The Nightmare

Can't sleep.

It's too bright. Too hot. Too quiet. Even with the lights off and the temperature down with the sliding adjuster I learned to use on the train it's too unfamiliar to sleep. And Malcovitch's muffled breathing isn't the same as my father's snores. No bleating of goats pierces the night. No pungent, soothing smells of still smoking wood and occasional pop! from the smoldering fire. It's simply silent.

I toss. Turn. Sweat. I know I need rest, my body aches and my eyes lag so heavy but it just won't come. Cry-baby nestles deeper against me, my side hot and sticky and his curls slick with sweat. Each time I try to push him away he only snuggles closer under the covers. But I don't have time, don't have energy to waste on coddling him. It wasn't part of our agreement, mine and Malcovna's. I only said I'd kill him. I never said I'd be kind. I'll have training tomorrow. Then my Training Score, then my Interview with Caesar Flickerman. All my Sponsors, all my help, all my chances depend on my performance…but I still don't have the heart to send him away. He's only a kid. He doesn't understand. I never said I'd be kind but I promised his mother—promised him—I wouldn't let him suffer.

He nuzzles me contentedly, breath hot against my skin. I've never longed for sleep so badly.

In the end I have to pull the cord. Summon some poor Avox whose only job is to wait on the Tributes' every needs. It only takes seconds for one to appear, so suddenly, so silently, I can't help but wonder if she's related to Malcovitch.

"I need wine," I tell her. Then, "Please?"

She returns with a bottle and a delicate glass cup. I wave her away and take the bottle. It's heady, bitter and strong. Blyad. I wipe my mouth, surprised to find her still there. "Oh," I say, embarrassed to hand her the now empty case. She only smiles, and with a shock I recognize her.

The dusky woman. From this morning. Klerkov's whore.

Plots. Spies. Accidents, my Mentor's words ring in my ears. He plots with the Resistance—or at the very least knows of their schemes—and paints his own nails with poison. Of course he wouldn't trust the wait-staff to chance. She smiles knowingly, touches her lips, then leaves as silently as she came. I feel my face flush, my fingers grow warm and tingly. I lay back down and pull Malcovitch closer, brush back his curls and wait for the wine to work…

A man with green eyes smiles at me and I'm naked in the hospital or is the fountain but I'm not afraid when he leans in to kiss me but suddenly it's a girl, a girl with dark, wide-set eyes and a cruel smile leering over me and I fightclawscratch to get away and suddenly Cinna is bleeding and horses are screaming and the Crowd is chasing us pulling Lilly apart as she bleats and keens and the Peacekeepers turn to men in orange suits with needles and people are coughing my sisters are coughing they're coughing up blood and lungs and bone but when I wake up Marcus is there and says a bad dream then Dmitri and he laughs and the snake-woman laughs and the drunk men all laugh and the girls and their grandmothers they turn into wolves the walls to winter the White Winter and I run through the snow my doll clutched in my hand breath coming faster and faster wolves with faces laughing and chasing and howling—

I wake suddenly, drenched in sweat, clutching Malcovitch to my chest.

It was a dream, durak, I tell myself. You drank too much too fast. It's only a stupid dream-

But a squadron of Peacekeepers stands surrounding us, nearly invisible in the darkness. In my arms, Cry-baby tenses.

Malcovitch.

He's Silent. Frozen. Invisible. I feel naked. Alone. Vulnerable. I count at least six rifles, the glean of their barrels unmistakable and deadly. "I'm a Tribute," I tell the darkness, braver than I feel. "What do you want?"

I'm met with silence.

"What do you want?" I ask again. Their leader jerks the rifle towards the door. They want me to leave, I realize. Plots. Spies. Accidents. It will be much easier to kill us outside the hotel. Make it look like an accident…but I am Petra Angelovna. I want to live.

I consider staying. Briefly. But those guns are tipped with bayonets. They wouldn't even have to shoot me. Stabbed now, or shot later. I know which one is quickest. I also know which one gives Klerkov or Tasha or the Resistance or whoever might save me time to save me.

…if they even care anymore. If they're even still alive.

"Tribute, come." That rifle orders. Tribute. Not Tributes. Malcovitch is as still as a fawn in a thicket, small as a huddled kit. Under the Capitol's lush bedding he's completely hidden. I keep it that way. Pry myself up slowly. Deliberately. I don't know why I bother protecting him, in two days time he'll be in the Hunger Games, with or without me. But maybe, maybe if they're onto Klerkov, this might be the last place in Panem they'd think to look…

But Cry-baby isn't smart enough. He'd never make it out of the Capitol alive.

