Nezumi waited in the darkness, listening to the muted cheers of the Capitol above. The space beneath the stage smelled of musty wood and the sweat of past victors. It was the stench of oppression, of rot, of decades of kids turned killers. It was fitting, and Nezumi preferred it to the soft powdery smell of the Capitol soap on his skin. This small, dark, fear-scented room was the Capitol at its most truthful, and it made sense that he was only allowed to experience it after he had escaped the arena. After the arena, there was no point in keeping up pretenses.
Nezumi glared up at the ceiling. He thought he could almost make out the outline of where the platform would rise to place him on the stage above.
What's the hold up? He heard a crescendo of noise that might have been laughter. He could imagine Verde Ricci, working the audience into a froth at the prospect of seeing their newest victor. It was a tall order for her. He hadn't exactly been a Capitol favorite by the end of the Games. He felt a fractional amount of pleasure imagining her spray painted face stretched tight into a smile, even while she sweated profusely under the stage lights, cursing his name.
But then maybe he was giving the woman too much credit; maybe she didn't care a lick about making him look good. Maybe he'd rise to the stage to find himself face to face with a mutt. Just the cherry on top of another deliciously vicious Games. Or maybe the Capitol had forgiven him his insult. He was the victor after all, and that gave his tarnished reputation a shiny new veneer of respectability. It was possible; the Capitol residents had the minds of goldfish.
Except Fox. The President's memory was a long one, and Nezumi wasn't looking forward to that conversation. But... Well, that battle would have to wait. The platform was humming, and Nezumi felt it start to rise.
The lights were garish, as expected, and Nezumi tried his best not to squint. Verde was easy to spot in her plush chair at center stage. Her hair was deep bluish green, as it had been back in his first interview, so many weeks ago. And like so many weeks ago, Nezumi thought the bruised color looked unflattering against her white skin. Her unnaturally bright green eyes speared him with an overly friendly gaze, and her blush pink lips split to reveal neat rows of bleached teeth.
"Here he is, folks!" she crowed. "The 40th Hunger Games' victor, our very own Nezumi Singer!"
Smile, Nezumi commanded himself, and his mouth responded automatically, matching Verde's saccharine grin with ease. Verde waved him over to the chair beside her. Nezumi glided to his seat—more of a throne, really, all plump red cushions and gold filigree—and settled with regal grace, flashing a cavalier smirk at the cameras. Through the glare of the lights, he could see the men and women in the front rows eyeing him greedily. If the audience was still sour about his misstep, they forgot it now. It takes a more serious creature to hold a grudge, and the Capitol was too much fluff to resist a pretty face. And Nezumi was at peak presentation.
Nezumi wasn't a vain person, not really, but he was a realist, and it was a very real fact that he was physically attractive. It was his combination of killer looks and deadly knife skills that had won him early adoration. And after the dusty, blood encrusted mess he'd become in the weeks of the Hunger Games, his freshly scrubbed features looked particularly striking. He was wearing a dashing black ensemble and his hair had been combed at a rakish angle. He caught a glimpse of himself on the projected screen and noted with satisfaction that his makeup had been carefully applied to ensure his eyes smoldered. The Capitol was falling in love all over again. Nezumi just had to make sure he played his personality as prettily as he looked.
"My word!" gushed Verde. "How is it that you seem to have become even more handsome since I last saw you!" She tittered girlishly and the audience echoed her like a mass of twitterpated birds.
Nezumi shrugged a shoulder. "What can I say? Victory looks well on me."
"Oh!" Verde swatted him playfully, but agreed with no deficit of enthusiasm. "It does, it certainly does. Dear! What a Game that was. I admit I was a little worried for you near the end. So much blood." She placed a hand on his shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze to the spot where there should have been a gaping wound, but now was smooth and unblemished, courtesy of Capitol technology. "I was beside myself when that boy from 1 got you," she said in a stage whisper. "But you... Why, you didn't even look fazed! Did you ever doubt you would make it?"
Nezumi fixed his face into a determined look, but made sure to tuck a touch of cockiness into the corner of his mouth. He placed his hand over Verde's on his shoulder and leaned in close to her ear. He knew, despite the show of secrecy, that the cameras and microphones would pick up the conversation with perfect clarity.
