"Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present the winners of the 74th Hunger Games!" Seneca Crane booms. The tears that had started when they pulled out the berries on the monitor stop abruptly. I squeal. "We did it, Haymitch, we did it! Both our tributes are alive! They're going to be alright after all!" I plant a spontaneous kiss on Haymitch's cheek. "Isn't it so romantic? They were both willing to die rather than live apart, but now they'll both live. This is the best Hunger Games ever! Oh, I'll definitely get a good district next year, I know I will. Imagine! We're the very first mentors to bring back both tributes alive."
Haymitch isn't sharing in my delirious delight. "Alive for now, Effie. Alive for now." he mutters. It's a perfectly Haymitch sort of thing to say, and I ignore it. I refuse to let Haymitch's negativity spoil the best day of my life.
"Come on!" I say, grabbing him by the hands and dragging him to his feet. "There's the Victor's Party, and a hundred other parties to got to if we get bored, and even you simply has to celebrate." He resists.
"We ought to go help Katniss and Peeta. Katniss looked like she was really losing it at the end. They're probably shaken up, if not hysterical," Haymitch predicts darkly.
He's so ridiculous, I simply have to laugh. "Why would they be hysterical? They won, Haymitch! They're fine! The only reason they were a bit worked up towards the end of the Games was that they weren't certain they would both survive. Now that they won, they ought to be fine."
He shoots me an incredulous look under his dark brows. "You don't think being starved, dehydrated, burned, attacked, stung, beaten, stabbed, shot at, or nearly killed had anything to do with it? You don't think watching people be brutally killed, being forced to brutally kill people themselves, or seeing close friends die painful deaths was part of the reason they were 'a bit worked up'?"
Now he's being to silly for words. "It's an honor to be in the Games, Haymitch. Their probably going to be celebrating at this very minute," I remind him crossly. "Now follow me."
I dig my fingernails into his shoulders and forcibly drag him out the the door. He barely resists, but he still looks deeply troubled.
The Victor's Party is, of course, fantastic. President Snow volunteered his own mansion for the event, which was an honor even I didn't anticipate. I used some of my earnings as a tribute escort on a gorgeous, cloudy white dress, which looks gorgeous. The ballroom is so big I could scarcely see one end of the room from the other. Soft, bright music pours from unseen speakers. Huge tables of food line the walls, and I have to frequently use the stalls provided to keep my stomach empty. Hidden projectors send pictures of Katniss and Peeta kissing, fighting, hunting, and other Hunger Game tasks spinning around the room. On the dance floor, I slowly spin from partner to partner until even the Capitol's slow style of dance seem exhausting. The night would be perfect, but Brutus and Enobaria are shooting me angry glares from a corner of the room. Of course. They were Cato's mentors. They must be furious that their best prospect in years was killed. They join Haymitch and several other mentors in trying to drink themselves into stupors. What is it about being a Victor that makes people so inclined to drinking? Brutus and Enobaria aren't regular drinkers, but many of the Victors are. It makes me think of what Haymitch said earlier about my two tributes probably being depressed or hysterical, but the idea of the Games being a trial, not a privilege, is too strange of an idea to properly process. I pull myself from the revolving embrace of Seneca Crane with a polite excuse, and leave the dance floor to nurse my confused thoughts in quiet solitude. Peeta and Katniss are delighted to have won the Hunger Games. They have to be. The Games are an honor, a privilege, delight to participate in. After all, don't Careers volunteer all the time?
Yes, but only from Districts 1, 2, or 3. The well-treated Districts. The Districts that are closest to the Capitol . . . a suspicious voice in my head reminds me. And did Katniss really look eager when she volunteered for her sister? She looked kind of . . . desperate . . . like she had to spare little Primrose some horrible fate. And wasn't simply terrible that the Gamekeepers weren't paying attention to her session? Even the poorer Districts deserve their fair time!
