For those of you who are still interested in reading after the actual Games are over, here is the first of the two epilogues! I hope you enjoy~
Leto Larston (18)- Victor of the 78th Hunger Games
The first thing that I register is the intense pain in my abdomen, then several other sounds: the loud hum of the hovercraft, the faint beeping of some machine, and my own breathing. I count a hundred even breaths before I open my eyes. Past victors have prepared me for what would happen after the Games, but I couldn't have anticipated the pain.
The beeping sound issues from a square, silver machine to my right. On a holographic screen floating beside it, my vitals are displayed for the medical staff to monitor. Tubes stick out of both of my arms, hooked up to bags of various colored liquids. The rest of the room is covered in nothing but reflective silver steel. I let out a long breath and close my eyes, resting my head back on the hard surface under my skull. The last thing I saw before I blacked out is tattooed on the inside of my eyelids. Caillou's body crumpled on the ground before me with my knife sticking out of her heart, Flux lying beside her. For some reason, I can't unsee the image of Caillou's brown eyes staring into mine when she realized it was over. That look of despair. The realization that she still had a knife up her sleeve, her one last chance at victory.
I open my eyes, staring up at my reflection in the ceiling. I've always been slim from my years of training, but my face looks gaunt — even skeletal — after over two weeks in the arena. White bandages cover the cuts on my face, concealing much of my brow bone and jaw. Under my thin gray shift, my shoulders are thin and my knees are knobby. My arms seem to have lost the muscle definition that I meticulously cultivated over the years. I had a steady supply of food for the first half of the Games, but even then it was less than I usually eat, and the winter had been especially brutal. I hadn't realized just how much of a toll it had taken on my body. After a while, the hunger and the cold just became a part of my everyday life.
A chromatic wall suddenly slides open beside me and I jump a bit, wincing as the movement pulls at my wounds. A Capitolite dressed in all white enters. Her apron, mask, and gloves are all pure white, but I can see a speck of blood on her pant leg. In her hands, she carries a rather large tablet.
"Congratulations, Leto," the woman says. I can hear her smile behind her mask. "How are you feeling?"
It takes me a moment to gather my bearings. I haven't spoken to another human being about anything other than killing in a long time.
"I'm fine," I eventually manage. "I have stitches in my stomach, don't I?"
She carefully sets the tablet on a small cart beside my operating table. Because that's what it is, not a bed, but a sterile place for the doctors to look after me.
"Yes, my dear. The arrow punctured your kidney, so we performed a surgical transplant," the woman says softly. "Luckily your body has accepted the new organ, so ironically, the most dangerous injury you received will actually cause you the least problems later on! Once your stitches heal up, you'll be good as new. Without us, you only would have outlived Caillou by an hour at the most!"
She seems so genuinely delighted about the surgery that I feel like I have to return her invisible smile. Her eyes crinkle before she walks over to the holographic screen, pressing a few buttons with her fingers. "Your vitals are doing well, all things considered." Then she turns to me with a slightly different twinkle in her eye. I've seen that twinkle before, when the trainers were going to give me bad news; a lower examination score than I wanted, or some criticism I didn't want to hear. Back then, that glimmer would cause my heart to harden in determination. I always knew what it really meant. It was a sign that I had to work harder, be smarter, and spend more time at the Training Center. There was nothing I couldn't overcome.
Now, it makes my stomach drop.
The surgeon gently lifts up my shift and probes at my left knee. My breath catches and I let out an embarrassing gasp before I can stop myself. The doctor shoots me a sympathetic glance. "Your knee cap was fractured by the knife and most of the ligaments around it were torn." She peers at me pointedly. "All the motion during your fight likely damaged them further. We'll have to see how it heals."
The implication is easy to understand. I tear my eyes away from the woman and stare at the ceiling right at my own feral reflection. I thought Caillou had stabbed me in a last-ditch attempt at winning. Was it only a moment of rage? Did she want to cripple me for life as vengeance for killing her?
I close my eyes and listen as the woman slowly walks around my body, examining every inch for any other work that needs to be done. Behind the silver door, I can hear a faint conversation, but the voices are too low to make out any words. It's nice to know that I'm not alone in this any longer, at least. Eventually the exhaustion takes over once more and I drift into an uneasy sleep.
…
The next time I open my eyes, a plain white ceiling greets me rather than my own deep-set brown eyes. I slowly try to sit up, but a restraint around my waist prevents me from moving too much. Other than a small table beside my bed and a door on the opposite wall, the room is completely bare. More tubes are hooked up to my body, sprawled over the floor and just under the walls, probably connected to machines meant to monitor my vitals. On the table rests a silver tray with several small bowls. I gingerly reach for the closest one, wincing as my stitches pull against the movement. I lift up my shift with my other hand to examine the wound, and I'm surprised to see that the place where I was pierced by Caillou's arrow has almost completely healed. A few of the stitches remain, not yet dissolved.
