"Can you put an identity on her?" asked Haymitch calmly. His feet tapped persistently. He took a quick swig from his bottle recently opened. The white-robed doctor sighed, shaking his head.
"We found her I.D. on her, but it self destruct before we could show anyone."
"Of course, it did," muttered Haymitch. Without a word, the doctor handed him a bottle. It was one of those small transparent glass test tubes that was carefully sealed. Inside, near the bottom, were timy, blackened pieces of paper and grey ash, sitting desolate and gloomy. Glaring at the sad remnants of the I.D. card, Haymitch grunted
"I'm afraid that there is no need for any I.D., Haymitch."
Haymitch turned expectantly at the voice. It was Plutarch.
"You know who she is?" he growled. Plutarch nodded.
"I could tell you all about her without any need to consult any assistance."
"Fine."
"The woman we have unwittingly rescued is Cynthia Falconer, nicknamed 'the Falcon'. Captain in the Capitol's Secret Service. She was also the most favoured and most powerful advisor of President Snow. Most remarkably, all of these were achieved by the age of twenty-eight."
Haymitch cocked an eyebrow he turned back to the unmoving body of the woman lying unconscience in the bed before them. Her arm was smothered in a myriad of tubes which stuck out in various directions. The rising and falling of her chest was barely perceptible. But the perfect features of her face with its thin oval face and pointed chin, straight, sharp nose and deepset eyes, marred by a long scar over the cheek still fresh, lay unchanged. Her silver dyed hair spread around her face on the pillow. Haymitch was suddenly confronted by the image of a gleaming halo.
"So we have rescued one of the most powerful figures of the Capitol from its very clutches, how interesting."
"Wonder what she did to arouse such anger," murmured Plutarch.
"I'm sure we'll find out before long."