Hello guys. I'm finally back.
Without further ado, let's get into the epilogue.
Leto Larston (19)- Victor of the 78th Hunger Games
My birthdays have always been quiet affairs. As I stare at the candles in front of me, all my past birthday cakes and wishes flash in the dancing orange flames. My birthday wish was the same every year. Now that I've achieved my greatest wish, what else do I have to ask for?
I glance over at Adrienne, feeling her light brown eyes watching me attentively. When she notices me looking, the corners of her mouth twitch into a small smile. Her eyes drift back to the cake that sits in front of us now. She was the one who commissioned it from the most expensive bakery in Two, and it shows. The frosting is hot pink with hearts decorating the first tier and flowers on the second. Happy 19th Birthday Leto! is written in red icing. The color is supposed to be bright and cheerful, but the shade of red is too close to that of fresh blood. It reminds me of a poisonous animal, decorated in bright, blinding colors to keep me far away from it. Who knows what could be hiding beneath that inconspicuous layer of frosting and fondant?
I take a deep breath before blowing out the candles with gusto. My mind is completely blank at first, then a thought slides into my consciousness. I wish for the Victory Tour to go well so I can return home as soon as possible. Wishes are for the superstitious and the undisciplined, but it's worth a shot. Still, I wouldn't wish for something impossible. I definitely wouldn't wish for the Victory Tour to be cancelled or the Academy to forget about the homecoming party they have planned for me afterward. That would be foolish to wish, no matter how much I want it to happen.
"Would you like a slice with a heart or a slice with a flower?" my father asks. His brown eyes crinkle in a smile, his olive skin so much like mine. The knife slides into the pink and red surface of the cake like a dagger sinking into vulnerable human flesh. An arrow pierces Flux's throat, slowly penetrating the skin. Blood bursts forth, crimson spilling over her jumpsuit. I shudder.
"Give her a piece with hearts," Adrienne's smooth voice says, shattering the illusion. I blink several times in quick succession to ground myself.
"No," I say, my voice sounding deeper than I intended. "I shouldn't have sweets. I'll be appearing in front of the nation in a few days."
Adrienne's hand lightly touches my back. "One slice of cake can't hurt. You should enjoy yourself."
I turn to her, my deep brown eyes meeting her hazel-colored ones. "I think my stylists would disagree."
Adrienne rolls her eyes, a rare occurrence that I'm becoming more used to after my victory. I look away and sit in my chair, watching darkly as my father divvies up the cake between the two of them. There's no one else I'd want to spend my birthday with. I'll be surrounded by people for weeks once the Victory Tour begins. My stomach twists with anxiety at the thought of being surrounded by strangers, Capitolites, Victors and people from other districts who have everything to gain from pushing me out of the spotlight by any means possible.
"Why don't you have one bite, Leto?"
I glance over to my father. The corners of his brown eyes are wrinkled from years of stress, hard work, and years dedicated to making sure I could afford to train at the Academy. He put everything into reaching that goal, with no guarantee of a victory. As we sat around the dinner table on late nights, both exhausted from hours of work, we would never speak on what would happen if I died. All that time and money wasted. I would try not to think about it, but sometimes, lying in bed, I was plagued by the thought of Dad sitting alone at that table with no family to keep him company.
It wasn't for nothing. But it's not over yet.
"There are still sacrifices that I have to make," I say. "The Capitol will want me in top shape."
He doesn't argue, but I can see the disappointment in his eyes — not disappointment in my dedication, but in the fact that I'm not the daughter he once had. I know he must see the suspicion in my eyes when I glance at the cake; the distrust of everyone and everything that I do my best to hide.
A knock at the door snaps the tension. I quickly stand and limp over to the door. Dad and Adrienne immediately start to whisper together, but I'm too distracted by the ache in my knee to eavesdrop. I wince as I reach the heavy wooden door and drag it open to reveal Celia Winterbourne. Her platinum blonde hair done up in an elaborate bun, she reflects her wintry legacy, wearing a sky blue dress with nothing but a light scarf around her neck to keep her warm. Her icy blue eyes, the same color as her jacket, survey the interior of the mansion before she steps inside. She doesn't bother to look at me.
"Happy birthday," she says, sounding disinterested.