The small bowl that I grabbed contains a moderate portion of applesauce. I drink it slowly so that I don't get sick. My mind immediately recalls the taste of applesauce back in Two, bought from the lady who sells apples down at the merchant's square. It tastes better than this sickly sweet Capitol concoction.
The door opens and once again, I nearly jump out of my skin. My hands instinctively search for a weapon in my blankets for just a moment before I remember where I am and who my visitor is. It's only an Avox dressed in the customary red uniform, carrying another tray of food.
I nod in gratitude to the servant as he sets the tray on the table and quietly leaves.
After eating my small meal of chicken broth, applesauce, and orange juice, I continue to drift in and out of sleep. Each time I wake up, I'm not sure how much time has passed or who has come to visit me. My only lifeline is my knowledge of what is happening in the Training Center right above me. Celia and Cato should be scrambling to prepare everything for my interview. The sponsors will celebrate my victory with a large banquet purchased with what remains of the money they'd gifted toward my survival. In a few days, I'll shift from eating tiny bowls of warm broth to full feasts of Capitolite food.
Over time, I notice that my strength gradually returns, my mental faculties becoming more intact. My thoughts shift to my father; to our last meeting together in the Justice Building. 'Soon you won't just be my daughter anymore, you'll be Panem's daughter!' Then I recall Adrienne giving my Starlet logo pin, my token in the arena. I reach up, suddenly panicked, to see if it's still pinned to my clothing, but naturally it isn't. I let out a deep breath. The Capitol wouldn't just throw away my token. I wore it throughout the entire Games. They will save it for me to wear during my interview.
Or would they throw it away just to spite me?
My eyes narrow as the Avox returns, now carrying a much larger plate of food. Real fruit and vegetables adorn the silver platter, but I eye him suspiciously. Could the Gamemakers be trying to poison me? Maybe Caillou and Flux are still living somewhere in rooms just like my own as the Gamemakers decide who to kill and who to save. The Gamemakers had tried to kill me off with the snowstorm, and they can't have been pleased that I won.
'Panem's daughter!'
The loud clatter of the tray being placed on the table beside me sets me off. I don't know where it comes from or why, but I suddenly slam my fist into the Avox's head, sending the orange and grapefruit slices flying onto the ground.
"I won!" I scream, trying to free myself from the restraint around my waist. "I am the victor! I am the worthy one!"
The Avox lies on the floor cradling his head. Cold liquid flows from the tubes into my veins and sleep overtakes me in an instant.
...
"No more outbursts."
I glance up at Celia over my plate of braised vegetables. I idly move aside another carrot with my fork. The spices hurt my tongue after so long of eating only the blandest foods possible.
"Are you listening to me?"
My eyes zone back in on the woman sitting opposite me. Her platinum blonde hair reflects some of the candlelight from the table between us. Celia has always been famous for her hair color, but I don't remember it being so white when we trained together at the Academy. She must be forced to dye it brighter and brighter at the Capitol's request. I've never noticed it until now.
The candlelight casts shadows across her face. "I'm listening," I say.
"Good." She places her fork on her plate with a small clink. I shudder at the noise, briefly transporting back to the clink of Logan's sword hitting marble and Caillou's axe hitting the metal of the Cornucopia. "This is the most important public appearance you will ever make. The District's reputation is on the line."
Her voice is commanding; not to be argued with. I admired Celia so much when we were in training back in Two, and even more after she won her Games two years ago. We were never close before or after her victory, but she was always a mentor I could trust to give me useful advice. She's always straight to the point, never embellishing or smoothing things over. It's not too different from her victor persona, but the sharpness in her cold blue eyes when she stares at me now is real, not manufactured for the cameras.
"I know," I say simply. "I would never let District Two down."
Celia stares at me for a moment longer, then nods once and returns to her meal. We've spent the better part of the day going over my interview angle, and there's not much else left to say. As I gaze past her and out over the city of the Capitol, its neon lights and skyscrapers and never-ending noise, I long for nothing else but to leave. The Capitol has never interested me. Still, I can put on the show that they want if it means I can go home again. And get away from all these fake personalities; these fake bodies and faces and intentions. Away from it all.
...
Adrienne's brooch is pinned to my breast, the silver star glinting in the harsh light of the dressing room. My prep team hovers around me, pecking at my body and the clothing that adorns it. I find myself once again staring at my reflection, lifting my eyes from the pin to my own face. The scars scrawl across my face diagonally, across my right eye and the left side of my mouth. The doctors did their best to help the lacerations heal and fade, but the left corner of my lips is strangely mangled. My right eyebrow still won't grow completely over the scar, either, and the marks themselves are pink, contrasting with my olive skin tone.
