Cora:
The mockingjays at my window wake me. I stretch on my bed, twisting my limbs to draw out the kinks. I roll over and my back presses against the cold concrete wall. For a moment I can imagine that I'm still in the Victor's Village in 8, in the carved oak four-poster bed I've slept in for fifty years, surrounded by pictures in silver frames and lilac curtains that flutter in the faintest breeze.
Then I open my eyes and it all comes back.
They call the prison 'the Catacombs' although it's spread like a fungus from the original underground tunnels. I'm in one of the towers. My cell is large and grey with no furnishings other than the cot, the latrine, and sink in the far corner. And the cameras at the corners, moving remotely and tracking my every footstep. There's a sort of bitter irony in how it resembles the cells of the Red where the district's rebellion got its fledgling start. The walls soar up, the ceiling high enough to induce echoes when I talk to myself. There's a window in the wall behind me. It's large and open and lets in the crisp spring air. There's always a mockingjay or two sitting on the ledge watching me. They call a sweet song of escape, but it's far out of my reach and even if I could scramble up I'm sure there's a moat full of gator mutts or some equal horror on the other side.
I lean over the side of my cot and pull out the piece of chalk I keep there. It was smuggled to me by one of the Avoxes. They know I have it, of course they do, but for some indiscernible reason they've allowed me to keep it.
I turn back to the wall and make a mark. Day sixty-eight.
I stare at the marks for a while and then the picture beside it. They took everything from me when they arrested me. I tried to smuggle this one photo out of the district as they smashed my house apart looking for contraband or seditious materials, but they found it. The commanding officer took a glance and then gave a harsh laugh before tossing it into the bonfire in the center of the Village where they burned the rest of my belongings after tearing them apart.
But once I got my hands on that little piece of chalk, I could draw on enough memories to sketch a crude representation on the wall over my cot. I'm no Peeta Mellark, but every line and shade is a gift and the rough sketch is enough to bring the picture clearly to mind.
I'm staring at the portrait when the door swings open. I don't turn around. They bring a meal every morning. Poor fare, but I always eat it.
But after a minute my nose is filled with the smell of bacon and sausages and eggs. I turn over. Men are setting up a small, ornate table and two chairs. The table holds platters of meat and eggs and fruit in silver bowls. Orange juice in crystal goblets is set on either end. My mouth is watering so much I have to swallow several times.
Four Peacekeepers enter and stand at the doors. The smell of breakfast is overwhelmed by roses as President Snow enters the room.
"Cora, my dear. Won't you come and have a bit of breakfast with me?"
The president takes a seat and begins buttering a piece of toast. He gestures to the other chair. "Please, Cora, have a seat."
I cross my cell and sit opposite the President. The food is almost unbearably tempting but I don't touch a bite until Snow lifts the piece of toast to his swollen lips.
He sees me watching and smiles. "My dear Ms. Shutter. If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't have to stoop to poisoning your breakfast. I'd just give the order. Please, eat. This is a gift."
With that, I begin shoveling my plate with bacon and eggs. He calls it a gift but it has more the feel of a last meal. I grab a peach from the bowl and shove it into my mouth. Snow looks amused at my barbaric display, but I don't have the energy to care.
"Now, Cora, I thought it'd be best to have a little talk about matters as they stand. You've been remarkably resilient in the face of interrogation, especially considering – forgive me – your advanced age. But I've decided to employ a technique that these men haven't thought of yet."
I wipe my mouth on the linen tablecloth and lean back. "Why Mr. President, are you trying to seduce me?"
This earns a bark of laughter. "Oh my, Cora! I'm a very happily married man, as I'm sure you know. And you're not quite the temperament I prefer in my concubines." He chuckles. "No my dear, this is what is called 'Asking Politely First.'"
He leans forward. "So let me ask you, Cora. Who are the rebels in your district, and what are they planning?"
"I have no idea," I say, a bit too quickly.
"We both know that's not true, Cora," he says. "So I'm going to ask again. Who are the rebels in Eight, and what are they planning?"
"I have no notion of what you're talking about."
The president helps himself to a pear. "I really didn't expect anything less, I suppose. But Cora, you don't truly expect this rebellion to succeed, do you? It failed seventy-five years ago, and that was with Thirteen on your side. I admit, using the public broadcast of Mellark's proposal to Miss Everdeen to launch the first strike was a stroke of genius on your part. But you were unorganized and ill-prepared for any sort of extended campaign. The uprising was put down two days after we took you from the district.
