The sound of the trumpets begin to blare a moment after the cannon. The voice of Claudius Templesmith shouts above them. "Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victor of the Sixty-seventh Hunger Games, Ember Graves! I give you the tribute of District Nine!"
I wipe the blood off of my face from the birds earlier this morning. The roar of the Capitol starts playing live over the speakers, and I can't hear anything. The hovercraft materializes overhead, and a ladder drops. I place a foot on the first rung of the ladder. The electric current freezes me in place. My eyes look down, and I can see that while my muscles are immobile, nothing is preventing the blood from draining out of my arm and leg. Soon the door opens, and the current stops, and I step off.
My fingers grip the black of my jacket too tightly when they come to take me away. Doctors in sterile white, masks and gloved, already prepared to operate, go into action. Some of the Capitol attendants who appear behind me offer me a beverage. I slump down on the floor, my face against the door, staring uncomprehendingly at the crystal glass in my hand. Icy cold, filled with orange juice, a straw with a frilly white collar. How wrong it looks in my bloody, filthy hand with its dirt-caked nails and scars. My mouth waters at the smell, but I place it carefully on the floor, not trusting anything so clean and pretty.
Through the glass, I can see the doctors getting prepared, their eyebrows creased in concentration. I startle when I catch someone watching me from a few inches away and then realize it's my own face reflecting back in the glass. Wild eyes, hollowed cheeks, my hair in a tangled mat. Rabid. Feral. Mad. No wonder everyone is keeping a safe distance from me.
The next thing I know, we've landed back on the roof of the Training Center, and they're taking off but leaving me behind the door. I start hurling myself against the glass, shrieking, and I think I just catch a glimpse of pink hair 𑁋 it must be Mica, it has to be Mica coming to my rescue 𑁋 when the needle jabs me from behind.
When I wake, I'm afraid to move at first. The entire ceiling glows with a soft yellow light allowing me to see that I'm in a room containing just my bed. No door, no windows are visible. The air smells of something sharp and antiseptic. My right arm has several tubes that extend into the wall behind me. I'm naked, but the bedclothes are soothing against my skin. I tentatively lift my left hand above the cover. Not only has it been scrubbed clean, the nails are filed in perfect ovals, the scars from the wolf are less prominent. I touch my cheek, my lips, the puckered scar above my eyebrow, and run my fingers through my silken hair.
I try and sit up, but some sort of wide restraining band around my waist keeps me from rising more than a few inches. The physical confinement makes me panic, and I'm trying to pull myself up and wriggle my hips through the band when a portion of the wall slides open, and in steps an Avox carrying a tray. The sight of her calms me, and I stop trying to escape. I want to ask her a million questions, but I'm afraid any familiarity would cause her harm. Obviously, I am being closely monitored. She sets the tray across my thighs and pressed something that raises me to a sitting position. While she adjusts my pillows, I risk one question. I say it out loud, as clearly as my rusty voice will allow, so nothing will seem secretive. "Did I win?" She gives me a slight nod, and as she slips a spoon into my hand, I feel the pressure of friendship.
It still has not fully hit me that I am out of the Games, that I am safe. That I have won. As the Avox leaves, the door closes noiselessly after her, and I turn hungrily to the tray. A bowl of clear broth, a small serving of applesauce, and a glass of water. This is it? I think grouchily. Shouldn't my homecoming dinner be a little more spectacular? But I find it's an effort to finish the spare meal before me. My stomach seems to have shrunk to the size of a chestnut, and I have to wonder how long I've been out because I had nothing to eat on the last day of the arena. There's usually a lag of a few days between the end of the competition and the presentation of the victor so that they can put the starving, wounded, mess of a person back together again.
Somewhere, Teak will be creating my wardrobes for the public appearances. Willow and Mica will be arranging the banquet for my sponsors, reviewing the questions for my final interview. Back home, District 9 is probably in chaos as they try to organize the homecoming celebration for me, given that the last one was close to thirty years ago.
Home! My mother! The thought of returning home to my mother makes me smile. Soon I will be home!
I want to get out of this bed. To see Teak, and to find out more about what's been going on. And why shouldn't I? I feel fine. But as I start to work my way out of the band, I feel a cold liquid seeping into my veins from one of the tubes and almost immediately lose consciousness.
This happens on and off for an indeterminate amount of time. My walking, eating, and, even though I resist the impulse to try and escape the bed, being knocked out again. I seem to be in a strange, continual twilight. Only a few things register. The Avox girl has not returned since the feeding, my scars are disappearing, and do I imagine it? Or do I hear a man's voice yelling? Not in the Capitol accent, but in the rougher cadence of home. And I can't help having a vague, comforting feeling that someone is looking out for me.
