I'm rising up through a dark tube, the sides pressing in on me, no end in sight. I concentrate every particle of my being on not screaming. I have a terror of small spaces that nothing can seem to cure, and I am close to passing out. Darkness. Closeness. No air.
Just when I think I can't take in any longer, I emerge into fresh air and sunlight. The Arena. This is it. Nothing matters but the next sixty seconds. I can't seem to focus on the arena or the Cornucopia. Instead, my eyes are drawn to the circle of tributes. To my immediate left stands Tantore. The sun is shining through his long, sandy hair, lighting it to gold. He's just staring at me. Nothing else.
On my right stand Tcheetah. He, too, is watching me. When our eyes meet, his lips pull back in a menacing leer. My blood runs cold, and I know I am going to die.
And then it happens.
I watch as something falls from his hand, hitting the ground in front of him. I see his face, still sneering, as he is blown into a thousand pieces. The explosion sets off a chain reaction, and each of the tributes, counter-clockwise around the circle, is blasted into oblivion. Some of them look blank; others wear expressions of contempt. I see who dies, every single one of them, just before they explode, and their faces are branded into my mind forever. I watch as the small girl from Six is blasted away. Tantore is next in line. I involuntarily reach out towards him as the fire blazes in front of him. I see his eyes, still locked in mine-
My eyes snap open. I am absolutely soaked in sweat, and I'm shaking uncontrollably. I stare around the dark room, half expecting something to blow up. I sit up, throwing back the covers, and attempt to regain control of my nerves. The faces of the tributes still blaze, clear as day, in my brain. It had all the clarity of one of my prophetic dreams. I press my hands to my head, trying to think clearly. What is going to happen tomorrow? I am not at all certain I want to know...
I am startled out of my reverie by a knock on my door. I raise my head, utterly caught off guard. "Come in?" I call, expecting Terrence or Deena. The door opens, and the young man I saw at the interviews enters. I watch him with open hostility as he approaches. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?" I ask suspiciously. He sits down in the chair by my bed, and I instinctively edge away.
"My name is Camillus. I wanted to see you before the Games." I stare at him.
"Why?"
This simple question seems to discombobulate him extremely, and I frown faintly. "Well... You made an impression on me. I watched you at the reaping, and ever since." Great. Another stalker. "I wanted to talk to you." He is looking at me, somewhat hopefully. I hold his gaze.
"What about?" I inquire coolly. I recognize him now. He's the president's son. It hadn't really registered at the interviews, but I've seen him on the television before, looking calm, distant, disdainful. Right now, he's looking rather uncomfortable. He fidgets with his hands, twisting his finger this way and that. He shrugs. "Anything… I just want to talk to you."
I am struck by how incredibly pointless this young mans whole existence is. He doesn't seem overly burdened in the cranium section, he's not extraordinarily handsome, and he looks awkward and clumsy. As far as I know, he has absolutely nothing whatsoever to offer the world. Just another idiot the Capitol spawned.
I pretend to stifle a yawn. "Well, you've talked to me. It's two o' clock in the morning, and I've got to get up early and commit a mass murder." All at once, he seems to change. He leans forward and grabs my hand, and I barely suppress a yelp of surprise. "Listen Brandi, I'm not going to let you die. I'm not going to let that happen. I'm going to help you. I can't let- I can't let you get killed. I just can't." I had previously thought he was an idiot. Now I am convinced he is nothing short of insane. Possibly dangerous. I sigh quietly. Why do these things always happen to me?
Standing up, I remove my hand from his grasp. "It's going to be alright," I say kindly. "We'll go up to the roof, and make you up a bed. The fresh air will do you good, and you can sleep it off up there. By morning, you'll be perfectly fine again. No one will ever know - besides me, of course. And I won't tell." Camillus blinks at me, then shakes his head.
"I guess that came out wrong. But I'm serious, Brandi. You're coming out alive. I swear it." I stare at him a minute before I realize that he is, in fact, perfectly serious. I exhale, and sit down again.
"Why me?" I ask quietly. "What about the other forty three who have to die?" The president's son snorts.
"I don't give a hoot about them," he says contemptuously. Beneath the folds of my robe, my hands clench in anger. "They're not real to me. I watched every one of them during the interviews, and not one of them has your spirit, your vivacity, your charisma. They're plastic. And the ones from One, Two, and Four are plain barbaric." He jumps slightly as I spring to my feet.
"Barbaric? Barbaric? You sit here in front of me, say what you just said, and then call someone else barbaric?!" I lean over, my face so close to his I'm surprised it doesn't blister from the heat radiating from me. "Forty four teenagers thrown into an arena, forced to fight for their lives against each other, the elements, and whatever horrors your cronies decide to throw at them, and they're barbaric?" I am trembling worse than I was half an hour ago, my hands clenched so tightly my nails are in danger of cracking. I force myself to retreat from Camillus' face, breathing hard. He looks very surprised, and very angry.
"Look, Brandi," he begins, but I interrupt.
"Don't call me by my first name!" I snarl.