"Never," he purred. He pulled back and smirked at her. Verde fluttered her bejeweled eyelashes, looking thoroughly dazzled. Nezumi smothered the twist of revulsion in his stomach and turned to the audience. "How could I, when I knew I had all of Panem at my back?" He locked eyes with the camera. "I know we have a schedule to get back to," he said, shooting a brief, sheepish look at Verde, "but I'd like to take a moment to thank my sponsors. I wouldn't have been able to do it without you." The crowd erupted in heartfelt exclamations and applause.
Yeah, you better cheer, you fickle bastards. So quick to forget how you were perfectly happy to see me bleed out at the end. A brief flash of the silver med kit crossed his mind, but Nezumi pushed it aside and continued to look gracious.
"Such a touching confession," Verde said, wiping away a nonexistent tear. "I'm sure I speak for all the citizens of Panem when I say we are so glad you were victorious. It was a tough battle, but no one else was more beloved or deserving. And speaking of your trials," her green eyes sparkled with anticipation, and despite his calm demeanor, Nezumi felt an awful rending in his chest, "why don't we review your journey from Reaping to now? What do you think?" she squealed.
The crowd cheered and the lights dimmed. In the moment of darkness, Nezumi allowed himself a heavy swallow, but when the video began rolling, he made sure the feed broadcasting his reactions showed a face as invested as the viewers.
The video rolled through each District's Reaping ceremony. Nezumi didn't hide the sneer of revulsion when Syrah stepped onto the stage in District 1. The viewers expected it, and Nezumi still felt real anger when he saw her smug face in panoramic—even if he was ashamed of how he handled her in the end.
When it reached District 7, it lingered to give Nezumi and his district partner a proportionally longer look. Nezumi didn't even bother studying himself; he knew he looked strong and unconcerned when his name was pulled out of the bag and his fate sealed. He had taken his place without tears or outward fear, and he had already congratulated himself on the performance when he saw the recap on the train that night.
He had assessed Sylva that night as well and found her wanting. Looking at her now… He felt a spark of annoyance flare in his chest. She had marked herself as an easy kill from the get-go. She climbed the stairs of the makeshift stage, wide-eyed and unsteady as a newborn fawn. Her wild hair was pulled up in a black puff atop her head, and her dress sagged on her form like a worn out grain sack. Nezumi didn't know her, but he knew her fate the moment she let the country see her terror.
The video zoomed through the rest of the District Reapings and eventually found itself embroiled in the pre-Game festivities. It spent less time on the other tributes then, since there was no point wasting minutes on the dead. The editors did, however, keep in some shots of Nezumi and Sylva together. That was good; it would be helpful later, even if he looked none too pleased in the footage with her sticking to him like a burr. Every time he was with her they parted with him simmering with barely concealed frustration. Even Gregor couldn't stand her, and he was paid to be a chipper and encouraging escort to his tributes.
Nezumi grimaced as he watched the Capitol ponies parade him around the Victor's Circle dressed as a sexy deer—or "faun" as his prep team euphemized. He wanted to murder his stylist. Sylva looked in her element, though, standing stock-still and staring about her like a deer in headlights. The audience seemed to be enjoying it, but Nezumi fixed his eyes on the upper right corner of the screen until the section passed.
Next came the training montage, during which Nezumi did very little that was exciting. Rou and Gran told him not to show his skills; they had both seen him use a knife before—so he just poked around the survival stations and pretended to play with maces and spears as he scoped out his competitors. Watching the Careers spar with each other again, Nezumi felt a strange sense of ennui. They were ridiculously skilled and vicious, and they were all dead, two of them by his hand.
On screen, Syrah jammed the heel of her hand into Oberon's windpipe and tripped him to the ground. A dark pall settled in Nezumi's mind when he watched her draw a bead of blood from Oberon's chin with a gleeful swipe and skip off to the poisonous plant station.