"Thank you," I say, staring steadily at her. She glances around the room: the high ceiling, the wooden bannisters that twine around the staircase, the marble floors. All constructed by the best the masonry district has to offer. Almost identical to her own mansion.
"Is there a reason you came by?"
Celia looks at me for the first time, her blue eyes affixing me with a stare as frigid as the snow outside. "I'm still your mentor, even if the Hunger Games are officially over." She crosses her arms. "We need to go over proper protocol for your speeches at the districts. It's not like doing an interview with Caesar."
"I know how to read a card." I've watched countless victors do it over my lifetime.
One of her blonde eyebrows raises inquisitively. "It's not that simple. You can't go off script even a little bit, and you definitely shouldn't go around beating the Avoxes that are serving us on the train. Although… if you're going to beat someone, an Avox would be your best choice."
My cheeks heat up at the mention of my outburst in the Training Center. "I'm not going to do anything like that. I promise."
It's demeaning to grovel in front of her like this. I might as well get on my hands and knees and promise that I'll behave. In the arena, I was the authority. The other Careers looked to me for guidance and instructions, but here I'm nothing but another one of the marble mansions that line the street of Victor's Village.
Celia studies my face for a few moments, then nods. "Good."
...
District Twelve is probably the least pleasing place I've ever been, including the arena. The windswept plains, the snowy coast, and the tall, dense forest of the 78th arena had some beauty to them. It was easy to forget the bloodshed for which they were built. There is no such luxury in Twelve. The coal dust and grime that coats every inch of the buildings, of the roads, and citizens is a constant reminder of what the district is made for. The crowd stares blankly at me. Their clothing is cheaply made but ironed and clean, clearly valuable relative to their visible poverty. On the two pedestals before me, the families of the fallen tributes stand stoically, the faces of their loved ones floating on a screen above them. I didn't interact with either of Twelve's tributes in training or during the Games, and I'd forgotten their names until I read the cards that the escort gave me earlier this morning.
Terra and Rylex. Both killed in the bloodbath. Nothing new for Twelve. But they were in Logan, Volt, and Pagani's alliance, which I knew won't make me a victor dear to the people of District Twelve.
I read the speech that the escort prepared for me, carefully making eye contact with the camera whenever I can. This is much easier than the non-scripted interviews they make me do in the Capitol. This is what I've trained for: speaking solemnly to the nation. No jokes, no tricky questions, nothing at all about my opinions or my personal life. Only the truth. A short speech about the sacrifice that these two kids made for their district and the honor that brings their family. When I speak about it, I look over to each of the pedestals in turn. On Terra's is only one man, his eyes tired in a way that reminds me of Dad. My throat catches for a moment before I continue.
"Terra was a brave tribute who fought bravely. She died to save her ally, which is a noble death."
I don't mention that Logan died by my own hand a few weeks later.
On Rylex's pedestal is a clearly sickly woman, barely able to stand. Openly weeping, she's held up only by a young boy who appears to be around Rylex's age. He stares at me with clear anger in his eyes. I can't say I blame him for being upset, but his anger seems misplaced. I didn't have anything to do with Rylex's death— it was Faroud who slit open his throat in the bloodbath.
Celia told me before I went on stage that Rylex had a younger brother who also died in the Games. The odds are clearly not in their favor.
After I finish my speech, the audience half-heartedly claps at the instruction of a large card held up by my escort. Most of them hold overt contempt in their eyes, while the rest look completely disinterested.
Later that evening, sitting at an ornate dining table on the bullet train, I feel nothing.
District Eleven is not much better. The faces of the people are heavily wrinkled and lined with misery. There is nothing ambiguous about their vitriolic glares as they scowl at me from down below. The worst of it is directed at me from Thorn's pedestal. Standing on it is a single old man hunched over, his gnarled hands gripping a wooden cane, eyes inscrutable as he stares at me. That glower is white hot like the summer sun, making me flush despite the snow gently falling on us. Even so, I still can't determine if he's angry at me or not. When I mention Thorn's name and how bravely he fought during the Games, the man looks away, his jaw setting and his eyes burning with some unspeakable anger. Whether directed at me or at him, I can't decide.