"Fine! Miss Ilonwich!" We're both yelling so loudly I'm astonished that the entire building hasn't arrived to investigate. "There can only be one victor, if that! I didn't have to offer my help to anyone! I could have just sat back and watched every single one of you be tortured and killed! I had to choose one person, and it's you! I have my reasons, but at least I'm offering help!" He has a look of long suffering nobility shining through his anger. The urge to throttle him rises inside me. I grit my teeth, attempting to control my fury.
"And I have my reasons for refusing your 'help'. Pride, you might call it. Respect for human life. Duty to side with people, instead of painted up circus creatures." My arms are crossed so tightly they are beginning to cramp. "So if that's all you're here to say, you can go." Camillus looks about mad enough to hit me. I am vaguely aware of a wish that he would try.
"Listen, Bird Girl," he says, a threatening edge to his voice. "I can keep you alive if I want. I could have you snuffed out on a whim. You better not make an enemy of me." I'm not aware of moving towards him, I'm not aware of raising my arm, but the next thing I know, he is lying on the floor, a hand to his face, and my palm is stinging. Not pausing to think, I grab him by the front of his silk blouse, drag him across the room, and fling him out the door, slamming it in his shadowy face.
An hour later, I am still sitting on my bed, my mind roiling. I am not sure what to make of the president's son. Apparently my first assumption about him was wrong. I despise him, yes, of course I despise him. But all the same… He's right, he didn't have to offer anyone help. He was running a great risk coming to talk to me…
Then I remember Caesar and Tantore talking during Tantore's interview; "Who was that little boy for whom you volunteered? Was he your brother?"
"No. I don't know who he is. But he is safe for this years Games." Hatred for Camillus boils afresh in me. One of the 'barbarians' from Four sacrificed himself for a little boy he didn't even know. And Camillus thinks he's so noble for offering me help. I lie down, a weariness akin to lethargy overcoming me. I am just about to doze off when I am jerked back to consciousness.
Someone is knocking on my door.
I fling open the door, expecting to see the heir to Panem's government. Instead, I find myself staring at the cool, collected face of the president himself. A feeling of dread sweeps over me as we stand there, just looking at each other. His voice recalls me back to reality. "May I come in, Miss Ilonwich?"
I try to collect my scattered mental faculties. "It's your room," I say finally. I instantly regret this; concussing the president's son is one thing, sassing the president himself is quite another. He appears supremely unconcerned, however.
"Quite right. It is," he says serenely, and walks in. He sits down in the same chair his son occupied two hours ago. "Now, let us get right to the point. I'm sure you're anxious to get some sleep." I sit down on the bed, feeling distinctly uneasy. Somehow, I don't get the feeling he's here to offer his help in the Games. "Brandi Ilonwich, the Bird Girl." He says the words experimentally. I swallow hard and wait. "You know, your stylist hasn't done you any favors."
"I think he's amazing," I say, before I can stop myself. The president just looks at me.
"That's because you're a young girl. You're blinded by the silks and wings he has given you; you don't look past the feathers and the glitter. No one does. Except I." He is watching me closely. I return his gaze, puzzled, and angry on my beloved Terrence's behalf. "You have completely dazzled at every turn. Your training score. Your image. But I have a nation to think about. I cannot have bird girls flying around." I am still completely in the dark. He is still watching me, as if he can see my befuddlement. "Come, Miss Ilonwich," he whispers. "Put it together. You know what I mean." And suddenly it clicks. High training score. Birds. Bird calls and whistles.
I feel as though I have been encased in ice. "I'm not going to start anything," I say automatically. "All I want to do is get out alive. I promise." The president sits back, his eyes hooded. "That is certainly reassuring," he says. I detect a hint of sarcasm and skepticism behind his words. 'Very reassuring. For both of us." He leans towards me, his voice dropping slightly. "The Games don't have to have a winner, Miss Ilonwich. I decided that when I reinstated them. It is easier on all of us, is it not, for forty four to die, instead of forty four thousand? Winning is no longer a guaranteed option. It is a privilege that I can grant."
I shake my head. "My parents were killed in the war, sir," I say quietly. "I am one of four teenagers from my district reaped to die. I detest the Hunger Games, but as you say, thousands of people die in wars. My image as a bird has sprung from my stylist's determination to show me off. That is all. I have no intention of sparking another rebellion." The president stands up. I follow suit.
"I am certainly glad to hear that, Miss Ilonwich. But be assured, I shall be watching you very closely. Very closely indeed." He places something on my pillow, crosses the room, and exits, closing the door behind him. I stand for a minute, my heart pounding, mind racing. My legs feel like jelly, and I sit down, attempting to compose myself. After a minute, I switch on a lamp and pick up the object he left. I look at it for a split second, and then drop it, automatically wiping my fingers. It's a mockingjay pin, darkened with rust stains. I stare at it on the floor, until something about its appearance strikes me as not quite right. Approaching it cautiously, I kneel down to examine it. A soft hissing noise escapes me as I inhale. The metal is darkened with reddish brown stains.
But it's not rust.