The footage, of course, couldn't include his private session with the Gamemakers, but the music playing in the background made a big deal about his score of 7. Nezumi hadn't tried his hardest in the session, but he tried harder than Rou and Gran wanted him to. 7 was a middling score, enough to make people keep an eye out, but not threatening. His mentors wanted him to score a 5, so as to play the "All bark and no bite" angle, but Nezumi knew that wouldn't work. He already stood out too much, and the next leg of the festivities drove that point home.
The interviews started in an explosion of color and noise. Nezumi once again presented an attractive picture in his sharply cut silver suit, which matched his eyes. His angle was to be as Career as possible, i.e. act sexy and confident. They ate it up.
"You're so sure you're the one to beat!" Verde said on screen, looking a combination of amused and impressed.
"I am. I already have my talent picked out for the Victory Tour."
"Do you? Is it something you can share with us now?" She tossed a suggestive look at the camera. Nezumi remembered wondering if she were hoping he would do a strip tease or something similarly inappropriate for a forty year old to think about a sixteen-year-old boy.
"Actually," Nezumi drawled, "it is." He turned full face toward the camera and began to sing in a clear tenor,
Little mouse in the hedgerow,
Hawks circling overhead,
Run quick to your home now,
Or else you shall be dead.
The foxes are hunting,
The cats are in the brush,
Run quick to your home now,
Step quietly, but rush.
The sun and mounts are meeting,
Little mouse, you must be brave.
The time to run is fleeting,
It's survival or the grave.
He had chosen the nursery rhyme for its brevity and playful air. It was just the kind of reel that Panem would enjoy: quaint, innocent. The performance was met with raucous applause from Verde and the audience, and Nezumi smirked at his sneering competitors as he made his way back to his seat.
The excited buzz from the viewers trailed off into tense silence as the main event began. The camera swept over the apocalyptic vista: Rows of dilapidated houses and dusty streets, a shattered fountain in the middle of the city center. Black scars burned into the cobblestones and sides of buildings in eerie silhouettes. It was obvious that the arena was meant to remind everyone of the Dark Days, of District 13, and the picture wasn't pretty. Nezumi remembered the way the sight of the crippled concrete buildings set his teeth on edge.
The arena wasn't just the ruined city, however. There was a small forest to the north and a rugged beach to the south. Without these it would be too difficult for tributes to find water and food to sustain them through the bloodshed.
Nezumi hadn't bothered with the Cornucopia bloodbath. He fled to a building on the outer limits of the city and climbed to the uppermost floor to watch. Six tributes died on the blackened cobblestones that morning, mostly from stabbing or heads bashed in. The weapons provided for this Game were fairly crude. In the spirit of it, Nezumi forged a shiv from a piece of glass, wood, and cloth. Just in case. He planned to sit on the sidelines until the numbers were shaved down a little further.
The next few frames featured a death. Pixel insulted District 3's reputation for smarts when he got himself drowned in the fountain trying to sneak water. The Careers—a pack including the usual suspects from 1, 2, and 4, but also surprisingly-unsurprisingly Vaughn from 10—cornered and slaughtered two female tributes. Poor little Tilly from District 12 was ripped to pieces by a massive sewer rat mutt. Then Vaughn got a little too handsy with Pearl one night, and Neptune lobbed his head off with an axe. One bloody death after another, and meanwhile Nezumi was safely tucked out of the way, biding his time.
It didn't bother Nezumi to watch his fellow tributes' demises. He didn't know any of them well, or at all, and although he was perturbed by the creativity of some of the murders, he couldn't blame the perpetrators. He was no saint himself.
Then the Careers began to fight. Snipes at first, and then full on shoving battles and screaming matches. The tenuous alliance fell apart when Syrah crushed Oberon's skull with a rock. His District partner Alexis didn't take it well, and Neptune and Pearl were forced kill her to avoid being killed themselves. After that, Pearl demanded that Syrah leave the alliance. Her partner, Glint, tried to argue for her, but Syrah shrugged and skipped off like the nutcase she was, leaving Pearl and Neptune to their two-man team and Glint to his own devices.
