"A what?" Cato asked Dr. Aurelius. The psychiatrist had been sent by the gamemakers to evaluate Hera and he stood beside Cato as the younger man gazed down at his sleeping tribute. He wanted more than anything to put out his hands to touch her to make sure she was real and whole and alive. But he didn't.
"A psychotic break."
"Stop using your fancy fucking doctor words and tell me what that means."
The doctor sighed. "She didn't understand what was real and what wasn't. She thought she was having a nightmare. Or at least that's what I'm assuming since she said something about waking up after the boy from 1 fell on his sword."
"A nightmare?"
"It's a protective measure. When the mind can't handle the reality of a situation, it tends to find another way to frame it. We all do it. All the time. Subconsciously. Just not...not on this scale."
"People have psychotic breaks all the time?!"
"No. But we frame situations to make things more convenient for us."
"Can you fix it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Can you make it so she can tell the difference again? Between what's real and what's not?"
"Well, she'll probably already be back to normal in that sense when she wakes. It's the PTSD we'll need to deal with now."
"The what?"
The doctor sighed again. "Post-traumatic stress disorder. The guilt and pain she'll feel. And how she'll deal with it."
"How do most people deal with it?"
"Depends. Everyone is different. She could have more psychotic breaks. Or maybe not. Maybe it will show in other ways. Substance abuse. Alcoholism. Anger issues. Not eating. Eating too much. Not sleeping. Sleeping too much. Promiscuity. Depression. Apathy. Cutting. Suicide. How have you dealt with it?"
"Dealt with what?"
"With what I just said. The guilt and the pain."
"Uhhh, I don't deal with it. I don't have to. I don't feel either of those things."
"Well, right, of course you don't actually feel either of those things. Because you're probably disguising them with other things."
Cato laughed and shook his head, but Dr. Aurelius was studying him soberly. "None of those things I listed apply to you? Drinking?" Check. "Random sex?" Check. "Apathy?" Check.
Suicidal thoughts? Check.
"No," Cato growled, and glared at him.
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She didn't understand at first when they brought her out of sedation. Anything. Where she was. What time of day it was. What time of year it was. What she was doing in this room with all of this medical equipment. Why the left side of her face hurt and her knuckles were bruised. She simply lay there, her mind blank, and stared at the fluorescent lights in the ceiling.
It began to come back to her when she turned her head and saw Gianni sitting next to the bed.
"Hi honey," he said, taking her hand and looking down at her with sympathetic eyes.
"Am I-?" Am I what? Dead? Alive? Insane?
"You won," he said simply.
It was surreal. She had never considered the possibility that she would make it out of the arena, and now that she had she felt detached from her games. Removed, as though they'd taken place years ago.
"I...survived the games?"
"Mmm-hmm."
"That means Rue is dead."
"I'm sorry sweetie," he said sadly.
"My face hurts."
"Yes, Clay punched you."
She remembered. She ran her tongue along her teeth, but she felt no gap in the line. "I thought I lost two teeth."
"They replaced them with implants while you were out."
She fell silent.
"I killed people," she said after a few minutes.
Gianni sucked in a deep breath.
"Who did I kill?" She knew the answer, but she had to hear it, she had to be sure her mind wasn't playing tricks on her.
"Hera…"
"Who did I kill?"
"Glimmer. And Clay. And Clove."
"And Marvel."
"No. He fell on his own sword and bled to death."
"But it was my fault."
Gianni squeezed her hand, trying to comfort her, but she closed her eyes and turned her face away. She should be crying or screaming or throwing things and beating her fists into the wall. But she felt too washed out, too hollow to do any of those things.
"When's my interview?" she asked when she opened her eyes again and turned back towards him.
"I don't think you should worry about that right n-"
"I wanna do it as soon as possible. Tonight if I can."
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They released her a couple of hours later, after Dr. Aurelius had cleared her to go back to the District 7 apartment. As she walked out of the recovery room, Cato stood from his seat on the bench in the hallway, and peered down at her, scrutinizing her face.
