President Snow stands in the middle of nowhere, wondering who he should punish for it.
He could blame his aide, who suggested he visit this manure-caked hellhole of a district. That man hadn't the intelligence to distinguish between evergreen and puke green skin dye; Snow wouldn't be surprised if the original suggestion was to check on the development of the Capitol's technology. He could blame his advisors, who didn't bother persuading him to stay home. Or he could blame the hundreds of citizens of District Ten, who informed him that the best place to observe the District's agricultural progress was in the middle of a field.
A light wind pushes against him, carrying the scent of manure. Snow wrinkles his nose and coughs, spraying a handkerchief with blood. He folds the handkerchief and tucks it into the breast pocket of his jacket, then takes a few steps forward. The smell follows him, but his steps stir up the fragrance of sagebrush. Not his favorite smell, but better than the acrid scent of manure, which irritates his nose.
The prairie is endless. The only mountains are miles in the distance; above, there is nothing but grey clouds, stretching for miles. Snow hates it. He prefers his home in the Capitol, where the mountains are as near as the fence surrounding his mansion, where they can hold the sky where it belongs. The wind takes on the scent of rain, mingling with the odor of manure.
Snow breathes out slowly through his nose, trying to stem the rush of anger he feels. How dare they! How dare his subjects drive him into this foul field, then abandon him with the promise of seeing their latest work! How dare they tantalize him, saying it was best viewed on a larger stage, and leave him without a map or even a compass!
He takes a small communicator from his pocket and presses the only button. Soon, a hoverplane will arrive from the nearest launching bay and conduct him to the Capitol, where he can devise a suitable punishment for the deceitful citizens of District Ten. Firebombing, perhaps. Or perhaps he will spring for something more creative, like a special District Ten-only Hunger Games. He is beginning to warm to the idea when he hears it.
"Quack."
Snow turns. Behind him stands a duck, ordinary in every way. It watches him with beady black eyes, waddling a few paces toward him.
"Quack."
"Qua-quack."
"Quack."
Another duck appears, followed by another and another. They come from every side, fluttering their wings as they land, until the prairie is covered with them. They must have strong feet, to withstand the prickly sagebrush.
Mutts. These are mutts. Sent from the Capitol to help him. Snow laughs, but it dies with a sudden thought: Why would the Capitol send ducks to help their President?
"Quack."
"Quack quack."
"Quack."
Snow's heart pounds. Sweat soaks his palms. The smell of manure tickles his throat, but he doesn't reach for his handkerchief. His cough sends droplets of blood onto the sagebrush.
"Quaaaaaack."
A duck halts at his feet and looks into his eyes. The beady black….he can see intelligence there. Dark intelligence. Intelligence that thirsts for blood. He takes a few steps back, but trips over a duck and falls. He tries to scramble to his feet, but one of the birds lands on his chest. Looking into his eyes, it tilts its head.
"Quack."
The cry is echoed by the multitude before they rush forward, and Snow's vision is blackened by the tramping of a thousand tiny feet.
"Ducks. That's what you're going with?"
"It's what happened, Plutarch."
Plutarch Heavensbee halted midstride and closed his eyes in a moment of silent frustration. "Fulvia, if you're pulling a prank on me, now is the time to say so."
"I'm not pulling anything! I'm just reporting what I heard from District Ten this morning. They've evidently had this plan in the works for some time now." The former Gamemaker narrowed his eyes, and Fulvia lifted her hands in surrender. "Look at Coin's reports if you don't believe me!"
Plutarch scrutinized her for a moment; then he rolled his eyes. "Very well, then. But, Fulvia, promise me you'll come up with a better story for Katniss. If she hears Snow was trampled to death by ducks…."
Fulvia dared a smile. "You don't know her very well, do you?" When he looked at her in confusion, she laughed. "Katniss will be thrilled, Plutarch. Just you watch."