Nezumi raised an eyebrow, but he wasn't that surprised. It happened. Too much talent and brute strength in one place usually led to flaring tempers, if not Career-on-Career death. But the schism explained some things…
The background music hushed abruptly. Sylva's frightened face appeared on the screen and Nezumi's stomach bottomed out. This was the moment he had been dreading. He recognized the dusty room and the overturned furniture. From the looks of it, she had been hiding in the hut for a long while. Perhaps she had the same idea as him, to ride out the brunt of the Games and wait until the competition was thinner before jumping into the thick of it. Whatever her reason, it didn't work.
She was sleeping when Syrah pushed the door open and slithered in. Nezumi knew she had been the chief perpetrator, but before he saw the footage, he had believed a few of the other Careers had been in on it. Syrah took the time to wake Sylva and even gave her a few seconds to scramble up and try to run.
Nezumi watched, sickened, as Syrah caught Sylva by the hair and slammed her to the floor. The surround sound sent the crack of her skull hitting the floorboards ricocheting around the auditorium. Nezumi flinched. A few audience members hissed in imagined pain.
Sylva didn't move when Syrah towered over her and taunted her with all the things she planned to do. She just stared blearily, feeling the back of her head like she couldn't remember how she had ended up on the floor. Nezumi's insides screamed at her to move, but she didn't and she wouldn't.
The video showed the torture in its entirety. It must have been a terrible excitement for the Capitol citizens to watch a thirteen year old get mutilated live. Nezumi's face tightened into a grim stare. That was all he could afford, because the cameras' eyes glinted keenly at him around the stage. Fox would be especially interested in how he was taking this, and Nezumi would not give him the satisfaction of another outburst.
Syrah didn't kill Sylva. That was the worst part, and the reason Nezumi couldn't ignore her. Once Sylva passed out from the agony and stopped screaming, the District 1 Career pouted, wiped her hands off on her pants, and slipped from the room, leaving Sylva in a pool of blood.
And that was how he found her minutes later, broken and bleeding into the floorboards. Nezumi focused all his energy into being impassive as he appeared on screen, cautiously creaking the door of the hut open in case of ambush. He remembered the terror that ripped through him when he noticed the blood on the floor and the body. He almost backed out and ran for a different place to hide, but she saw him, and recognized him, and in a rush of disgust and pity, he recognized her as well.
Sylva's voice crackled softly through the speakers, whispering his name. On screen, Nezumi eyed her warily from the doorway. She whispered his name over and over, fresh blood running from the gashes on her face. It was awful, and Nezumi closed the door behind him and approached her to make it stop. He stood over her for a long minute and she stared back. He could see the tears glistening in the corners of her eyes.
Sitting on his plush throne, Nezumi swore he could smell the thick scent of blood and piss and the primal scent of fear.
"Please," Sylva mouthed at him.
He knew what she wanted. It was the only thing she could want in the state she was in. He wouldn't use a knife on her, though, not again. But that left very few options.
Even though she had asked for it, Sylva's eyes rolled with terror when she felt his hand over her face. Nezumi eased up on her mouth and nose and shushed her. Then he began to sing. A simple mountain lullaby he didn't even remember knowing. The terror in Sylva's eyes subsided and she relaxed back to the floor. Nezumi continued singing, easing the pressure gently over her mouth and nose again, pressing until her eyes glazed over and the cannon fired. Then he sprang back and wiped his hand hastily on his pant leg, trying to scrape the feel of her face from his skin.
In his chair, Nezumi balled his fists in his lap. The disgusted boy on the screen caught sight of the camera in the corner, and when Nezumi saw the feral look on his face, even he was afraid. The Nezumi onscreen drew in a sharp breath—
—And the scene switched to a day later, when he was stalking through the woods in search of targets. On stage, Nezumi leaned forward in his chair.
They cut it out. He had expected them to; he didn't think the Capitol wanted to be reminded that he had snarled, "Fuck you," at them, but he had wondered… It was better that they forgot. It had been a critical error. He should have kept his mouth shut and continued to play the role of indifferent but deadly participant. That second of weakness almost cost him his life.
But that moment had flipped a switch inside him. From then on he gave the audience the show they wanted. And ironically this was the portion of the Games where he was the most unpopular. The gifts of food and supplies had trickled in steadily while he was waiting and picking off the single tribute that got in his way. He had received his knife from his sponsors, a real pretty piece that must have cost a fortune.
