She approaches the double doors, forcing herself into slow, measured steps. Left to her own devices, she'd dash in at full speed. Anticipation and glee fill her chest almost to bursting. President Coin feels as if she were six again, opening the largest birthday present she's ever seen.
The two at the doors, District 13 like all her personal security, stand aside without being told. There's a detail of four behind her – she's not foolish enough to go anyplace alone, war or no war – but she leaves them outside as well. They are no defense against what she's facing.
Bright sunlight nearly blinds her. The bay windows are twice President Coin's height. There are none anywhere else in the mansion, or in any case will be none when the modifications are complete. These remain by special request. And the odor, cloying and sickening. Like what they used to pump into the Capitol sweetshops, as if the buns still came from ovens rather than replication bays. She moves directly forward through a green tunnel – is that what they used to call it? the winding plait of vines on all sides? – and turns right.
He hasn't moved from this position since she was here before. Sunken in a large, worn armchair, almost as if his body was losing agency and fusing with it. In a white robe, flecked with blood and more types of sputum than President Coin wants to consider right now. Restrained by leg and arm. An occasional shimmer the only sign of the force barrier he's behind.
Coriolanus Snow.
His yellow eyes barely flicker. "Good afternoon," he says without moving his head. He attempts unsuccessfully to smile. "Is she alive?"
"Fully recovered," replies Coin. Her voice seems too loud in the damp stillness.
Now he's looking right at her. "You must be very happy."
She's promised herself not to gloat. A quick glance behind her, into the labyrinth of roses.
"It's lovely," he rasps. "Allow me to thank you once again."
"It was the least I could do." She looks down to suppress the grin. But it's been too long, and the words come bubbling out. "I'm going to let her kill you."
No reply is forthcoming. Unshaken, Coin continues. "Be assured, I'm being merciful. What the council had in mind was far worse."
"Whatever the method, the outcome is generally the same." Snow shrugs. "I think we can agree on that." He smiles, earnestly this time. "Is something bothering you, Miss President?"
"Not for long," she snorts.
"You came all the way here so I could approve my own execution." He laughs, a sound like ice cracking. "You don't know what to do with her at all, do you?"
President Coin's lips tighten imperceptibly, but her words are a calm stream, rehearsed many times over. "That girl exceeded all expectations. Without her there would be no rebellion." She takes a cautious step nearer the barrier. "Without her, you wouldn't be in that chair."
"District 13." he chuckles. "Always one step ahead. Even I couldn't have seen it coming. When that commander was blown in half, live on air?" He folds his hands. "It was pure coincidence the street was mined, of course. A chance of fate that the boy was in her detail." He leans forward, and Coin can see the flecks of spittle as he begins again. "You're afraid of our little Mockingjay."
"We've provided for all contingencies," Coin snaps before she can stop herself. Now perturbed for the first time, she speaks more quickly. "She acts on instinct, not reason. She's a child, not a soldier. She poses no risk to her allies."
"Ah. Because you imagine she wishes to supplant you." He leans back, satisfied. "You've thought it all out." His head, drooping, shakes once.
"Look at me!" she barks. Snow obliges, deferential. "Your game ends tomorrow. All the Games end. Consider that!"
Snow's eyes change color, become opaque and wide. From where Coin is standing, he could be twice his own age, a million years older. When he speaks again, his voice is different.
"What do you know about the Games?" he asks. "You think they started with me? That they end with me?" He pauses for effect. "That they only happen in closed arenas? And why are they are called the Hunger Games?" The sun has gone behind a cloud, and Snow melts into shadow.
"Ten men are at a table." Snow begins, a school instructor stating a logic problem. "Five on one side, five on the other. Their needs are provided for in perpetuity. They never want for food. Each has the same bowl of gruel. Three times a day, every day. Always enough. Never too much." A touch of excitement now in his speech. "One morning, a man looks over to his right and thinks, I want his too."
There's a slight gleam of recognition in Coin's eyes that she doesn't bother to hide.
"And he gets it." Snow continues. "By any means necessary. Maybe while the other fellow wasn't looking. Maybe he has to kill him. And the man on his left asks, Can you get me a second bowl too? And the answer is yes. But not for free."
Coin listens, her expression unreadable.
"This has always happened," he says emphatically. "It will always happen. The Games were being played before I ran them. The Games will always be. And if you want to understand Katniss Everdeen, you must understand that first."
Before he's even finished, Coin feels like a light has gone on in her head. It was good to have come here, perhaps... no. Never that. Her eyes narrow in determination.
"The protocol requires that any last requests…" she begins.
"She knows about the hovercraft," Snow interrupts.
But Coin has regained her composure. "She knows it bore the Capitol seal. She knows who destroyed their own children. Who murdered her sister."
"No, no, my dear President," he chuckles, barely audible now. "She knows it doesn't matter who did."
Coin pauses for just a moment. "I'll see you tomorrow, Snow."
"Wear something nice, Alma." He smiles widely, showing grey, rotten teeth. President Coin turns smoothly on her heel and is gone.
Moisture hangs heavy in the stagnant air. Outside the window nearest the armchair, a mockingjay begins a familiar tune. Snow begins to laugh, a rasp growing louder and louder until it mingles with a watery cough, then a dry hack, then the only thing coming out of his mouth is a stream of blood that seems to never end, until his breathing becomes regular again and only something closer than Coin was standing could hear the short, labored gasps; the sound of a wounded animal gone back to its den for the last time.