Then finally, the time arrives when I come to, and there's nothing plugged into my right arm. The restraint around my middle has been removed, and I am free to move about. I start to sit up but am arrested by the sight of my hands—the skin's perfection, smooth and glowing. Not only are the scars from the arena gone, but those accumulated over the years of working in the field have vanished without a trace. My forehead feels like satin, and when I try to find the cut on my calf, there's nothing.
I slip my legs out of the bed, nervous about how they will bear the weight, and find them strong and steady. Lying at the front of the bed is an outfit that makes me flinch. It's what all of us tributes wore in the arena. I stare at it as if it had teeth until I remember that, of course, this is what I will wear to greet my team.
I'm dressed in less than a minute and fidgeting in front of the wall where I know there's a door even if I can't see it when suddenly it slides open. I step into a wide, deserted hall that appears to have no other doors on it. But it must. Now that I am conscious and moving, I'm growing more and more anxious about all of this. I hear my name being called. It's a voice that provokes first irritation and then eagerness. Mica.
Mica, Willow, Nolan, and Teak. My feet take off without hesitation. Maybe a victor should show more restraint, more superiority, especially when she knows this will be on tape, but I don't care. I run for them and surprise even myself when I launch myself into Willow's arms first. When she whispers in my ear, "Nice job," it doesn't sound sarcastic. Mica's somewhat teary and keeps patting my hair and talking about how she told everyone we were pearls. Nolan is quiet, but I can see the pride in his eyes and the smile on his face. Teak just hugs me tight and doesn't say anything.
After a moment, Nolan speaks, "Go on with Teak. He has to get you ready," says Nolan.
It's a relief to be alone with Teak, to feel his protective arm around my shoulder as he guides me away from the cameras, down a few passages, and to an elevator that leads to the lobby of the Training Center. The hospital then is far underground, even beneath the gym, where the tributes practice tying knots and throwing spears. The windows of the lobby are darkened, and a handful of guards stand on duty. No one else is there to see us cross to the tribute elevator. Our footsteps echo in the emptiness. And when we ride up to the ninth floor, the faces of all the tributes who will never return flash across my mind, and there's a heavy, tight place in my chest.
When the elevator doors open, Ivy, Neem, Ace, and Kai engulf me, talking too quickly and ecstatically. I can't make out their words. The sentiment is clear, though. They are truly thrilled to see me, and I'm happy to see them, too, although not like I was to see Teak. It's more in the way one might be glad to see an affectionate quartet of pets at the end of a, particularly difficult day.
They sweep me into the dining room, and I get a real meal 𑁋 roast beef and peas and soft rolls 𑁋 although my portions are still strictly controlled. Because when I ask for seconds, I'm refused.
"No, no, no. They don't want it all coming back up on the stage," says Ivy, but she secretly slips me an extra roll under the table to let me know she's on my side.
We go back to my room, and Teak disappears for a while as the prep team gets me ready. "Oh, they did a full-body polish on you," says Kai enviously. "Not a flaw left on your skin."
But when I look at my naked body in the mirror, all I can see is how skinny I am. I mean, I'm sure I was worse when I came out of the arena, but I can easily count my ribs.
They take care of the shower settings for me, and they go to work on my hair, nails, and makeup when I'm done. They chatter so continuously that I barely have to reply, which is good since I don't feel very talkative. It's funny because even though they're rattling on about the Games, it's all about where they were or what they were doing, or how they felt when a specific event occurred. "I was still in bed!" "I had just had my eyebrows dyed!" "I swear I nearly fainted!" Everything is about them, not the dying boys and girls in the arena.
We don't wallow around in the Games this way in District 9. We grit our teeth and watch because we must try to get back to business as soon as possible when they're over. To keep from hating the prep team, I effectively tune out most of what they're saying.
Teak comes in with what appears to be an unassuming yellow dress across his arms.
"Have you given up the whole 'golden girl' thing?" I ask.
"You tell me," he says and slips it over my head. I immediately notice the padding over my breasts, adding curves that hunger has stolen from my body. My hands go to my chest, and I frown.
"I know," says Teak before I can even object. "But the Gamemakers wanted to alter you surgically. Willow had a huge fight with them over it. This was the compromise." He stops me before I can look at my reflection. "Wait, don't forget the shoes." Ivy helps me into a pair of flat leather sandals, and I turn to the mirror.