My escort said the Gamemakers want me to look fierce. It's typical for them to take control of the narrative, and I've never been one to care about my appearance, but that pulse of betrayal still thrums under my skin, telling me they're trying to make me look foolish. I should be grateful that I have scars to prove my time in the arena. Plus, they will likely turn off possible suitors from requesting to spend a night with me. I hold onto that one small mercy as my stylist messes with my hair behind me.
His eyes are like that of a hawk's as he picks out flakes of dandruff with a pair of tweezers. One of my prep team members flutters over to whisper something in his ear. His eyes are dyed an unnatural deep violet that is this year's Hunger Games color. Caesar Flickerman will be wearing the same shade of purple when I emerge onto the stage.
I overhear my stylist tell his team member, "No. It will make her look weak."
The words cut deeper than Caillou's knife had in my knee. I watch my eyes harden in the mirror, glaring over my own head at the stylist's face. He stays focused on my straightened dark hair. With a pair of tweezers, he meticulously chooses a stray strand of hair and moves it to a different spot. He smooths his hand over my sheet of hair and I resist the urge to smack his hand away.
Propped on the chair beside us is a cane. It's made of a deep brown wood with a clawed foot that reminds me of the claws that caused the marks on my face. The sight of it fills me with rage, but I swallow it down, turning back to my own reflection.
The prep girl sighs in exasperation. "She can't walk without it. How do you plan to get her to the stage?"
"She can manage a few feet on her own."
"Celia says—"
"No," I say abruptly, still staring at my own pink scars. "I'll walk."
My stylist is right. A newly crowned victor can't walk with a cane in their first public appearance after the Games. It's happened before, but never for a fierce Career who spent the entire Games carrying the alliance. It would show weakness. Weakness that I can't afford.
Besides, I have to prove myself to be a worthy victor. As much as I dislike the Capitol, I'm fully prepared for them to return the sentiment.
The stylist exchanges looks with each of the prep team members in turn, then gestures for them to continue working. They all turn back to their respective jobs- one of them putting final touches on my suit coat, another placing individual sparkles onto my shoes. The prep girl who delivered Celia's message gently turns my face toward her so that she can look at my makeup. With a small spoolie tool, she begins fixing up my eyebrows. I'm so sick of the preening and the grooming. And I'm tired of Celia acting like she knows what's best for me. How could she think that walking with my cane would be a better idea than simply walking on my own? Is she trying to tank my reputation as a victor before I have a chance to upstage her? I'll be replacing her as the female mentor for Two. Maybe she wants to get me out of the way so she can continue as a mentor.
As the prep girl painfully pulls out an eyebrow hair, I close my eyes and let out a deep breath. Even if Celia is plotting against me, there's nothing I can do about it right now. I need to focus. She wasn't wrong when she said that this interview would make or break my post-Games image.
Nearly two hours later, I'm finally ready to make my appearance. I stand underneath the stage, waiting for Caesar to announce my name and my platform to rise. Above me, the loud applause of the Capitol audience already hurts my ears. I bet my escort has had the time of his life recounting my Reaping and the moment where he looked in my eyes and knew that she was the victor! It's the same bullshit every year. I frown as I wonder what Celia is saying about me. I'm her first successful tribute, only two years after her own victory. She's already the Capitol's darling, and this will only endear her further.
Caesar's words are muffled when he announces my presence, but I know it happens when my platform slowly moves upward. I press my arms tightly to my sides and hold my head high as I move up. This is the moment that I've waited for my entire life. Everything that I've worked for has been leading up to this.
The sound of the crowd is deafening as I ascend to the stage. The lights are blinding, the stage is huge, and the crowd roars like the mutt that chased us to the top of the Cornucopia. For all my preparation, I find myself standing still on the platform for a moment, paralyzed. Then a camera is shoved into my face and I'm pulled out of my shock. I look to my left and see Caesar waiting for me in his deep purple suit, hand outstretched, grinning from ear to ear. His teeth are as blinding as the stage lights that beat down on my neck and make me sweat. With a labored stride, I haul myself over to the golden chair waiting for me.
Each step is agony without my cane, but I manage to reach the chair without falling down, struggling to maintain balance in black, sparkly heels. The limp must be noticeable, but Caesar doesn't mention it as I shake his hand. "Welcome, Leto," he purrs. His gaze is as welcoming and genial as always. I return his smile with the best one I can muster.
"Thank you," I reply cordially.
"You look dashing!" His grin is dazzling.
For my first interview, I'd worn a dark green dress with golden accents, but the stylists went for a full-gold look this time. It's a classic victor color that never fails to evoke awe and admiration. I used to envy the lucky tribute-turned-victor who got to ascend to the stage in a golden outfit. Now I'm the one inspiring envy in my elegant pantsuit. My black hair hangs down my back in a flat sheet.