"What?" she asked coldly, looking back up at him, her eyes dull. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I'm just...I wanna...see how you're doing with all of this."
"I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"
"I just thought-"
"You were fine after your games, weren't you? And so was Lars. And Alec. And Laila. Why would I be any different?"
It was the most terrifying thing she could have said.
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They couldn't pull off her interview for that night. It was too late. So it was set for the following evening, at 8:00pm. It would last for about an hour and then there would be a celebration afterward at President Snow's mansion.
Gianni sat with her that evening in the District 7 apartment, and they pretended to watch post-games commentary, though neither of them were actually paying attention. He had laid out three different sketches of dresses he had designed for her post-games interview. Hera picked them up and pretended to consider them, but she stared at the pages blindly, and then set them back on the coffee table.
"I know when you first got here you said nothing that shows your back," Gianni said, gesturing to a sketch of a backless sea-green gown. "But I just thought...those scars...they're a part of you. I think they're beautiful. I think you should show them off."
She didn't say anything, just stared at the tv screen.
"Hera, sweetie?"
"Yeah?" she asked colorlessly, turning to face him.
"Nothing," Gianni said. He was finding her lack of emotion disconcerting. "Which dress dear?"
She leaned over the coffee table and selected the backless gown. "This one," she said, handing it to Gianni and turning back to the tv.
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She had dreams that night. Horrible ones.
You failed me Rue's head, sitting beside her body, said to Hera. This is your fault.
Clay laughed at her, and this time she could hear it. An evil, mocking laugh that gave way to piercing cries for mercy as Hera stabbed his eyes out.
She woke, unable to move, every muscle in her body tensed. Her mouth was open, as though she were trying to scream, but no sound came out. She was covered in sweat, but she felt like she was freezing. After a minute or so, she found she could wiggle her fingers and toes, and she pulled the blanket tightly around her. But it did nothing to warm her, because the chill that wracked her body with shivers was emanating from inside of her, from the very marrow of her bones.
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They'd put her in a silk dress the color of her eyes. It flowed like liquid over her curves, over the hollow of her waist, over the flat plane of her stomach and over the sharp ridges of her hipbones. The skin of her shoulders and arms had been polished until it was glowing and smooth. A diamond cuff adorned her right wrist, and one leg peeked tauntingly out of a slit in the side of her skirt. As they had for every other public event, her prep team had piled her hair on top of her head to draw attention to her long graceful neck and high cheekbones, leaving a few silky wisps loose to frame her face. Cato didn't know much about makeup but they had smudged some kind of bronze shit onto her lids and made her lashes heavy and sooty, so that her gaze was sleepy and sensual. She looked, as Gianni had once said, positively fuckable.
The dress was backless, showcasing her scars, and Cato had never seen anything so beautiful.
Caesar called out her name, and the crowd roared as she walked across the stage. When she reached the host, he took hold of her fingers, and lifted her hand to kiss her knuckles heartily. The diamonds on her wrist glittered wickedly.
"Gorgeous, just stunning," Caesar said as he dropped her hand and motioned for her to sit on the loveseat.
She didn't acknowledge the compliment, just took her seat, and crossed her legs, exposing both of her calves and one delicious thigh to the world. As he watched on the monitor backstage, Cato thought that she had to have been the sexiest fucking thing he'd ever seen, but he was finding her composure terrifying at the same time.
"Hera, now you actually came away from your games in good shape compared to most other Victors, but you did still take one good punch there. Tell us, how are you feeling?"
"A little sore, a little tired, but overall, I'm good, thank you."
"Tell us about those first five days."
"They were cold and they were boring." The audience laughed.
And so it went. Caesar asked her questions about her training, her strategy, her experience in the arena. Hera gave all the appropriate answers, with a witty comment thrown in every now and then.
"Now, I couldn't help but notice the scars on your back," Caesar said. "We know they didn't come from the arena...would you mind telling us how you got them?"
Cato sucked in his breath sharply, but Hera seemed completely unfazed. She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes like a cat. "Let's just say I had a rough childhood," she said wryly.