I am still the 'golden girl.' The sheer fabric softly glows. Even the slightest movement in the air sends a ripple up my body. By comparison, the chariot costume seems garish, the interview dress too contrived. In this dress, I give the illusion of wearing candlelight.
"What do you think?" asks Teak.
"I think it's the best yet," I say. When I manage to pull my eyes away from the flickering fabric, I'm in for something of a shock. My hair's loose, held back by a simple hairband. The makeup rounds and fills out the sharp angles of my face. A clear polish coats my nails. The sleeveless dress is gathered at my ribs, not my waist, largely eliminating any help the padding would have given my figure. The hem falls just to my knees. Without heels, you can see my true stature. I look, very simply, like a girl. A young one. Fourteen at most. Innocent. Harmless. Yes, it is shocking that Teak has pulled this off when you remember that I've just won the Games.
This is a very calculated look. Nothing Teak designs is arbitrary. I bite my lip, trying to figure out his motivation.
"I thought it'd be something more ... sophisticated looking," I say.
"I thought the people of the Capitol would like this better," he answers carefully.
The people of the Capitol? I should know that it's always about the Capitol and the Gamemakers and the audience. Although I do not yet understand Teak's design, it's a reminder the Games are not quite finished. And beneath his benign reply, I sense a warning. Of something he can't even mention in front of his own team.
We take the elevator to the level where we trained. It's customary for the victor and his or her support team to rise from beneath the stage. First, the prep team, followed by the escort, the stylist, the mentor, and finally the victor. I find myself in a poorly lit area under the stage. A brand new metal plate has been installed to transport me upward. You can still see small piles of sawdust, smell fresh paint. Teak and the prep team peel off to change into their own costumes and take their positions, leaving me alone.
The rumbling of the crowd is loud, so I don't notice Willow until she touches my shoulder. I spring away, startled, still half in the arena, I guess.
"Easy, just me. Let's have a look at you," Willow says. I hold out my arms and turn once, "Good enough."
It's not much of a compliment. "But what?" I say.
Willow's eyes shift around my musty, holding space, and she seems to make a decision. "But nothing. How about a hug for luck?"
Okay, that's an odd request from Willow, but, after all, we are victors. Maybe a hug for luck is in order. Only, when I pull my arms around her neck, I find myself trapped in her embrace. She begins talking very fast, very quietly in my ear, my hair concealing her lips.
"Listen up. You're in trouble. Word is the Capitol's furious about you showing them up in the arena. The one thing they can't stand is being laughed at, and they're the joke of Panem," says Willow.
I feel dread coursing through me now, but I laugh as though Willow is saying something completely delightful because nothing is covering my mouth. "So, what?"
"Your only defense can be you were so stricken with grief over your fallen tribute that you clung on tight to your only ally." Willow pulls back and adjusts my hairband. "Got it?" She could be talking about anything now.
"Got it."
She leads me to the metal circle. "This is your night. Enjoy it." She kisses me on the forehead and disappears into the gloom.
I tug on my skirt, willing it to be longer, wanting it to cover the knocking in my knees. Then I realize it's pointless. My whole body's shaking like a leaf. Hopefully, it will be put down as excitement. After all, it's my night.
The damp, moldy smell beneath the stage threatens to choke me. A cold, clammy sweat breaks out on my skin, and I can't rid myself of the feeling that the boards above my head are about to collapse, to bury me alive under the rubble. When I left the arena, when the trumpets played, I was supposed to be safe. From then on. For the rest of my life. But if what Willow says is true, and she's got no reason to lie, I've never been in such a dangerous place in my life.
It's so much worse than being hunted in the arena. There, I could only die—end of story. But out here, my mother and the people of District 9, everyone I care about back home could be punished if I can't pull off the girl stricken with grief scenario Willow had suggested.
So I still have a chance, though. Funny, in the arena, when I was saying my final goodbye to Calyptus, or when I was grieving over the lifeless body of Monty, I was only thinking of saying goodbye to getting closure, not how my actions would reflect on the Capitol. But the Hunger Games are their weapon, and you are not supposed to be able to defeat it. So now the Capitol will act as if they've been in control the whole time. As if they orchestrated the whole event, right down to the birds swarming in. But that will only work if I play along with them.
So many questions swim through my mind, like what the Capitol will do to me if I don't do as they say. Would they kill my mother? What do the people back home think about me? Do the people in the districts that I have killed their tribute hate me for doing what I needed to in order to survive? These questions can be unraveled back home, in the peace and quiet of the woods by my house, when no one is watching. Not here with every eye upon me. But I won't have that luxury for who knows how long. And right now, the most dangerous part of the Hunger Games is about to begin.