"I'm just glad I don't have to wear a dress," I say truthfully. My answer sends laughter rippling through the crowd, gradually growing in volume until I smile uneasily at the camera. The laughter grows to a crescendo at that point, complete with applause and hollers of my name. Caesar joins in and offers me a seat, which I gladly take.
The next few minutes are some of the longest of my life. I'm torn between enjoying the spotlight and being irritated by the vapid questions. Who cares what I was thinking when Cyprian killed our former ally, Jeremy? Or when Marlowe decided to leave the alliance, or when the arena started snowing for the first time? It's all wasted time — all of it. Still, it's nice to see the shining faces of my admirers in the front row. It makes me feel safe for the first time since the gong went off right before the bloodbath.
Once the line of questioning is over, the highlight reel of the Games begins. I always thought I would be excited to watch and provide commentary on the abridged version of my Games, but it only feels grating. The knowledge that I should be enjoying this moment weighs on my mind. I stare at the giant screen as Cyprian and I are wheeled through the streets during the Parade, looking like ruby-encrusted statues, and I have no commentary to give.
Once the actual Hunger Games footage begins, my shoulders tense and the healing wound in my abdomen twinges. I dig my manicured nails into my good knee and keep my eyes on the screen. It's strange watching myself kill other human beings. I thought the footage would bring back memories of the bloodbath, but instead it's like watching a stranger. It's no different than watching the Games at home.
Then I have to relive Faroud's death, the countless arguments between my allies, the bickering of the other tributes. As the Games progress, I watch the pair from Eleven learn to work together, the girl from Nine find her spot in the mountain paradise, and the trio from Eight and Seven try to find water for days after the little Seven girl dies during the bloodbath. The ones that I'm the most interested in, though, are the trio from Six and Five. Logan and his allies, Volt and Pagani, slowly piece together a plan to rob the Cornucopia. My rage feels close to boiling over, but it's a detached, out-of-body anger. It's the anger of my former self, not the Leto Larston sitting here on this plush couch.
I watch with sharp eyes as Cyprian finishes off Jeremy. I passively observe as Passion kills Alder, his little ally from Nine. For the first time, I realise that Jeremy never intended to be a real Career. He only wanted our supplies and weapons before slipping away. I should have known after he didn't make any kills during the bloodbath. No matter. He died for his treachery and for the glory of his district.
What really shocks me are the interactions between Cyprian and Volt, the boy from Five. I can tell that the cameras are constantly filming my face, so I keep my expression neutral despite my horror. It seems like Cyprian and Volt had allied in secret even before the Games. Yet he was hesitant to betray us.
"I'm not leaving my alliance. They need me."
"And I don't?"
He was in love. The realization leaves me stunned. How could Cyprian have forgotten why we volunteered? How could he have been distracted by something as silly and fickle as young love? When the two of them kiss, I can't contain my laugh of disbelief.
The scene then changes to show one of my main competitors, Caillou. The editors of the Games have obviously set her up to be one of my big bad rivals. It's easy to see why she survived for so long; she's resourceful and determined as she makes her way through the woods.
Then on the fifth day, the conversation happens. Cyprian meets Volt again at the edge of the field and gives him a strange pink flower.
"It's called azalea. It's a poisonous flower found in mediterranean climates."
I'm sure that my expression is stunned, outraged, appalled, but I can't control it this time. Cyprian wasn't just going to kill us in our sleep. He was going to poison us like a coward.
"I can't kill Leto. She's my friend."
"Does she love you, Cyprian? She would kill you in a second if you were the only ones left in the arena."
I automatically think, 'that's not true', but then the guilt starts to creep in. Volt isn't wrong, but that's what the Hunger Games are about. And I would never poison someone in their sleep in such an unsportsman-like way. If it came down to Cyprian and I, it would end in a formal handshake and a fair fight.
So why does my stomach feel so queasy as I watch Cyprian agree to the plan?
I'm shocked to see that Caillou is the one who unintentionally disrupts their plan. She uses her mimicry skills to trick Cyprian into giving her supplies. Not only that, but she completely foils Volt's plan to poison us, leading to the confusion at the Cornucopia after the others show up.
I watch as Logan and Pagani approach, clearly not understanding what's going on; Volt's confusion when he learns we aren't dead or poisoned; Cyprian's nervousness and his attempts to save Volt's life.
Volt's bloody, bruised face stares into the camera as Passion tosses me an axe. The blade comes down onto his throat. Blood sprays into the air as he gurgles to death. The rage is apparent on my face. When Marlowe stabs Cyprian's throat clean through with her baton, my next words send shivers down my spine.
"You should have let me finish him."
My eyes close of their own volition. I don't want to watch anymore, but I have no choice.