Luna's family is in complete disarray. The parents are nowhere to be seen, leaving only two small girls there to stand for their fallen sister, both younger than she was. The smaller one is crying loudly as I give my speech, but I'm not sure if she even understands what's going on or if she just wants to go home. The older one stares at me blankly, completely ignoring her younger sibling. I watched the Final Eight interviews at home after the Games, and Luna's seemed inappropriately short. Adrienne and Dad told me that they cut out the ending where the father attacked the reporter. A stupid move. It looks like he might have paid his life for it. His wife's too, unless she's only being kept in a prison to make a point. Regardless, I make sure to look the older girl in the eyes as I express gratitude to have such a brave and unique competitor as Luna. She deserves that small mercy at least.
Ten provides some excitement, which Celia and the escort seem to love, but I despise it as I stand on that stage watching Jeremy's family as they try to contain their grief and disappointment.
"Jeremy was a valiant and impressive tribute whose strength knew no bounds," I lie. The younger boy for whom he volunteered shifts on his feet and stares up at his dad, who in turn watches me closely. "He would have made a worthy victor. His sacrifice will not be forgotten."
I make no mention of our former alliance and his subsequent betrayal and death. I can still recall his gurgles as he reached for his little ally from Nine, Cyprian's sword stuck in his belly. Still, it was a fair fight and he lost. At least the little boy on that pedestal will have another chance at life.
When it's time to read the speech for Caiden, I do so with the precision that I had in my rehearsals. The words are practically memorized at this point. I didn't know Caiden, and the only thing I remember about her was her refusal to speak during her interview and her abysmally low training score. Everyone probably thought she was a goner, but from her feisty personality I thought for sure she would make it past the bloodbath. Unfortunately, I wasn't correct.
Caiden's giant projected face smirks at me from above her pedestal, her buzzcut and bushy eyebrows recognizable anywhere. Standing underneath it are two men, one around her age and the other a generation older, both looking sorrowful but refusing to cry.
District Nine is as tortuous as Ten. Alder, who was Jeremy's ally, only has a mother and younger brother to stand for him. Tears lightly run down cheeks. They probably remember Passion smashing his head with her mace. As I stare up at his scowling face, all I can see are his brains splattered across colorful flowers.
Blossom's family was one I anticipated seeing, and I'm not disappointed. Her parents and two sisters stand on the pedestal, all dressed like they were dragged right out of the woods. Their clothing seems to have been handmade from animal hide, covered in dirt and grass. It doesn't seem they bothered to dress up to meet the victor of their daughter's Hunger Games. The two adults have beaming smiles, as does the older girl. The shorter one stares plain-faced at me as I finish my speech.
"Blossom was tough as nails — a very admirable tribute," I say to the family. "Her nature was no doubt because of the way you raised her. I honor her sacrifice."
The mother bows her head as if praying, then looks back up to grin at me again, nodding enthusiastically. I have a feeling that it's not a simple sense of patriotism that overtakes her. Blossom had said during her interview that her family was going to kill her, and confirmed it again in the arena in her conversation with Caillou. Could her family really be so cruel as to wish their own daughter dead? To be glad that she was killed in the Games?
I feel a bit queasy as I step down from the stage to be ushered back to the train. The outer districts are rougher than I expected, not just in material conditions but in the people themselves.
As the Victory Tour drags on, I find myself wondering what the actual point of it is. In training, we were always told that the Victory Tour was exactly what its name implies— a way for us to lord our achievement over the other districts— in a friendly, competitive way of course. It was our chance to flaunt our district's superiority as well as our individual victory. The more soft-spoken trainers would sometimes speak about how it gave closure to the families of the fallen tributes. "Seeing the victor in person and hearing their patriotic words helps them remember that their tributes died for a reason," one of them once explained.
Now that I've finally achieved my victory, I've found that I don't want to show it off - not for myself or for my district. Let Celia and Cato do the Tour since they love it so much. Leave me to my peace at home, where the winter winds are quiet and don't blow incessantly like here in the outer districts. I can still hear the wailing of the little girl from Eleven as she clung to her sister, the wind howling in my ear. The chill of the snow seeps into my pores, making my fingers and feet ache. The train hurtles through the snowy air. Outside, I can see the snowflakes whipping past the windows, the sky so dark that nothing else is visible. I shiver.
"Leto!"
I turn in alarm to see Cato grinning at me. He grabs a chair beside my spot on the plush sofa, turning it around to sit backwards, his arms crossed over the back. I exhale slowly, flexing my fingers as I watch him arrange himself. Due to my frostbite in the arena, the joints in my hands and feet are more vulnerable to the cold. The escort has requested special gloves and socks to accommodate this situation, but the ache still hasn't completely faded. Pain pulses through them even now as I sit in the heated train compartment.