I meet his snake-like eyes. "If that were true, you wouldn't be here."
"Oh, it's very true. And yet, not. Let me tell you a bit of a story. I once had a summer resort built around Seven. A beautiful place where my daughters and granddaughter could ride and I could enjoy a bit of quiet away from the city. It was very dear to me.
"However, the builders had unknowingly erected the main estate above a colony of termites. The whole structure became unstable. Exterminators came, but every time they eradicated one nest another would spring up from a different corner. Eventually I had to tear the whole thing down and scorch the earth before rebuilding."
He smiles at me and the scent of blood hits me full force. I set my jaw.
"You can't kill everyone in the districts."
"All too true, nor would I desire to. However, I am not above doing a bit of scorching." He turns to one of the Avoxes and nods.
A panel in the wall is lifted. There's a screen underneath. The president takes a control from his pocket and turns it on.
The Red is burning, fires leap from the many windows like hungry demons. As I watch, the roof collapses in a shower of cinders and sparks.
I close my eyes to keep the tears in and pray that no one was inside.
"I understand not all of your whores were agents, Ms. Shutter," says Snow across from me. "But frankly the risk of sparing any of them was too great. Look again."
I don't want to. But only a coward would hide from the suffering of her own people.
A factory, the factory where Twill and Stemson and so many of the others work explodes. Screams and shouts of panic fill the room.
A tenement building collapses.
Men and women are whipped bloody.
Children are held in the school gymnasium at gunpoint surrounded by their parents. They hold a child after child hostage, demanding rebel names. Some are spared by betrayals. Others are not.
"And yet, after all these prudent measures, there are still termites popping up in corners."
The images change. Three Peacekeepers dangle from the oak trees in the Clear. Nightlock berries are hung above their head. A bolt of grey silk shines with golden mockingjays the moment sunlight touches the cloth. Red paint mars the Justice Building, screaming the words "The Odds Are In Our Favor Now."
Snow takes a drink of juice. "You can end it all, Cora. Just give me names. Names and plans."
I give him the most contemptuous look I can muster. "Did you really think it would be that easy, Mr. President? Like you said, you can't kill all of us, but you'll keep killing no matter what I do."
Snow sighs. "I had hoped it wouldn't come to this, Cora. But I suspected it would. Here. This is for you."
He pulls a cream and gold card from his jacket and hands it to me. "We'll be making the announcement very shortly, but I thought you should see it first."
A great feeling of foreboding fills me as I take the card. The Third Quarter Quell is printed on the front. I flip it open.
To remind the districts that not even the strongest among them can defy the Capitol, the tributes will be reaped from the existing pool of Victors.
The paper falls from my hand.
"You can't…" I whisper. "You can't."
"I can. And I will. It's one of my better ideas, I must admit. Not only will the Girl on Fire be eliminated, but her pup will certainly follow her into the arena. And the heads of each district rebellion will eliminate each other while all we have to do is watch."
He begins ticking them off on his fingers. "Beetee and Wiress – oh, surely you didn't think you kept me in the dark? Beetee's inventions have been useful to you, I'm sure, but they've hidden nothing I couldn't find out by other means. Finnick, of course. I wonder how long he'll last trying to save that little pet of his when I send her in as well. Johanna, and no one will be sorry to see the back of her." His smile widens slightly. "And Blight. Such a shame. I had such high hopes for him."
"You bastard," I say. "You indescribable bastard."
"I've been called worse. But you know what's coming, don't you Ms. Shutter?"
He nods towards the screen. Cecelia is in her bedroom, reading to her youngest. Some instinct tells me that this is a live feed.
"No," I whisper. "Please."
"You can't save Mr. Gavin or the others, Cora. But Cecelia is not the only female Victor of District Eight. There are three. I doubt that little slip from a few years ago will volunteer. Last I heard she couldn't even go a night without soiling her bedsheets."