I watch as Flux vows to make it to the island and save her allies. It's interesting to see the island, never having made it there myself. I'm impressed by her ability to evade the tigers and lions. It's no wonder she made it to the final three. Her stamina and determination is commendable.
During the feast, Caillou alerts Passion to Thorn and Luna's whereabouts by jumping onto them from out of a tree. She then injures Marlowe and makes off with the crossbow that will eventually kill her. Raven nabs the herbs that would get rid of the whirlpool and the monster that trapped Thimble. But he's too late. Thimble is dead and Raven himself is on death's door. He barely makes it to the island where Flux revives him with a canteen of precious water.
I'm surprised to see that Blossom was the one to kill Marlowe. I always thought she'd been taken out by an infected wound or a mutt lurking somewhere in the woods. Blossom stands triumphantly over her body, looking like a victor in her own right. I'm shocked she didn't make it to the final battle, but watching her shove that coin into Marlowe's mouth gives me an idea as to why.
Caillou continues to impress me as well. Killing the massive bear that mauled Faroud was a gigantic achievement for a non-Career. The little girl from Eleven may have had a chance to be the second ever twelve year old victor, but she ends up giving herself over to the spider mutts instead of continuing to fight. It's disappointing. She wouldn't have had a chance to win in a battle against me or the runner-ups, but at least she could have earned herself honor by dying in a fight. She gave up instead.
Toward the end of the three-hour run time, I start to get fidgety, but I stay still, sitting up straight with my eyes fixed on the screen. I'm surprised to see that Blossom and Caillou had a truce for one night, not even afraid to share their food and water with the other. Watching them laugh and joke around together makes me feel sick. Both of them are dead now, sent to their respective families and buried. I feel myself frown as I watch Blossom freeze to death, all alone in the woods. It seems the Capitol didn't want a victor who had used their token as a weapon.
I wonder if the snowstorm was sent to kill me as well. I side-eye Caesar, hoping that the camera doesn't pick it up. Is he happy about me winning? Or does he wish I had frozen to death as well?
I watch Raven's emotional death and Flux's declaration of vengeance against Passion. It seems that Flux and I had more in common than I thought. She wanted to kill the tribute who killed her ally, and I wanted to kill the one who had caused my ally to betray our district.
Except when I watch my vendetta against Logan come to its head, I can't help but feel it was an empty victory. Logan knew nothing about Volt's seduction of Cyprian. Volt had betrayed him as much as Cyprian had betrayed me.
"I don't know what you're talking about!"
Logan's words ring in my ears. I have to close my eyes as I bring his own sword down onto his neck. His blood spurts onto the white snow. I stand, covered in blood, limping on my frostbitten feet, my black ponytail disheveled and nearly frozen.
When I open my eyes, Passion is making her way along the coast, mumbling to herself about Callum. Her descent into madness leaves a sour taste in my mouth. It happens all the time to tributes in the arena, but the circumstances of her case seems engineered by the Gamemakers. Like they were trying to manufacture drama for the cameras.
Watching Flux and Passion fight to the death leaves me feeling numb, even when Flux yells into the air about Eight winning the Games even if she dies. It seems like her speech is heavily edited by the number of cuts in the footage, and I wonder what else she said that the Gamemakers didn't approve of. But it doesn't matter. She died too, so the Gamemakers only had a few minutes to edit to make her more palatable to the audience. How much will I have to edit myself from now on to earn their approval?
Next, Caillou escapes the avalanche and makes it to the Cornucopia. The cameras switch between Flux and I as we make our way to the Cornucopia, interspersed with shots of the mutt that chased me. Now that I finally get a close look at it, it fills me with disgust. It's one of the most monstrous mutts I've seen in any previous Hunger Games. A giant bull that stands upright and runs after its prey, wielding a giant hammer. Its black eyes are filled with animalistic rage, its snout wet and misting in the cold, yellow teeth bared as it roars.
The final battle is shown in its full glory. I watch Caillou and I climb onto the Cornucopia with a feeling of disconnection. I always thought that I would be proud when I watched my final battle in the Hunger Games, but the girl on the screen with the long black hair and a bloodied sword doesn't look like me. She moves like a shadow, opening skin and slicing bone, never slowing despite her many wounds. Both of her opponents desperately put up a fight, but it's easy to see from the beginning that they're at a disadvantage. When Flux gurgles during her death, I feel nothing. When I stab Caillou in the heart, her obvious agony is nothing compared to the look of realization in her eyes that this is the end. I have to shut my eyes tight when she stabs my knee. My hand curls over my knee and I swallow hard, trying not to show the weakness that I've been trying to hide for all these hours, days, weeks, years.
The recap ends with the Panem national anthem, which plays in its entirety. Caesar and I stand and shake hands once more. I try not to seem too affected by the movement, but my wince betrays me as I sit back down.