She grew mysterious and gave Caesar a sly, teasing look when he asked her about the logger. "This Dean Callahan," the host said. "He's a handsome fellow. Tell us about him."
"What do you want to know?"
"Well, I think we're all wondering...is there a future for the two of you?"
Hera laughed lightly. "I feel like that's something I should discuss with him in private before I share it with the nation. Don't you think, Caesar?"
She turned glacial when asked about Rue and what was going through her mind as she attacked Clay.
"I wanted revenge for her," she said and her voice was hard and flat. "So I took it. It was as simple as that."
When they called him out on stage to join her, she rose and turned to face him, smirking and stretching out a hand for him to kiss, like a queen demanding homage from a lord. And Cato, stupefied by this side of her, took it and bent his head to brush his lips across her knuckles.
As he lifted his eyes to hers, he was struck by the realization that he was looking at his female counterpart, at a mirror image of himself. Jaded and icy on the outside. Empty on the inside.
It made his blood freeze in his veins and his heart stop in his chest. But he had no choice but to right himself and put on his Capitol Cato persona, cool and smug.
"So Cato," Caesar said once he had taken his seat, "there's a debate going on among the citizens of the Capitol right now as to which one of you would win if you were thrown into the arena together. We'd like to know what you think."
Cato laughed. "Going straight for the jugular, I see. I thought I'd at least get a couple of softballs to ease me into this." He met Hera's eyes and returned her smirk with one of his own. "It all depends on whether or not she was able to get her hands on a knife."
"I seem to remember in her pre-games interview that she said something about not being able to retain anything you taught her because she was so distracted by your looks."
"I think it's safe to say she was lying about that," Cato said.
"You don't think he's good looking?" Caesar asked Hera. "You've got to be the only woman in all of Panem who doesn't think so."
She shrugged dismissively. "I really don't see what all the fuss is about. I mean he's a nice piece of eye candy, but he's insufferable. He's arrogant and he's got a nasty temper. It made for excellent motivation."
"Motivation?" Caesar asked.
"Yes, I pictured those gorgeous blue eyes on every hologram. Pictured the blade of every knife sailing right into the left one."
The audience erupted with raucous laughter, and the two of them continued on through the interview without breaking character.
And then it was time to watch the highlights from the games.
Anyone watching would have thought nothing was amiss, but as Cato monitored Hera from the corner of his eye, he had a sick feeling that she wasn't there next to him. Instead, she stood behind him, watching herself watch herself while she lounged in a silk sea-colored gown on the loveseat across from Caesar, one leg draped languidly over the other, her hands resting on her bare thigh. The crowd adored her.
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She was the jewel of the party. The women wanted to be her, the men wanted to fuck her. The hand that was clad in the diamond cuff was never without a glass of champagne and she charmed everyone she spoke to-including President Snow-with her dry, acidic wit and her slightly disdainful attitude.
It was a stark contrast to the soft, glowing Hera who had mischievously put Clay in his place and radiated warmth as she held Lila Dunderhaven's son at the Sponsor Gala.
Cato was surprised to discover that Lila had noticed the change as well. "There's something wrong with her," she said soberly as she approached him when he went to the bar to refill his glass. "She's different."
"She'll be fine," he lied. He didn't want to give voice to his fears in public.
"I don't like the games anymore," Lila whispered softly. "I think they should be stopped. I can't stand to watch all this suffering."
Cato turned to face her abruptly with wide eyes. "Shut up Lila," he hissed, glancing around them to see if anyone had heard what she'd said. Her words could be taken as treasonous. She could be put to death for them.
He sighed and softened when he saw how sad her expression was. "Maybe you could bring your son to see her before she leaves the Capitol. You know, cheer her up. She likes babies."
"I think she's gonna need more help than that," Lila said sorrowfully, and turned and walked away.
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The guests gathered on the lawn around midnight for fireworks. They were gorgeous. Pink and gold and white shimmering against the black sky.
Cato stood next to Hera at the front of the crowd.
"Have you ever seen fireworks before?" he asked, glancing down at her.
"No." Her eyes were fixed on the sky, but something told him that she wasn't actually seeing what she was looking at.