Cato clears his throat and I shoot him a glance. He has that easy smile that he always wears, but I can see the heaviness underneath. At least he doesn't reek of booze. He must have slept some of it off.
"You're up late," he states the obvious.
I grunt in response. He doesn't seem to have expected anything different, because he has a follow-up at the ready.
"You enjoying your circuit through Panem?" he asks, that same infuriating charismatic grin on his face.
I stare at him with one eyebrow raised. "Did you?"
He shrugs. "Reading those same damn cards over and over again? Staring at the faces of those… people." He looks away for a moment, then seems to return to himself. "Nah."
I stay silent for a few more moments, which he evidently doesn't like. He draws in a breath. "It's better to be a mentor on these things," he says. You get all the fun stuff and none of the boring patriotic shit. You'll see." He winks at me.
I stare at him for a moment, wondering if I would really be willing to do this all over again. I open my mouth to speak, then hesitate for just a moment. I could never speak openly with Celia, but Cato isn't like Celia. In training, I always thought she was a responsible, competent trainer while Cato didn't take anything seriously, wasting his time partying and playing around with the boys during sparring sessions. But now, his breath smelling faintly of liquor and his smile easy, he seems the more logical of the two.
"This isn't patriotic," I say. "It's just opening the wounds." I don't know whose wounds I'm referring to. My own? The families' in their grief? The wounds of the mentors who are just trying to do their jobs as assigned by the Capitol?
I stare out at the never-ending tempest beyond the window. It doesn't matter how much time has passed or where I go. I'll never escape that storm.
Cato stands from his spot on the chair and plops down onto the sofa beside me. "You might be onto something there."
...
I've been dreading District Eight since the beginning of the tour. From the moment I step out of the sliding train doors, the air is thick with hostility. Tag Nylon stands at the forefront of the crowd with a perfectly practiced Capitol smile. He's comically shorter than his parents who stand beside him, but he looks the most mature out of all of them, his professional grin greeting me from below the stage. His little twin brother, despite being the same age, recoils into himself before the camera as the crowd half-heartedly applauds.
I can hear the murmurs and hissed whispers that ripple through the gathered audience. The Peacekeepers patrol the sides of the Square to ensure that no one causes any trouble. A line of them at the edge of the stage hold guns close to their chests with dark visors completely concealing their faces. The crowd is on edge due to the sheer number of them prowling the streets, and so am I. It makes sense that the Capitol would send more Peacekeepers to a district that would have little to lose and everything to gain from hurting or even killing me, but it still causes alarm bells to go off inside my head. I walk stiffly toward the front of the stage and keep my eyes on the speech card.
Flux's giant face watches me, her easy-going smile and big brown hair falling in curls down to her shoulders. Her parents stand underneath her with tears streaming down their faces, holding each other like they're in a Capitolite romance drama. The boy, Thimble, only has one woman beneath his nervously smiling face. Her entire head is shrouded in a black hat and veil, only bright red lipstick visible from under its shadow. Her curvaceous body is wrapped tight in a shimmery black dress. The getup is instantly recognizable as a pimp, possibly a high-profile prostitute herself. It seems they all dress up the same wherever they are in Panem. District One, Eight, the Capitol… it's all the same.
I recall Thimble saying that he lived at a club during his interview. It isn't difficult to put all the pieces together.
"Thimble was an incredibly brave attribute who gave it all even until his last breath," I read off the card. It's a clear reference to his manner of death, though it's not explicitly stated. Bloody deaths are usually given more weight as 'sacrifices' to their district, while slow dehydration and starvation deaths are disappointing. Still, as I recite how he was undaunted even in the face of death, I can only think about the unbearable pain he must have felt the days before it. The trainers always beat into our heads that dehydration was a longer and more painful way to die than getting stabbed in the stomach. Intelligent tributes made sure to stock up on water.
I never thought about how our stash of water would lead to the painful, dishonorable deaths of others.