"Congratulations, Leto!" Caesar exclaims. The crowd erupts into thunderous applause. I sit stock-still in my seat, smiling uncomfortably. Once the crowd dies down, Caesar begins talking again.
"That knife to the knee was one of the most exciting moments I've seen in recent years!" he exclaims, and the crowd roars in agreement. "I thought maybe Caillou had it! Were you afraid that your victory might be stolen from you in those final moments?"
I stare at him, trying to think up a coherent thought. In that moment, I wasn't thinking about winning or losing. I was staring into Caillou's eyes and contemplating how similar we were.
"She had the same thought as me," I say finally. "We both hid knives and brought them out only when we needed them."
Caesar tsks. "But she was too late," he says. His tone is difficult to pin down. Is he sad? Sympathetic to her? To me? I squint at him, trying to figure out his game.
"Yes," I say. I'm probably not giving him the amount of reaction and personality he wants. Most victors, especially Careers, are more proud of themselves. Many of them give dramatic comments about their near-death experiences, the moments where they were determined to win, and even their favorite kills. I always thought that I would be the same. But instead I sit, feeling nothing but exhaustion.
Caesar only smiles at me kindly, but I can't help but wonder if there's frustration hidden underneath.
"You said they fought valiantly. What was going through your mind in those moments?"
I frown slightly. "I meant what I said."
Caesar nods, as solemn as if I were revealing the meaning of life. "You didn't hold any resentment toward them? The battle was so close! They could have overpowered you."
I shake my head. "We were all fair competitors. Any of us could have won. It's only sensible that I salute their sacrifice."
Murmurs of approval ripple through the audience. Caesar's expression is sober, but I can see past his manufactured mask. Does he think that I should have said a quippy line as I ended the lives of two other girls? Provided a bit more entertainment for these animals, colorful and laughing and covered in furs and feathers? I open my mouth again with a frown.
"Caillou and Flux would have been worthy victors. They deserve hero burials. They were true patriots."
Caesar's smile is soft. "What about Passion? She was the only one of your allies that made it to the final five. Did you wonder how she'd met her end?'
"No," I say truthfully. "All I had to do was keep going, not wondering. If you win, you don't have to wonder."
Caesar grins widely. "That's very true! Of course, Passion nearly had as many kills as you in the arena! You ended the Games with five, but halfway through the Games, she already had four! At the time, did you think she was one of your biggest competitors?"
"Of course," I say dully. "District One produces admirable tributes. They are brave and dedicated, just like Passion."
There are some other choice words I would use to describe Passion, but now is not the time for them. I don't want to ruin our chances of allying with One in the future. Recent Games always have an impact on alliances and tribute morale.
"Very diplomatic!" Caesar says with a grin. The audience laughs along with him, and I purposefully keep my face neutral.
"What about Logan? Do you hold any grudges against him?"
I expected the question, but it still cuts deep. Caesar knows exactly where to push me. I glance over at the front row where Celia and Cato sit among the other mentors. Cato is already drunk, swaying in his seat. Celia sits prim and perfect the way she always does, watching with sharp blue eyes. Those eyes are piercing, urging me to answer.
"Even Logan…" It hurts to acknowledge that he had nothing to do with Cyprian's betrayal, but it's the truth. "He would have been a fine victor as well. He was a brilliant swordsman and he fought bravely."
Caesar continues to probe at raw bruises for the sake of the show. "When you realized that Cyprian had betrayed your alliance, you said you wanted to kill him," he says quietly. "Are you upset that Marlowe stole that opportunity from you?"
My throat suddenly feels thick and constricted. "No," I say finally. "She earned that kill."
It's the truth, so why does my mouth feel so dry?
Caesar clearly expects more of a reaction — maybe something closer to how I reacted in that moment. The pure fire in my eyes when I wrapped my whip around Cyprian's throat is now unrecognizable to me, but the Capitol wants to see that rage again. They want to see a performance, a spectacle. They don't care about the real me. But was that the real me? My brain feels so cloudy that I have to blink several times to steady myself, trying to block out the blinding lights and flashing cameras.
"Leto?"
Caesar's voice sounds like it's underwater. I turn to look at him again, seeing his concerned expression. He must think that I'm lost in memories of the time I spent with Cyprian, reminiscing over his betrayal.
"I asked if killing Logan helped you feel any closure from Cyprian's betrayal?"
I swallow hard. I can't seem forgiving of Cyprian, or else the District might earn a reputation of producing weak tributes easily caught up in young love. Those kinds of useless fantasies are for District One. But I can't fully denounce Cyprian either. He was one of the Academy's top students; the obvious candidate for the volunteer spot. Next year's volunteers will have a lot to prove about District Two's strength.