Orders are barked. They cuff my hands. My last glimpse of Malcovitch is nothing more than a pile of flung covers across a bed. I'm sorry, Cry-baby. I should've let them kill us both.

They march me forcibly down the hall. I don't know why. Don't know who's watching. Don't know if this is just another of Klerkov's thrice-damned tests. Only after, I repeat his words. Only after. I keep my head up, eyes forward. It's just like getting Reaped, like getting Reaped all over again. We reach the elevator, and the doors pull open to reveal a serving Avox—the dusky woman. She bows demurely to the soldiers and steps obediently aside. I try to find her eyes, her face, any sort of sign that she's seen me, knows me, will help me…

But I try in vain. The doors clang shut.

"Where are you taking me?" I ask them. Silence. I study their reflections in the mirrored panels. They're not Capitol Peacekeepers, the insignia is wrong. Not Game Enforcers, either. I'm a Tribute. From District 6. I have no idea who these masked men are, or who they're working for. But it doesn't take a genius to guess why they're here: People are going to question your motives for crashing that Chariot.

"Who sent you?" I demand. "What do you want?"

"The Tribute will be silent." Their leader orders.

"The Tribute has a name," I tell him. "And it's Petra Angelovna. Where are you taking me?"

"The Tribute will be silent." I get a rough prod in the back from a bayonet.

"Where are you taking me?"

"The Tribute will be silent."

"Is that all you can say?"

"The Tribute will be silent." Fuck. Maybe it's all they can say. Or maybe he's been answering my question all along. Libertas chose me. Then the Capitol sent the Raelius brothers to spy on me…They think I'm one of them. They'll take my tongue.

My mouth goes dry. I feel my face pale, feel the cart slow and my knees wobble. Tell them, durak. Tell them about Klerkov. Say you didn't know and they'll let you go-

Pizda. If they arrest Klerkov, I'll have no Sponsors. If wearing Snow's old uniform can guarantee Luccan Sheen the party's loyalty, the Tribute of a known traitor doesn't have a chance. Victor Ivan Klerkov has used me like a child's plaything since the moment my name was pulled. He's lied to me, let hundreds die, will whore me out should I survive the Arena…but if I betray him I am lost.

My life or my tongue. Fuck. Oh, fuck.

Help me. Please.

But the hotel clerk ignores me yet again. Thinks nothing of armed men shoving a half-dressed girl across the lobby. Help me. Tell Klerkov. Tell the Resistance. Tell Tasha. Tell someone—

Iridina. She's flirting quite successfully with a face I recognize as a Senator, one jeweled hand buried in his pants. She's only an Escort, a glorified whore for another District, who can't or won't even protect her own charges. She wouldn't protect Holi. She won't protect me. But I'm desperate now. Help me, help me please...

She sees me. And sneers.

They don't take me out the front. They don't dare. The Crowd is still gathered thick, and piles of roses, chocolates, and women's undergarments line the glass doors and steps. Instead they take me out the back, a small service entrance, too nice to be designated as Avox Only. It's a whore's entrance, I realize after passing a second Senator in the small hallway. For clients who demand discretion.

Only after, Klerkov's words are little comfort. Only after.

Outside, the Capitol's muggy heat is unbearable. Two more of these mysterious Peacekeepers wait for us, their uniforms Capitol black, but the embroidered insignia all wrong. It's long and elaborate, almost birdlike. It looks like a—

…Crane. "Well, well, well," Senecca Crane leers. "If it isn't the Butcher."

The Gamemaster. "You," I state, dumbfounded. "What do you want?"

"Come, my dear," He gestures to the puffy scar forming on his face. "Now is not the time for Games. Now is the time for recompense."

"Your face?" I gape, disbelieving. "Is that what this is about?"

"My face, as you so indelicately put it, is worth more than your entire shit-ridden District combined," he snaps, brandishing a familiar whip. "You impudent girl, did you really think you could make Senecca Crane look like a fool and get away unscathed?"It's a private Peacekeeper force. The Gamemaster wants revenge. It's so childish, so ludicrous, so not the fate I was fearing that relief floods my veins. I can't help it. I laugh.

Crane flushes. Roars. "Hold her!" His peacekeepers force me to my knees. "You think because you're a Tribute you're untouchable?" He snarls. "You're an arrogant bitch, I'll give you that. But you're not a Victor yet. And you won't be," he lifts my chin with the bone handle. "That I promise you."

But I'm a Tribute. A Tribute from 6. The Butcher's daughter. I've known cold. Known hunger. Known sickness, seen starvation. Been whipped and beaten as punishment since I could walk. By my own father. This man, this simpering little man with his soft hands, Capitol mustachios and flamboyant clothing can't scare me. "What if you're wrong, Crane?" I ask him. "What do you think will happen when I win?"