As I flip the card to begin reading about Flux, I swallow hard and glance around at the Peacekeepers lining the stage. The Eight residents at the forefront of the crowd watch my every move with dark, haunted eyes. They're waiting for me to say anything disrespectful about Flux or admit that I stole the second victory in a row from under their noses. Most Careers are not shy about flaunting their new wealth and achievements in the districts of the runner-up tributes, a practice I thought was unpatriotic and in poor taste. Still, in this moment, I'm not driven by the rationality and patriotism that my father instilled in me. It's fear that causes me to pause and glance around the stage once more. What will happen if these citizens are unhappy with the way I speak about their beloved Flux, the girl who almost scored them two victories in a row?
The image of my arrow piercing her throat flashes before my eyes. I blink several times and swallow once more before beginning to speak. "Flux's attitude and innate courage made her one of the stand-out competitors from the very start. She may be gone, but she will not be forgotten. I know that her memory will live on in the minds and hearts of our nation. This is not the end for her."
It feels like I'm telling a lie. I can see on the faces in the audience that they don't believe it either. Some of them seem completely defeated, others have their jaws set in clear anger, not impressed by my display of humility.
"I was lucky to have such a capable rival in the Hunger Games—"
"Lucky?!"
I glance up from the card to the back of the Square for the first time. The crowd seems to extend for miles, but at the very back near a large gray stone building, one person stands up above the others. He's a young boy, probably around Flux's age, standing on some kind of large rock inscribed with cursive writing, probably a monument of some kind. Peacekeepers begin hustling toward him, but he cups his hands to his mouth and yells again.
"You killed her! She won't live on because of you! She'll live on because of us!"
Suddenly, a white canvas is thrown down from the top of the building, unfurling into a beautiful painting featuring four familiar faces.
The crowd is hushed for a moment as the angelic face of young Sparrow looks down on us, surrounded by the serene visages of her brother, Raven, and their allies from Eight. Flux and Thimble don't look the same as they do on their memorial holograms. They aren'tanxious or putting on a fake smile. They're at peace. I stare up at the painting for what seems like an age. Then I feel someone clasp my shoulder.
I turn sharply, ready to plunge a nonexistent dagger into the person's stomach, but it's only my escort, her face twisted in worry. She pulls me back from the center of the stage as, reality slowly sinks into my senses. The sound of screaming reaches my ears and the smell of gunpowder is thick in the air. The crowd erupts in chaos, writhing and swarming like a colony of ants escaping water being poured over their nest. As the residents of Eight scramble for safety, the most important of us are quickly ushered toward the Justice Building. Amidst the smoke and sounds of children crying, I can see the Peacekeepers fighting their way through the snow and the panicked citizenry, toward the back of the crowd where the boy who unleashed the painting was standing. He has since disappeared, but I know he won't be able to escape justice.
The heavy wooden door of the Justice Building swings shut. It seems the Capitol designed it to be soundproof, as the noises of turmoil outside are reduced to a dull drone. Through one of the windows, I can see that the pedestals for the tributes' families are now empty.
"Quite a show," someone sighs behind me. I turn, expecting to see a grown man, perhaps the mayor, but it's only little Tag, a full torso shorter than me and acne dotting his nose. He gestures to a couch behind him and his paralyzed family, who stand with wide, frozen eyes so different from his own. "Sit?"
I turn away, for once during this trip not caring if I seem cold or standoffish. Fortunately he doesn't respond. I glance at my escort, who is fervently chattering with the mayor in the corner while Celia and Cato watch. At the opposite end of the room, I notice Cecelia and Woof, the only other surviving victors from Eight. They at least seem distressed by the events of the day, glancing at each other every now and then with knowing expressions. I glance back at Tag, who now sits prim and proper on his velvet couch beside his brother, looking entirely unperturbed.
I stalk over to him. "Tag."
Both twins swivel around to look at me.
"How could you not have known about what's going on in your district? How could you have not known this was going to happen?"
The room falls deathly silent. Tag raises a violet eyebrow. "How was I supposed to know?"
Fuming, I point a finger at his chest. "Victors are supposed to mentor the youth of their district. There's no way this would've happened if you hadn't allowed it!" I sweep my finger towards the other two victors, both of them huddled in the corner watching the exchange. "You want to ruin my Victory Tour and overshadow my accomplishments with your own district! The victory is mine! Not Flux's! MINE!"
My breaths heave as I stare into Tag's calm blue eyes, cool as ice.