"He was a fine competitor," I say dutifully. "And he was my friend."
...
The Victory Banquet is a blur of faces, some recognizable and some completely foreign. There's a Capitolite singer or movie star here and there, commenting to me that they knew I was the winner from the moment I volunteered. Others tell me how they bet all their money on my victory and I owed them their entire livelihoods. I just smile and nod. It's probably all bullshit anyway.
Bouquets are shoved into my hands and flowers are placed in my hair beside my golden coronet. I can barely remember the moment President Snow placed it on my head. The world had seemed like a pool of water at that point; only a slew of noises and blurry colors, one of them being President Snow crowning me as the victor of the 79th Hunger Games. The very moment that I'd trained half of my life for was completely lost. Wasted.
I barely eat at the Banquet, keeping my hands in my lap. Celia and Cato put on quite a show — especially Cato, who is even drunker than before and shouting his pride from the rooftops. I don't remember him being so boisterous before or shortly after his Games, when he was showing his newfound kickboxing talent to the world by participating in a handful of matches. I haven't seen him fight since then, and it's hardly difficult to see why. He's probably too drunk to know a punch bowl from a punching bag.
As I sit surrounded by cameras and people in fine jewelry, a plate of the finest food in the world in front of me, I can't help but linger on the memory of his Hunger Games. Cato had been a primary contender from the start, and only continued to impress along with his district partner Clove. They were the only Careers in the final eight and stuck together until the end. Once their opponent, the Eleven male named Thresh, was finally killed, Clove immediately started attacking Cato without so much as a friendly handshake. He had come out on top, but I always wondered what he thought about his district partner's final decision.
This wasn't the first time that district partners had to battle each other for the crown. Augustus Braun, Panem's favorite son, had ended his Games by strangling his partner Hypnos to death. But they were lovers. Somewhere out in the Capitol, he still wears her token, a pendulum that she placed around his neck in her final moments.
He'll never be able to forget. And neither will Cato, and neither will I.
The plate in front of me becomes less appetizing by the second. I push it away and stare up at the chandelier above. Its crystal arms spin around, projecting little stars onto the walls of the lavish dining room. The sounds of clinking glasses and fine silverware irritates my ears. My stomach growls, but I keep my hands folded primly in my lap. Despite the praise and the love these Capitolites shower on me, I can't forget what they are. Fickle, cannibalistic animals. They'll eat me up and toss me aside if I don't entertain them enough — and I know that my interview wasn't the height of entertainment. They may already be plotting my downfall; might have already hand-picked a victor more superior. Cyprian plotted against me, and he was the only person in the arena I truly trusted. I would be foolish to trust anyone here — even Cato and Celia.
I lift up my glass to take a sniff, wrinkling my nose at the sugary, sickly scent. I have no idea what's in it, so I set it back down and leave my food where it is.
The party rages on around me, even spilling out onto the streets where I can hear the fireworks of celebration. I reach up to touch Adrienne's brooch, running my fingers over the comforting smooth silver metal. Caesar didn't ask about my family. I wonder if they've already moved on from me as well. My head feels heavy. My knee pulses with pain, yet I have nowhere to escape to. No one to whom I can vent frustrations. I thought I had won the Hunger Games, but I realize now that maybe that little girl from Eleven was right.
I may kill everyone in this arena, but I will never truly win. In this game, no one wins.
...
At first, being at home doesn't feel any more real than the Capitol. Then as the days and weeks drag on, I slowly begin to remember why I did this. After years of hard labor in the factories, my father never has to work again. Looking into his tired eyes, deep-set and permanently exhausted, I can forget about the Capitol for a moment. Just a moment, until the thoughts return. The neverending, tortured images of that laughing audience, their faces painted and eyes glittering with thinly-concealed malice. The Cornucopia quaking beneath my feet as the bull mutt slammed its hammer into the side of the golden horn. Sometimes I wake up with my teeth still rattling in my skull and my fingers wrapped around an invisible sword, forgetting where I am.
"Leto!"
There's only one other thing that can pull me out of my revieries. I smile as I glance up from my cookbook. The autumn sun streams in through the window, casting shadows onto the floor from the table and chairs in the kitchen. I close my book, making sure to mark the spot of the chicken stew that I was just looking at, and stand with a groan. My knee aches with the movement, but I still refuse to take the pain medication that the Capitol provides for me. It's much stronger than any other medicine I've ever taken, but it leaves me feeling fuzzy, and after all, I have no idea what's in it.
The wooden door swings open just before I reach it. Adrienne's beaming face greets me. "Didn't you hear me? Come out here!"
"I did hear you," I say bemusedly.
"Then hurry up!"