But after his slip up, the gifts stopped.
He ran into District 11's final tribute and disposed of her quickly enough, though he underestimated her reach and got nicked on the head for his stupidity. The wound wasn't life threatening, but it bled like a bitch, and he was convinced it was what caused him to suffer the far more serious injury at Glint's hands later. Regardless, he didn't receive anything to stop the bleeding on his head. He was forced to tie a strip of his clothing around his forehead and continued to forge on.
He had played his hand well, there were only two serious contenders left: Syrah and Glint. District 4's tributes were swept away in a poetic tidal wave while trying to harpoon the remaining tribute from 3. In an ironic twist of fate, the girl from 3 survived the tsunami—only to be killed an hour later by Glint. The male tribute from 9 hung in there way longer than Nezumi was sure anyone thought he would, but Syrah got him around the same time Nezumi had his showdown with Glint.
Nezumi found him in the forest. He tried to conceal his footfalls, but Glint knew he was there regardless. Glint attacked first, swinging his halberd in a wide arc, and Nezumi hopped back. The shaft of the halberd was around five feet, and he had to be careful until he was certain he could make it inside its reach. Nezumi parried the halberd until he was sure even Glint's heavily muscled arms were fatigued, then he waited for the next series of swings and ducked behind a tree.
The halberd's blade stuck in the bark, and Nezumi swung around the trunk and barreled toward Glint, hoping to plunge the knife into the Career's heart in the few precious seconds he had gained. Nezumi did manage to get the knife into Glint, but inches off his intended target, just below his sternum. Glint had a knife of his own embedded to the hilt in Nezumi's left shoulder. Nezumi and Glint gasped simultaneously at the searing pain of the metal in their flesh.
Nezumi remembered the feeling of betrayal when he felt the knife slide into his shoulder—at his weapon of choice turned against him, at his utter lack of awareness. How did he not notice that Glint was carrying another weapon? Glint growled, and Nezumi tried to jerk himself out from his cloud of anxiety. He had missed the heart, but the wound was still mortal if he pulled the blade free and avoided the Career long enough for him to bleed out.
Glint seemed all too aware of this. He gripped Nezumi's arm hard with his free hand and pressed the knife in his chest tightly between the edges of his rib cage. Then he started pushing the knife in Nezumi's shoulder up. He didn't know what Glint meant to do—sever the tendons in his arm completely, force his way up to Nezumi's neck—but it didn't matter. It was the most excruciating pain Nezumi had ever known, and he was not ashamed that he screamed. Glint kept holding the one knife while pushing the other, pushing relentlessly even when his knife grinded against Nezumi's collarbone and would go no further.
In the darkness of the auditorium, Nezumi grit his teeth, feeling the phantom shriek of muscle and bone in his now healed shoulder. The torture felt endless back then, but the moment on screen was mercifully short lived.
Nezumi roared in pain and anger and reared back to smash his already bloodied forehead into Glint's. He hit hard enough that they both seemed to black out for a second, but Nezumi recovered faster. With a savage tug, he tore his knife from Glint's chest. The force sent him stumbling back into the tree behind him. Glint snarled at him, a froth of blood and saliva bubbling to his lips. Nezumi didn't wait for him to die or recover or whatever might happen next. He left Glint's knife buried in his shoulder and ran as quickly as he could from the scene.
The cannon fired shortly afterward and Nezumi fell to his knees in a puddle of dirty rainwater. He was so delirious with pain he couldn't even feel relief at Glint's death. All he could think was he would never survive Syrah with a dud arm.
He lay motionless in the dirt as long as he could, but eventually he had to come to terms with the fact that no one was going to help him. There was nothing he could do but yank the knife from his shoulder and attempt to staunch the bleeding with what limited resources he had.
The footage switched between Syrah lounging contentedly by the ocean and Nezumi huddled and bleeding in the forest. If he had been watching the moment live, it was obvious who he would've put his money on. Even the Nezumi on-screen was thinking about cutting his loses—quite literally—as he watched his heart pump his life away liter by liter.