My thought continue to run in confused circles, and I find myself desperately wishing for something to distract me. I look around and spy Haymitch, dead drunk and sipping wine directly from the decorative fountain. He managed to stay relatively sober for most of the Games, but now that the Games are over he has wasted no time in getting back to his spirits. I hurry over. Anything is better than trying to sort through the confused thoughts tangling around my brain.
"I think you were right after all, Haymitch. We really should go see Peeta and Katniss. It's our duty as mentors and escorts, and . . ." I trail off as I realize he isn't processing a word I'm saying. I sigh-internally, of course, because mentors and escorts should always show decorum and unity in public-and motion to a nearby Capitol attendant.
"Here," I say, grabbing a flute of chemicals used to make ourselves vomit and shoving it into her hands. "If he slips into a coma from blood alcohol poisoning, shove this down his throat. Better yet, force him to drink it the moment he passes out. If he starts to get truly ill, discreetly call a doctor and have him tend to Haymitch. I don't want pictures of District 12's mentor having his stomach pumped at his own party to get out, understand?" These are the standard instructions I've been giving attendants at all the various parties, balls, galas, events, and dinners we've had to go to. Why can't Haymitch stay completely sober for longer than ten minutes at a time? It's so tiring having to constantly struggle to keep Haymitch conscious and not dead of alcohol poisoning.
This taken care of, I use some discretion myself and slip away with some delicate excuses. Some gentle prodding and questioning reveals that both Katniss and Peeta are still in the hovercraf that picked them up, which is landed on a nearby airstrip. Peeta's condition is too delicate for the doctors to move him, and it goes without saying that Katniss would stay. I hurry into the spacious aircraft and demand to see my tributes. But demanding to see them and actually meeting them are two entirely different things, I learn.
"I'm sorry, but we simply cannot allow you see the Victors at this time," says the polite but firm nurse. "Peeta is still in surgery, and Katniss isn't, ah, well."
"This is ridiculous! I am the children's escort. I demand to see them this instant!" I trill sharply. "Katniss was in decent shape when she left the arena-why on Earth would she be sick now? And there is no harm in letting me see Peeta, even if he is unconscious." I shove past the silly nurse, striding down the halls towards the rooms where there is the most activity and the most people coming in and out. This should be where Katniss and Peeta are.
The nurse flutters along at my side, her high heels nervously clicking against the linoleum. "I'm afraid I really can't let you go in there," she chatters anxiously as I near the door at the end of the hall. "It really isn't allowed."
"Nonsense. Of course I can go in there," I say sharply, throwing off her restraining hand. "What could possibly be in that-"
But the moment I step in the room, I realize that the nurse was right. I should never have come in here. I should never have stepped inside this luxurious hovercraft. I should have stayed at the celebration and danced, and ate, and partied, until all thoughts of unhappy Victors and unfair Games faded into an oblivion of spiked drinks, exhaustion, and post-Game buzz.
Peeta is lying, unconscious, on the operating table. Doctors have just finished removing his wounded leg, and a metal prosthetic is being fitted. Tubes and wires snake around Peeta, and he is surrounded by beeping monitors, flashing equipment, and grim-faced doctors. Even as I watch, his heart monitor goes dead. A harried-looking doctor grabs a slender metal wand and taps it, once, twice, on Peeta's chest. A jolt of crackling electricity spread across his torso, and he bucks sharply on the table. I breath a deep sigh of relief and sag against the doorway when his heart begins again, but the doctor just puts his wand down in easy reach and returns to the operation. I take a few deep breathes to calm myself. You knew that it wasn't going to be pretty I remind myself. You were warned.
I've barely managed to adjust to this gruesome scene when something far more horrid catches my eye. The far wall is clear plastic, and Katniss is in the room opposite. I order one of the nurses to unlock the connecting door and let me through. Katniss doesn't appear to notice. She's conscious, but barely. He hair matted, tousled hair is probably beyond the skill of even her prep team. Her jumpsuit is in rags and soaked with blood, mud, and god knows what else. It is practically hanging off her incredibly skinny body. She look battered and sick and miserable.