"What do you think of them?"
"Yeah. They're nice." Her tone was flat and disinterested. She sounded bored. She sounded apathetic. She sounded like him.
Pre-games Hera would have loved them. She would have stared up at the sky in wonder with shining eyes. She would have gasped with delight. And then I would have made some fucked up comment and ruined it for her he thought bitterly. I would have shit all over it.
The party really started getting into full swing after the fireworks ended, and when they returned to the ballroom, people began to insist that Cato and Hera dance with one another. Though they all cooed over the supposed romance between their newest Victor and the logger from District 7, there was something alluring to them about the idea of a liaison between the ruthless Cato and his protege.
"Only if she wants to," Cato said when Seneca approached them about it as they stood talking with Johanna.
"Whoa," Johanna said. "Who are you and what have you done with that asshole who won the 71st games? You're never this considerate."
"He's decided to treat me like a human being now that I've won the games and put him 2 for 3. Isn't that right?" she asked turning to him. He was taken aback. "It's fine," she said to Seneca, and she walked out onto the dance floor.
Even in the midst of his fright and awe, he found that his body still wanted hers. When she laid her little hand on his shoulder, he could feel it burning into his flesh beneath the fabric of his jacket and his shirt. A frisson of desire coursed down his spine as they laced their fingers together, and when he laid his hand on the bare, silky skin of her back, it took all of his self-control not to trace his fingers over her scars. She, on the other hand, appeared to be completely indifferent to the intimacy of their touch.
When the music started and they had settled into a lazy rhythm, she looked up at him. "So how does it feel to win?" she purred.
He stiffened. He couldn't read the expression in her eyes and there was something dangerous about her tone. He wasn't sure where she was going with this and it unnerved him. "You're not my first Victor."
"True, but you won in another category."
This couldn't be going anywhere good. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about me. You were right. I'm a hypocrite. I'm no different than you."
"Yes you are," he whispered hotly. "Don't say that. You're not me. You are not me."
"Easy there tiger. Alright, I'm not you. I didn't realize you were so touchy about your status as Panem's greatest Victor."
"That's not what I meant."
"Are you mad that I managed to achieve something you didn't?"
"What are you talking about?" he asked again.
"Three careers I killed. Three. I'm the only tribute ever to do that. Even you only killed one. And I would have killed four if that ass clown hadn't fallen on his own sword. Twelve years of training, makes it to the last two, and dies as a result of running with a sharp object," she said derisively. "I'm sorry I didn't quite deliver on the grand finale, but surely that little show I put on with Clay made up for it."
"Why are you talking like this? This isn't you."
"Isn't this what you wanted? To see me topple off of my high horse?"
"No!"
"Well then why aren't you happy? Butcher or cattle, you said. And all through my training you made it clear you thought I was the cattle, and you whined about how I'd embarrass you. So I became the butcher. I won. And now everyone's talking about what an incredible mentor you are. Won your first year with Alec. Turned me-scum from 7-into a Victor. So tell me," she whispered, and her eyes were almost pleading with him, "did I make you proud? Are you proud of me?"
He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
"No? Oh, I get it. I wasn't supposed to win. I was supposed to make it as far as I could so your mentoring stats wouldn't suffer, but Clay was supposed to kill me. Clay was supped to win."
"No that's not it," he protested desperately
"I don't understand. I can't win with you. What do you want from me?"
But he didn't get a chance to answer, because as the song ended and another one began, President Snow laid a hand on his arm. "Mind if I take over my boy?"
Hera smiled up at the President, and disengaged herself from Cato. "Of course he doesn't mind," she answered sweetly for him. "He doesn't actually like me, you know."
"Why ever not?" Snow asked as he whisked her away. "You're such a lovely little thing."
Cato watched them in dismay, his answer to her last question rising from his heart to be caught in the net of his mouth.
I want you to be happy. I want you to be whole. I want you to jump in puddles and catch frogs. I want you to laugh so hard that cream soda comes out of your nose. I want your face to light up like a little girl's when you watch fireworks. I want you to be who you were before we destroyed you.