Nezumi swallowed and watched the screen intently, waiting for it.
He had been toying with his knife, considering his best option, when it appeared. The camera switched back to him and stayed when a small silver parachute floated down from the canopy. Nezumi watched with bleary eyes as it glided to rest on his sticky, blood soaked arm. Inside the parachute was a silver med kit. It held standard first aid supplies: gauze, disinfectant, suture needles, and anti-inflammatory pills—no more advanced than what he could find back in 7. Nezumi stared at it for a long second and then laughed. A genuine, hearty laugh, that filled his eyes with tears by the end.
How could he not? His arm was literally sinews away from detachment, and out of all the high-tech medicines they had in the Capitol, someone decided to send him a med kit. With the clarity of hindsight, Nezumi now realized that even that dinky med kit must have been absurdly expensive for whoever sent it. Sponsor prices skyrocketed when the tributes were down to a handful, and Nezumi had a sneaking suspicion that mouthing off bumped his prices even higher than standard fare. But he wasn't thinking about that then, and at the time, the med kit in his lap was sublimely funny.
The gift came with a message. A single sliver of laminated paper with one word written in cramped, slanted script. The camera didn't bother to show the message, but Nezumi remembered it well.
"Don't."
The word wasn't particularly special or inspiring, but when Nezumi read it, his laughter trailed off. It answered every desperate thought that ran through his mind since he'd been injured.
The med kit didn't help the pain much, but it had what he needed for a quick and uncomfortable set of stitches. That at least kept him from bleeding out. He rested a little longer and tested out his arm. It had a minimum range of motion and he could wiggle his fingers, but that was about the extent of it.
He sighed and began a slow trek back toward the ruined city. There was no point in waiting; it was time to find Syrah and end the Games, for better or worse.
Nezumi frowned at the beleaguered boy on the screen. He looked pale and pained and utterly helpless. He was glad he hadn't been able to see himself in those final hours, because he did not look like a winner. Although… That was probably what led him to victory in the end.
Once he was within the city limits, he stopped to do inventory. He still had his shiv and the two knives. He slipped his own knife into his boot and tucked Glint's knife into the back of his pants. Not the safest places, but they were the most accessible. Then he found a broken glass bottle and ground it against a rock until he had a handful of powder. He wrapped it up in a piece of cloth and put it in his pocket.
Syrah took one look at him and laughed. She saw his limp arm and bloody shirt and marked him as easy prey. He helped her assumptions along by facing her with his shiv only. A measly shard of glass against her hunting knife? He was handing her the win.
Nezumi held his own against her at the start. He was in pain, but he had enough energy to dodge the swipes and jabs of her knife. Things became less promising when she cornered him inside a building. He made a stab toward her neck and she easily deflected it, sending his shiv flying across the room where it exploded into pieces against the wall. Before she got too close, he hastily whipped out Glint's knife.
Syrah looked displeased at the new weapon, but not discouraged. She took a step forward, but hastily scrambled back when he chucked the knife at her. He had hoped this first tactic would work, but the throw was off, and the hilt hit her face rather than the blade. Syrah snarled and came at him again, but like before he had replaced his lost weapon with another.
Unfortunately, for this one to work, he had to take a hit. He turned aside as she stabbed and took her knife in his left arm—thankfully lower than the stitches, but he felt them tear in his shoulder anyway. He grinded his teeth against the riot of pain and lifted the cloth bundle. As the fabric fell open, Nezumi squeezed his eyes shut and blew hard. Hundreds of glittering green flakes flew into Syrah's face.
Syrah shrieked and scrubbed at her eyes, reflexively burying the glass dust deeper. Nezumi took a step forward, and Syrah pulled her hands away from her ruined eyes and swung blindly for him. He slashed her arm and kicked her legs out from beneath her. Syrah landed ungracefully on the concrete and howled, thick tears of blood streaming down her cheeks. Nezumi watched her writhe and bleed. She looked terrible, and yet he felt nothing but hatred, even now. He sat on her chest, pulled his final knife from his boot, and slit her throat.
The cannon boomed. The sound was nearly drowned by the explosion of cheers in the auditorium.