"I'm the Gamemaster!" Crane shouts. "I decide who lives and dies!"

"You're a short, shouting man wearing a cape," I bait him calmly. "Killing twenty-three other children might be a challenge. Some of them are Careers. But not you. You'd be a pleasure."

"You dare to threaten me?" He bellows.

"I'm wearing cuffs. You're the one who brought armed guards and a weapon. If you're feeling threatened it's because now you and everyone else here knows how much a coward you really are."

"COWARD-?" he sputters, puffing like a frog. "You dare call me a-"

"Beat me or let me go, Crane, but don't bore me," I cut across him harshly. "I've got Training Scores and an Interview tomor-"

The first lash catches the side of my face. I'm blinded. Taste blood. He hits me over and over and over again, stripes my jaw, my cheek, my breasts. It stings. Welts. Rips clothing and hair. My hands are bound, can't raise them to cover my face. My own father only stuck my back. This hurts like hell but I bite my lip not to cry out. I won't look weak. I can't. These soldiers know people. Rich people. Sponsors. Another one of Klerkov's stupid tests. Next time I see him, I'll kill him, I seethe. But after my breakdown with Mason, I can't blame him. He wants to know if his champion can withstand a beating.

She can. She will.

It stings, but doesn't tear flesh. Senecca Crane might lay a hundred furious lashes but he doesn't know how to use a whip. Not a single strike pulls up strips of flesh. Not a one flays anything deeper than skin. And just as sudden as he started, he's done. Panting. Drops the whip from his raw, shaking hand. His fury is still present but his strength has run out. Breathless, he motions to them. I spit blood as they force me to stand.

He surveys the damage with a sneer, eyes lingering too long for my liking on my torn gown. He steps closer, wipes the bloodied hair from my swollen eyes to stare me down. "Let that be a lesson, Butcher. I'm Senecca Crane, the Gamemaster, and my family has been part of this sport for generations. And you? You're a worthless Tribute from a worthless District," he boasts, rising to his full height only inches from my face. "You're an ugly, homely little District brat in the Capitol of Panem and I won't tolerate your arrogance agah-!"

I am the great Avitus, my would-be-Stylist roared. My wrists might be cuffed, but Crane's balls still squeeze tightly in my outstretched hands.

He gasps.

I yank. Twist. Hold. His private Peacekeepers ask for orders, weapons raised at me. All he musters is a muted squeal. For nearly a minute, no one moves. I feel a heady rush of power, like Tiberia's costume only stronger. These men with guns, I control them. Own them. Their master is at my mercy and they don't dare intervene. Let them go home tonight and tell the tale. Let them say that even bound and flogged Petra Angelovna took the Gamemaker by the balls. It's all a Game, the Hunger Games, but I've had a good Mentor. I'm learning how to play.

"You wake me in the dark of night, drag me from my bed with armed guards and then, then you have the gall to make them hold me while you beat a woman?" I snarl. "With a whip? Where I come they at least have the balls to use their hands," I wrench them tighter for emphasis. "You don't deserve to be called a man…and now you can't be."

But it's a stalemate, and I know it. I can't hold him forever, but I can't safely let him go. I'm just as trapped as he is, need Victor Ivan Klerkov worse than ever. Impressed yet, slovoc? But my Mentor doesn't come.

"Miss Angelovna?"

I turn, bewildered. It's a Game Enforcer. A female, I note with some surprise. "Miss Angelovna!" she calls again, drawing her sidearm. Then, "Step away!"

Fuck. I might have known. Six armed men and a bleeding girl, and the Capitol sides with whoever is richest. I let him go. Now the Game Enforcers are involved…and still Klerkov doesn't come. "Seize her!" Crane orders her, staggering back and retching. But my Mentor's not here. Wasn't watching, or doesn't care. I just attached the Gamemaster. That's it. I'm fucked.

"Step away." She commands brusquely, unsealing her visor. "It's alright now. My team will escort you inside." But Crane doesn't move. Her weapon is trained on him, I notice curiously. It takes me several seconds to realize she's been speaking to me this entire time. I blink. Senecca Crane is gaping like a fish.

"Miss Angelovna, to me!" She commands.

"NO!" Crane bellows from the ground as his Peacekeepers form up protectively. "I'm…I'm…not…done-"

"Miss Angelovna, NOW!" She screams shrilly.