He fixes me with a piercing look. "But you will, won't you Cora? You'll volunteer in a heartbeat for dear Cecelia. And I'll permit it. In fact, I'd even encourage it. All you have to do is give me what I want and you'll be back in Eight, tonight, on my fastest hovercraft. Cecelia will have the long and happy life you never had. I'll even remove her children's names permanently from the reaping. But if not…Cora, how long do you think a mother of three will last in an all-Victors arena?"
I glance at one of the Peacekeepers near the door. It's the one they call Skinner. He ignores me, but his uniform doesn't hide the four long scars down his face that were torn there by pretty, painted nails.
"I think she might do better than you may suspect, Mr. President."
"Well, she surprised us all once, didn't she? Nevertheless, I suspect her odds won't be as high once I instruct Brutus to go after her particularly."
I look at him in horror. "You…you…"
"Bastard, yes I know. So what's your answer, Cora? An honorable death in the arena and life for the girl you see as something between a sister and a daughter? Or the devastation of your district, the death of everyone you love? All you have to do is give me the names."
I watch the image until Cecelia lifts her little boy off her lap and walks out of the room with him. Then I spit on the floor.
"Go stuff your face with nightlock berries, Snow."
He shakes his head. "So it comes to this after all. Cora, I'm disappointed. I thought you had more class." He nods to the men around us. In half a moment I'm pushed against my chair and held down. My arms are held apart as the nodes are attached to my body. They pull a hood over my head. The world goes dark and then the pain begins.
The president's voice is at my ear and I can smell the blood even through the hood.
"Who are the rebels? What are they planning?"
My limbs are awash with fire. I brace myself and begin to chant. "Sammy Jones. Eileen Martin. Satin Kasten."
"Sir?" comes the voice of a Peacekeeper.
"Increase the intensity," says the President, his voice sharp. I smile under the hood even as my back arches with pain. He recognizes the names. I knew he would.
"Who are the rebels? What are they planning?"
"Monnica Thomas! Chrysanthemum Frill! Linyn Jonson!" My voice is a loud, long scream but the names of my tributes hang in the air like a spell.
"Who are the rebels! What are they planning!"
"Cecelia Rheys! Lilia Remmington!"
The pain doubles, triples. It scorches through every nerve and I want it to end, please, someone, help, make it end!
"Who are the rebels! What are they planning!"
"Larissa!" I scream. "Larissa Farrar!"
The pain stops. Cool air hits my skin. The hood is pulled from my head. Somehow I've ended up on the floor. My limbs are still burning. The president is looking down at me.
"Larissa Farrar?" he asks. A touch of disbelief taints his voice. "The Capitolian socialite?"
My dry sob is all the confirmation he needs. His eyebrows rise.
"Well. This is a surprise. I came in looking for a copper and found a golden nugget. Cora, you have my sincerest thanks."
He turns to one of his men. "Go to the estate of Larissa Farrar. Detain all you find there. Kill any who resist, but I want her alive."
I can see his finely polished shoes out of the corner of my eye. If only I had a knife. If only I could hurt him, even a little bit.
"Well, I'm sure will talk again, Cora. Good day."
"Wait," I whisper. "Wait."
The shoes pause. "Yes?"
"Cecelia."
There's a sympathetic sound. "While I'm grateful for your assistance Cora, I asked for the names of the District Eight rebels, and those you did not give me. Good bye."
My room is empty and cold and dark and all I can feel are my tears.
It takes me hours to drag myself to the cot. Hours in which I'm sure Larissa Farrar is hunted down, her family and household dragged to cells or shot in front of her. The girl whom I thought was a silly simpering fool until she pulled off the mask and revealed the clever determined woman beneath. She will lose everything. And the rebellion. She has names. Far more and far more important than mine.
I stare at the crude chalk portrait of my family. "I failed," I whisper. "I failed you all."
They look back at me, and my imagination brings to life the picture that burned in the Village with the rest. I sit in the middle, still straight-backed, but no longer the beauty of the First Quarter Quell. The years have grown harsher, and my face has more lines, my hair has faded to silver, my hands are wrinkled and frail.
My family stands around me. Cecelia to my left. Still beautiful, never quite whole, but strong enough that the dark murderess inside her has lain dormant for years. Behind her, Bert. Her husband. Big and goofy and clumsy, but filled with more warmth and love than he knows what to do with. He asked Cecelia to go out with him one hundred and forty seven times before she agreed just to shut him up. He only had to ask her to marry him once.