She grabs my hand and pulls me out the door. The crisp autumn air smells so different from the arena that I'm able to put aside my musings. Adrienne guides me to a giant tree that stands in our new front yard and towers over us with a height that only comes after growing for decades. Its leaves have just begun to turn red and orange. Adrienne gazes up at the leaves in adoration, but I keep my own fixed on her face. Her pale white skin is so very different from my own. Her bright green eyes are alight with a kind of life and whimsy I fear I may never experience again.
"They're only leaves," I say.
She turns to me with a slight frown. "Nature is beautiful, Leto. You should appreciate it."
I turn to stare at the tree. I do appreciate it, but sometimes I can't shake the feeling that there are cameras embedded somewhere among the cracks in its black, fraying bark. Still watching, still broadcasting my every move to the nation. Or at least to the Gamemakers.
"It is beautiful," I finally say. "Shall we go inside? I'm making stew for us tonight."
Her smile is brighter than the sun. She practically skips inside alongside me. I know that she tries to keep the morale up since I've been having trouble with… things. She still stays positive despite it all.
Inside, my father waits for us in his wooden rocking chair. It's one of the few things that we kept from the old house. Most of our belongings were too worn and ratty to take with us. That's what Adrienne said at least, and she's an expert at being an elite. She's hated being the daughter of an heiress all her life, but it comes with certain cultural perks that I'll never really have as a nouveau-riche.
Dad's smile is just the same as always. Steady, comforting. "What's for dinner tonight?"
"Chicken and oregano stew," I say. "I was just about to put the vegetables in the pot."
"Well hurry up, then. I'm hungry."
Adrienne giggles as I walk back into the kitchen. My knee is starting to really bother me, but I'm careful not to let out any noise. If anyone realizes how bad it is, they may force me to take Capitol medicine or even go into surgery. The thought makes my heart pound. I grab the kitchen knife and start chopping away at a small bundle of celery.
I've spent my entire life living on the outskirts of Two, having to trek miles to the Academy every morning, passing the old homes and ramshackle sheds where the poorer families carved out whatever living they could. Now, the Academy is practically on my doorstep. So are the butcheries, the bakeries, the market, and the flower shops where I buy bouquets for Adrienne. On the dining table, one of them sits in a vase right now.
Our house is made of white brick and far too large for only three occupants. The six bedrooms are clearly meant to accommodate generations of people, including any future children, but it's safe to say that I'm not planning on having any of those. Only three of them are in use: one for my father, one for myself, and, on rare occasions, one for Adrienne. Hers is more for when the Capitol arrives to take photos of my living situation. She's only sixteen and our relationship isn't public yet, but I've been told that many in the Capitol already suspect it.
We didn't have anything other than a close friendship before the Games, but things fell into place naturally after I returned. Adrienne and I always had a special connection. And she's always wanted to get away from her family.
"Why don't you make sure everything is dusted up on the second floor?" Dad's voice permeates through the white walls. Adrienne makes a noise of assent and bounces up the staircase. I know why we need to have the house clean. In a few days, the Capitol will be sending more reporters. They'll be asking about my family, especially my mother. She's been causing trouble ever since I got back. She acts like I'm leaving her out of my newfound fortune even though she hasn't been a part of my family in years. She left Dad when I was just a baby. She even refused to do an interview when I was in the final eight.
I try to take some deep breaths before the world turns fuzzy again. Grabbing the celery that I've chopped, I empty the plate into the pot with the broth, then sit at the kitchen table for a few minutes. My knee is screaming with pain. I put my head between my knees and close my eyes.
"It smells good."
The tiny voice causes me to look up. Adrienne is standing by the pot, her light brown hair spilling down her back. The sun from the window illuminates her checkered skirt and white blouse. She watches me with poorly-veiled concern, stirring the stew.
"Don't do that," I say sharply.
She blinks once, her hand falling from the ladle. "It smells like it's almost finished."
"Don't mess with my food," I snarl. I lunge toward the stove — somewhat shakily due to my knee injury — and grab the ladle myself.
"I'm sorry," she says. She looks genuinely upset, and I feel most of my rage and panic fall away in an instant, leaving behind only faint remnants of suspicion.
"It's alright. Just go to the table. I'll bring the food."
Adrienne reaches up with one hand to caress my face, her fingers running over the scars that have still never quite been able to heal, ghosting over my downturned bottom lip. I turn my head away. Her gaze drops to the floor and she mumbles something about setting the table.
As her footsteps on the wooden floor get farther away, I stare into my stew. Adrienne is right of course; the stew is done. I scan the bubbling surface for any sign of meddling, then take a deep breath. Adrienne has no reason to poison me. But I still have to be careful, even among my loved ones. If there's anything I learned in the Hunger Games, it's that trust shouldn't be given easily.
The second epilogue will come next week. If I've already contacted you about your tributes, please get them to me as soon as possible! Thanks!