I try to step away. Crane's spindly grip grasps my ankle. There's a ping! and a low boom and he lets out a howl as his hand and my foot explode in a fountain of blood. She shot him, I realize numbly. She shot the goddamned Gamemaster…

"ANGELOVNA, DOWN!" They return fire. I dive to the pavement. She takes three to the chest, but her armor protects her. Even staggering backwards she takes two through the head, helmeted skulls bursting like ripe melons. She shouts in her radio, and more Enforcers come running, gunfire ripping the night and glass sheets and shards rain rippling in rushing cascades from the hotel face around us-

I thought it was a game, just a game, one of Klerkov's stupid mind games…and now it's a fucking nightmare. I'm cowering on the steps, bound hands over my head when the shooting finally, mercifully stops. The dead weight of one of Crane's Peacekeepers is sheltering me. I sit up. Shove him off. The top half of his skull is missing. Three more of Crane's Peacekeepers lay dead. Two are bleeding freely. The street is eerily quiet, still echoing gunfire and the distant Crowd's faint screams. Bodies of white-clad Game Enforcers litter the courtyard like drifts of snow on a glassy sea.

To my surprise, she's still standing. Her white uniform is stained and slick with blood. "You will order your men to stand down," she commands.

"I am Senecca Crane! The Gamemaster, for Games' sakes-" Crane protests in shock, cradling his maimed hand and still spurting blood. "That insolent girl attached me! I want her killed!"

Even with his four remaining riflemen, she cocks that pistol once again, standing firm. Looking up at her, every brave thing I've ever done feels like selfish cowardice. "Hunger Games protocol dictates-"

"I AM the damned Hunger Games protocol!" Crane roars as a Peacekeeper staunches the wound. "Execute her NOW!"

Their weapons are aimed at her. Hers is trained on him. She took out two of his best while staggering backwards, her small sidearm so powerful it takes both hands to wield it, the caliber so large it takes off heads. If she gets the shot off, even behind his Peacekeepers Senecca Crane is a dead man. It's a stalemate, a standoff, the deadliest game of bluffing, most terrifying feint I've ever witnessed. If I move, if she so much as blinks, all is lost…

But they are four. She is one. And her color is draining fast. With her yellowed skin and brown lips she looks like Ashira, like so many of the female Tributes from District 2. I wonder what brought her to the Capitol. Wonder why she would be willing to die for me. She buckles. But her hands never fumble. Even down on one knee she trains her strength against them. "Angelovna, inside." She croaks. "Now."

I crawl clumsily towards the door, slither through broken glass and bloodied bodies. Hear the click of a rifle. Two shots. One gouges the concrete not an inch from my shaking hand. Behind me, a Peacekeeper falls. It's three to one.

I turn back. She's sprawled on the ground now, utterly still, but somehow she keeps her grip. I've slit enough throats. Seen bleeding out. I know death is imminent.

"You're out of ammunition," Crane chuckles, relieved. "You worthless cunt."

"Bet your life?" She whispers back. He frowns, retreats again behind his remaining men.

"Shoot her," he orders. "Then shoot the girl."

"Sir-"

"Shoot her, damnit! I don't pay you to question orders or cower in front of one woman-!"

"Sir, that's a Mag-7," his detail argues again. "Armor-piercing pistol. If she isn't bluffing she'll fire a reflexive shot even if I put a bullet through her head-"

Another shot. The Mag-7 leaps in my arms, flings me backwards against the bricks. I gasp, winded, but manage to keep my awkward grip. I've seen men shoot rifles before, braced for the kickback, but was unprepared for this. The third Peacekeeper falls, cursing, rifle clattering out of his hands. "Well, fuck me," he groans from the ground, spitting shards of his helmet visor. "Forget Sheen. I live through this, I'm putting money on her."

"It's two to two, now." I call shakily, still clutching a dead Enforcer's weapon. "Armor piercing rounds. Take your boss and run and I won't kill you."

"You can't hardly fire that thing, honey," the Peacekeeper coughs, clutching the splintered remains of his shoulder. "And you can't aim worth shit. Run back inside now, honey," he waves me off kindly as his face turns grey. "Just run back inside…"

I just shot a man. Watched him die. And I didn't feel a thing. "Do it," she orders.

"Come with me," I beg her as I sidle backwards along the building to the safety of the doorway. "You don't have to die-"

She smiles grimly, echoes my father. "Everything dies."

But before I can move, before I can thank her, the familiar feel of a bayonet tip pricks my spine. I cringe. The Mag-7 falls slowly from my cuffed hands. "Well, well, well," a familiar voice chuckles as a Peacekeeper's boot kicks my weapon away. "We are at an impasse, aren't we."