"Leto…" My escort's voice hesitantly slices through the silence. "The Capitol won't air any of this. None of these traitors will steal attention away from you."
I swivel around to pin her with my cold glare, the one I always gave the boys at the Academy when they got too friendly during training. "Steal attention? They already have!" I wildly gesture to the window, where the Peacekeepers still struggle to restore order. "Look at these people."
In reality, I don't particularly care if the people of Eight will remember my speech in the years to come. It was predictable and forgettable anyway. But I can tell that these victors are trying to sabotage me. There's no other way this could happen.
"Leto."
I turn back around to face Tag, my resolve hardening. His eyes are col. "Maybe in Two, the victors hold sway over the... youth of the district and mentor them to be good little Capitol lap dogs. The thing is, this isn't a Career district. This is District Eight. We have no Academy."
The words send a slimy, cold lightning bolt through my body. I'm left without words, frozen in place, realizing that everyone's eyes are on me. Specifically one person's.
"I think we should try to head to the train." Celia's bored, icy voice reaches my ears. "The Peacekeepers should have the situation under control by now and we have a schedule to keep."
She slides over to me, her blue eyes piercing, all-knowing, frigid. "We apologize, Tag. Leto just has some problems with her temper, but we're working on it."
Shame, anger, and fear my into me.
"Don't apologize." Tag says, a bright, youthful smile adorning his face.
As a group of Peacekeepers burst through the door, Tag sands purposefully and gestures to his family. "We should head home."
His smile is indecipherable as he shakes my hand. "Good to finally meet you in person, Leto."
I stare into his eyes. For a moment I catch a bit of the mischievous Tag Nylon behind that smile, the one who won the Hunger Games as the youngest victor in history. But evolved. When I see is not just mischief—it's pure cunning. Then as suddenly as it comes, the guile is gone — so quickly, I might have imagined it. "Have a good rest of your Victory Tour."
Before I can say another word, the group of Peacekeepers surround Tag's family and march them from the room.
...
The heavy snowfalls of the past few days seem to have stopped. Seven and Six are two of the northernmost districts, so I expect to have to bundle up for my visits. Even so, bright yellow sunlight streams in through the window of the train, momentarily blinding me as we pass through a grove of snowy trees.
I made a fool of myself in Eight. I may as well be Cato, yelling at a fourteen year old like that. I thought I was different from the other Career victors, but I presented myself as egotistical and oblivious.
But more than that, I'm worried about my standing with Celia. After my outburst after the Games, I promised her I would keep myself under control. Exploding again, in front of other victors and a mayor no less, does little to get me back in her good graces. If I don't fit in with the other victors from Two, how will I ever fit in with the Capitol's expectations of me?
I subtly glance at Celia where she sits reading some kind of history book. I still suspect that she might be feeding information about me to the Gamemakers, or even to Snow. It would be her duty as a model citizen of Panem. But even if she doesn't care about grooming me into the perfect victor archetype for the Capitols, there's no way she will entirely disregard optics. Celia is too tactical for that. I'm her first successfully trained victor, only two years after her own win. If I build a reputation of being an unhinged, traumatized madwoman, it will reflect badly on her. It will put both of our positions of power in jeopardy in District Two, where victors have immense power and influence.
Celia glances over at me and I quickly look away, back out the window where blankets of snow lay thickly over the pine trees as we approach District Seven. We haven't spoken much since our departure from Eight, and I see no reason to start now.
The day of my speech is impossibly cold and wet, so much so that I need to wear two pairs of gloves and socks to keep my feet and hands safe from frostbite. Since my appendages survived its terrible curse in the arena, I need to be extra careful to not catch it again. I feel the dull ache in my joints as I step out on stage, bundled in several scarves and a pair of earmuffs. Celia, on the other hand, wears nothing but a winter Capitolite dress, elegant but simple with long sleeves and a furred neckline. The Ice Queen could never show the weakness that I do.
It's with a shameful flush that I begin my speech to an empty podium. Only one this time, with both faces of the Lavalee siblings staring back at me. Raven's eyes are glittering with fake mischief, his signature cheeky smirk on his face. Sparrow looks more solemn, his eyes mournful as if knowledgeable of her own death. Their father is not present, presumably too ashamed to attend. In their interviews, Sparrow had called him a wicked man, while Raven said he pitied him. I wouldn't want to show my face either.