All this, I can handle. Physically, she doesn't appear to be far worse off than she was in the arena. I knew that she was hurt, I knew that she was skinny, I knew that she was sick, and filthy, and unhygienic. She was like this in the arena, after all.
In the arena, however, she wasn't out of her mind.
In the arena, she didn't wail in wordless hysteria, which dissolved into breathless sobs.
In the arena, she didn't beg for Peeta, Gale, Prim, Haymitch, her mother, Effie, somebody, anybody to come and help her.
In the arena, she didn't pound on the clear wall dividing her and Peeta, battering her hands so badly that fresh curtains of tacky blood run down the wall with each fresh strike of her fist. In the arena, she never cried, or begged for help, or brutally, uselessly, kicked at the wall seperating her and her lover. In the arena, she was completely sane.
I realize that I am experiencing the truth of the Hunger Games, hidden from the eyes of the public. A hysterical girl, barely hanging on to her sanity. A battered boy, kept alive only by expensive machines. Victors, so desperate to escape the horror-yes, horror-of what they have experienced, that they turn to drugs, or drinking, or madness, or death. My mind spins with new realizations. The Games are not an opportunity. The Games are not a privilege, a joy, something to strive for. Haymitch was right. Winning the Games doesn't make people happy. It drives them insane.
I whirl on the Capitol attendants who are supposed to help her. "How long has she been like this?" I demand.
"Since she left the arena, miss," one of them offers. They all shrink slightly, scared by the expression on my face. An escort should always show a polite, smiling face to the world. An escort should never show anger with her underlings. An escort should maintain a cordial, yet not tight, relationship with her tributes. An escort must never let an emotional bond with a tribute interfere with her job. My extensive training is the only thing that keeps from flying at these foolish attendants for not caring for Katniss. I force my self to calm down and even smile slightly, though judging from the expressions on their faces, my smile was hardly less terrifying than my glare.
"And you didn't think she might need medical care? You didn't think that being in hysterics for hours wasn't healthy? You are given hypodermic needles with tranquilizers, aren't you?"
They hesitate. "Well, to be honest, nobody really wanted to get near her," the man who had spoken first admits. I can see why they wouldn't want to venture to close to the crazed girl, with her feral eyes and wild face. Still, there is no excuse for allowing Katniss to remain in this state.
"Did you do anything to help her?" I demand.
"We offered her some fruit punch," he puts forth hesitantly.
Fruit punch. Well, that explains the bloody footprints-she seems to have smashed the glass cup to the floor and trodden in the sharp shards of glass. "A drink. Katniss is a bloody, battered, hysterical mess, and you offered her a drink." He starts make an excuse, but I cut him off. "Never mind that now. Just give me a hypodermic syringe of tranquilizer." They protest, but I hold up a hand. "Now."
Reluctantly, they relinquish their needle. Slowly, I approach Katniss from behind. She catches sight of my reflection in the glass, and begins to turn and face me. Her eyes are wild and unseeing. I doubt she even recognizes me. Her hands are curled into feral claws, and the twisted sound spilling from her mouth is inhuman. Before she can turn to face me completely, I jab the needle into her arm. The fast acting tranquilizer runs through her system, stiffening her for a moment before the wild light in her eyes fades and she crumples. I catch her limp form in my arms. She is absurdly light for sixteen year old, and against my will, a single tear drips onto her unconscious body as I lower her onto the floor in a puddle of fruit punch, drips of blood, and glass shards. "I'm sorry I let them hurt you. I'm sorry I didn't understand," I murmur to her sleeping form. Then I quietly stand and walk away.
I got the idea for this story from a brief comment in the first book-something along the lines of "I caught a glimpse of Effie's wig and thought it had to be her, coming to my rescue." That's when Katniss was knocked out. It is never explained if Effie is actually there, if she was the one who tranquilized her, or why nobody came to her aid earlier. I wondered what it would be like if Effie was there, and what her reaction would be.