
marks the pupil. The wide circle of spring-green meadow makes up the iris. On either side, the darker green of the forest and mountain terrain narrows to points, forming the whites of the eye. Well, the symbolism has been lost on no one. Even the little kids in the Seam know the Capitol powers are watching us.
I wonder if they ever consider that we’re watching them, too.
All eyes on me now, as I rise to my feet before the thundering crowd. The anthem plays as President Snow descends from the heights on a crystal platform, a bloodred rose in his lapel. In his hand, he holds a golden crown.
Some victors bow, some kneel, but I just stand there trying to read his expression as he approaches and places the crown on my head. Heavy.
Entrapping. “I guess Snow lands on top,” I say under the applause. Utterly guilty on all possible counts, I await his sentence.
He merely smiles and says, “Enjoy your homecoming.”