Instead, a familiar face stands on the podium. Johanna Mason looks uncharacteristically somber, her jet black hair tied up in an intricate braid on her head in a way that I've seen Seven tributes wear before. Not a Capitol style. Solidarity with her District. A small ring of people has gathered underneath the podium, all of them in tears. It seems this would be the friends of the Lavalee family, not permitted to join Johanna on the stage. Johanna, in contrast, stands tall and stiff, black eyes watching me deliver my speech.
The people in Seven are far more subdued than those in Eight. They probably knew from the start that they never stood a chance to win. Raven started to show symptoms of his illness very early in the Games and he never seemed determined to win after Sparrow died. Still, I know they must have been rooting for Flux. Their shadowy faces are upturned at the stage as I drone on, regurgitating the words that the Capitolite writers had given me. The hopelessness is thick here. Perhaps the Capitol managed to avoid showing the rebellious behavior in Eight. The people here don't seem riled up or ready to take on the Capitol—they seem just as downtrodden as the outer districts always do.
After we pile back into the bullet train, we all sit around the crystal dining table as the forest speeds past the windows once again. I don't touch my fish stew, despite my hungry stomach. Cato grabs the glass decanter of whiskey at the center of the table and pours himself a glass, taking a swig with a loud sound of satisfaction. I try not to shoot him a look of disgust, recalling our conversation a few days ago. I'd always thought him to be an irresponsible, arrogant male tribute that my District is so good at generating, but something tells me that he's more of a normal human when he's not drunk off his ass or putting on a face for the Capitol or the Academy.
"Eat, Leto."
I glance up at Celia. Her icy blue eyes are fixed on her own soup as if she had never spoken, but the deadly nightshade in her voice dares me to ignore her. I gingerly pick up a spoon and dip it into my bowl, swirling it around for a few moments. The smell is divine, but I trained for years to be able to withstand hunger. The contest is called 'The Hunger Games' for a reason.
"I think Tag orchestrated the protest," I say.
Cato stops eating momentarily, glancing up at Celia before his eyes swivel to me, unfocused. "Why do you say that?" he slurs.
"They're trying to take attention away from my victory. The Capitol will respect me less if they're bombarded by images of one of their favorites, Flux." I can't keep the acrimony out of my voice. I glare into my soup, gripping my spoon tighter.
"It doesn't matter," Celia says stoically.
I look up, frowning at her with disbelief. "It doesn't matter that the nation doesn't respect my victory?"
"No."
My fist tightens around the silver handle of my spoon. "The Victory Tour is a method to display the power of the victorious district." The words are straight out of the mouth of the trainers at the Academy. "District Eight wants to sabotage me. They want me to be disliked."
Celia shrugs. "So what if he planned his little revolt? He probably did."
"What do you mean?" I ask in exasperation. "I thought this whole thing was to show the strength of Two—"
"Showing the strength of Two?" Celia cackles as if it was the most hilarious thing she'd ever heard. "All this—" she gestures widely to the windows, which exhibit the snow-laden trees whisking past. "—this isn't the point! None of this matters!" She stands suddenly, plants one hand on the heavy wooden table, and points at me, her piercing blue eyes cutting deep into my soul. "What matters is showing Two our own strength! Nothing is more dangerous to our power than when our own trainees doubt their mentors, their victors, their idols! Nylon wasn't wrong when he said he has no influence over the youth of Eight. No influence that matters. No amount of little insurrections matter. Don't you see?"
She scoffs, crossing her arms and turning away, and I can feel the cold silence that descends over the train compartment like the worst freeze in the arena. I shiver as she speaks again, regretting that I had ever said anything. "United we stand, divided we fall."
The words sound vaguely familiar, reminding me of my history classes, but I can't place them. Celia turns around once again, leaning with both hands over the table toward me. "Convince Two that you deserved to win. Convince them that you're the role model they need to produce more victors, not a scared little girl who's afraid to eat her soup. Or you'll be forgotten and become just another fucktoy for the Capitol, and your 'victory' will mean next to nothing."
With that, she swivels toward the door with a swish of her white ponytail and exits the room. I let my soup grow cold, heading back to my own room soon after.
Second half of the epilogue will be posted within two weeks. Thank you for waiting. I will still be counting reviews for sponsor points and the next SYOT is still coming!
Thanks to Oldflowers to betaing this chapter!