Cecelia is holding the youngest. This one is all Bert's. Milo is a fireball and a half at two years old, terrorizing the Village like a reaver from the old stories. He has his father's round face and big smile, but his eyes are all Cecelia's.
Cardella stands by her mother with all the dignity of her fifteen years. She's the spitting image of her Aunt Kerry, sharper and taller than her mother. She spends hours talking on the phone with Beetee about hard drives and artificial intelligence and spark plugs. If anyone was born in the wrong district, it was Cardella. Bert has asked Beetee, only half-joking, if his adopted daughter isn't really his secret love-child.
There is no trace of Cardella's father in her face. Cecelia never intended him to be a parent. She needed a child, he provided, and once she had what she needed she abandoned him to his fate. We never found out what punishment is for a Peacekeeper who knocks up a valuable Victor, but the foolish young man disappeared from the District within days, never to be seen again.
My fingers trace the last face. Aaron. Tall and broad already for nine years. I would never pick favorites among Cecelia's children, but Aaron is the one I know and understand best. Quiet, fiercely intelligent, with bright cobalt eyes that stare back with all the intensity he shares with his famous father. We don't say that name under Cecelia's roof. But I suspect Aaron is aware of his identity.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to the chalk sketches. "I failed. I've failed you all."
I don't sleep. The sun streams in through the window, marking the passage of the day. I don't get off the cot.
The door opens again. I flinch but it's just the Avoxes. I watch with unseeing eyes as they clean my latrine and set a tray of porridge and dry bread by my cot. Then they leave.
All but one. I sit up. Maybe he has a message.
He pulls down his hood.
Oenimus.
One of the leaders of the Avox rebels, and that's all any of us know about him, except that he has a strange gift for showing up when you don't even realize you need him.
He knows what happened this morning. I can see it in his eyes.
He looks at the cameras, then stands under the window and cups his hands.
I don't even think about it. There's no time. Instead, I draw the last strength I have left, the will that pulled me out of the Clear, out of the First Quarter Quell, through half a century of Games, through a rebellion and out of this cell.
I run. The age falls from my limbs one last time.
My foot lands in Oenimus's hands and his shoulders surge and I fly.
I reach out, and the window is far away, too far away, I won't, I can't.
I will.
My fingers clasp the edge of the sill as the door bursts open. My strength holds as I pull myself up into the evening air. A mockingjay twitters at me in curiosity.
The sun is setting on the Capitol. I can look down and see the whole city spread in the valley. The tower is high on the mountain slopes, on a ledge that splits apart a mighty waterfall. I look down at the black rocks below me and the thin river that cuts through them.
A burst of gunfire echoes through my cell and I don't have to look to know that Oenimus has fallen.
I crawl to the edge of the open window and look back. President Snow is watching me with an amused look. A full squad of Peacekeepers is behind him.
"Now, Cora, you don't really want to do that."
"No, I don't," I agree. "But I will."
"Come down from there. You won't accomplish anything with this foolishness."
A smile splits my face and for one moment I'm Cora and Cecelia and Victoria all at one.
"That's where you're wrong, silly little bird," I say. "That's why you will not win."
He lurches forward, a gun raises, and I roll.
The last few seconds of my life I spend free as the wind blows through my fingers and hair. I scream in the joy and terror of it as the ground rushes up at me.
I am free, flying for one last time, and the mockingjays are with me as I fall, fall, fall into the river far below.
THE END
And that is why Effie Trinket didn't send Cora's tape to Peeta and Katniss as they prepared for the Quarter Quell.
Fifteen months, 140,000 words, over 200 reviews, and wonderful fans without whom I never could have finished.
I could never have made this happen without you. I wish I could name and thank you all individually, but please know how much your support has meant.
I do have to drop two special thank you's to mintjellyfish and anla'shok, who reviewed almost every chapter and provided invaluable feedback.
I know that there are a great many of you who read and follow along and don't review. If this is you, thank you for sticking with me this long, and consider leaving one final note to let me know what you thought of Cecelia's journey.
I intend to continue with the Victors Project for the time being, catching up with that. But I intend one more installment to the Victor's Trilogy, so without further ado keep an eye out for:
THE BONDS OF BLOOD: This is Enobaria Malachite. These are the Sixty-Second Annual Hunger Games.