Chapter Twenty-three
District 3, another concrete jungle of a district. As he and his entourage were driven towards the Justice Building, Dyson could see nothing but factories and tower blocks in every direction. A few of the latter housed companies which specialised in developing new hi-tech devices for the Capitol, which were then built in the factories, but most were residential. Ugly grey buildings several storeys high that were home to all but a handful of District 3's citizens. The well-to-do, or what passed for the well-to-do, lived in separate houses located in an area known locally as the Subs. And, of course, the district's victors had houses in the Victors' Village.
When the cars stopped outside the Justice Building, Dyson went through a repetition of the ritual he had been through in eight previous districts. By now, he could repeat all the steps in his head, not that he wanted to any more than he wanted to give the speech he was required to give at the victory ceremony. That speech was pure Capitol propaganda, especially the bit thanking the families of the dead tributes. At least, he told himself as he tried to avoid looking at Synthia and Digit's families on the platform below the stage, he would only have to say those words three more times, after which he would never have to utter them again.
After the victory ceremony was over, Dyson was taken on a tour of an electronics factory. His guide, a woman named Connie Dewhurst, showed him the various stages of making the gadgets District 3 produced, from sorting out the raw materials to the moment the final product was packed up ready to be sent to the Capitol. However, though she was very knowledgeable about the products, she seemed like she would rather be doing anything apart from escorting the latest victor. She never looked at Dyson once and insisted that he remained several paces behind her at all times. Eventually, Dyson asked her why she was being so distant with him.
"It's nothing," she replied, still not looking at him. "I've just learned not to get too close to people after what happened to my brother."
"What happened to your brother?" Dyson asked, even though he had a feeling he already knew the answer.
"The Games happened to him." Connie did not elaborate, not that she needed to; neither of District 3's two male victors had the surname Dewhurst.
Of the four victors District 3 had produced, two had since passed away. Flexa, who'd won the Thirty-sixth Games by setting her final opponent alight, had died suddenly soon after returning from her Victory Tour; it later turned out that she'd had an undiagnosed heart defect which must have been aggravated by the stress of being in the Games. And just ten years after Flexa's death, Gizmo, the victor of the Nineteenth Games, was also dead, killed by a morphling overdose.
Which left only Beetee and Wiress, the respective victors of the Thirty-fifth and the Forty-eighth Games. Two victors, the fewest Dyson had met since the Tour passed through District 12. He shook hands with each of them in turn, noting that both had nervous twitches that he guessed had something to do with what they had been through in the arena. Wiress in particular tended to lose track of what she was saying, often leaving Beetee to finish her sentences for her, but she seemed bright enough and was keenly perceptive. Indeed, Dyson recalled being told that she had won her Games because she was able to spot, and therefore avoid, Gamemakers' traps, while luring her opponents into the same traps.
"It's just a matter of looking . . ." she began.
". . . for subtle differences," Beetee concluded. "A patch of grass which is a slightly different shade of green than the surrounding blades, for instance. Your district partner triggered that trap with the mosquito mutts, didn't she?"
Dyson nodded, recalling the moment the ground had shifted beneath Astra's feet and a swarm of genetically engineered mosquitoes appeared as if from nowhere. He remembered how he and Astra had fled from the relentless insects, how they had just made it to the shelter of a cave before collapsing from the toxin the mosquitoes had injected into them, how they had received a parachute containing an antidote. From what Beetee was saying, they could have avoided the mosquitoes had Astra been paying more attention to the ground under her feet.
As if reading his mind, Wiress said: "She could have avoided it . . ."
". . . if she'd been watching where she was walking." Beetee looked at Dyson under the frames of the glasses he wore. "Obviously, it's too late for her, but it's good advice for you to pass on to future tributes from your district."
"Thanks, I'll do that," Dyson said, trying not to let Wiress and Beetee know their talk about Astra bothered him. He was not going to allow himself to lose control the way he had in District 8, not even when the tributes he had killed were mentioned. And, in his case, that included his district partner, who he had finished off after she was struck by lightning and burned to a crisp, just as he had finished off Linus after the latter was burned by an acid-spraying bird mutt. He would have to face Astra's family when he returned to District 5, but he was going to keep his emotions in check. After all, it wasn't like she'd been his friend before the Games and she certainly hadn't been his friend during them, just an ally who couldn't be completely trusted.
In the meantime, Wiress quietly began to sing a song about an elephant called Nellie escaping from the circus. A simple song, but the circus reference reminded Dyson of something he'd once been told in school. The origin of the name Panem. His teacher had explained it came from a phrase in a language called Latin: Panem et circenses, which translated as "bread and circuses". Bread and circuses. Food and entertainment. Supposedly, the Capitol provided the people of Panem with both, but they didn't distribute the food very evenly and, as for entertainment, only a sadist would consider something like the Hunger Games entertaining. And, unlike the circus Nellie escaped from in Wiress's song, there was no getting away from the Games.
Or was there? Might Wiress be dropping a hint that things in Panem would change one day, that kids wouldn't always have to fight to the death in the Hunger Games? If so, it was a very subtle one, but of course it had to be, as openly plotting a rebellion would bring down the wrath of the Capitol on the plotters and anyone close to them. It might even lead to another district being destroyed in the same manner as District 13.
Just then, however, a young woman emerged to announce that the Victor's Dinner was served, distracting Dyson from thoughts of any potential attempts to overthrow the Capitol.
Another long train journey brought Dyson and his entourage to District 2, a mountainous district which lay due south of the Capitol. Most of the people lived in villages built to serve the mines and quarries from which various mineral ores were extracted, or at least that was their original purpose. However, since the destruction of District 13 and the subsequent shift of the Capitol's military might to District 2, several of these villages had become Peacekeeper training camps. The citizens of 2 were raised with a military mindset and many chose to join the ranks of the Peacekeepers rather than endure the mines and the dangers associated with working in such an environment. Not that Dyson knew about this; like every other district citizen, he had been brought up to believe that all the Peacekeepers came from the Capitol.
However, he did know that he would soon have to face the people of District 2, the most Capitol-loyal district in Panem, when he appeared in the main square for the victory ceremony. This was also the district that had been home to Lupus, the boy he'd killed in the finale of the Sixty-eighth Games, the boy who would have been making the Victory Tour had things played out differently. Fragments of memory slipped into his mind. Lupus bringing his mace crashing down on his arm. The crunch of shattering bones. Agonising pain. He could feel that pain as clearly as he had the moment Lupus inflicted the injury. Fighting on with his broken arm dangling limply.
"Dyson?" Janus's voice brought Dyson back to reality and he looked up to see his escort looking at him with a concerned expression on his face. "Are you all right?" Janus asked. "You looked like you were remembering something."
Dyson shrugged, trying to act like it was no big deal. "It's . . . it's nothing. I was just thinking about what happened at the end of the Games, that's all."
"Understandable under the circumstances. After all, this was your final opponent's home and you're about to face his people. Think you're up to it?"
"Yes," Dyson replied, telling himself that what had happened in District 8 was not going to happen here. He was going to stand on the stage and thank the people of District 2 and he was going to do it without letting his emotions get the better of him, even with Lupus's family only a few feet away. They probably hated his guts because of what he'd done to Lupus, but he was not going to show any weakness in front of them. Especially given District 2's reputation for producing tough tributes, and Lupus had been one of the toughest out of those who'd been in the arena with him.
As he, accompanied by his entourage, walked towards the front entrance of District 2's Justice Building, Dyson stole occasional glances at the decor. Stone columns, intricately carved, acted as roof supports, while the walls were hung with paintings of men in tunics and metal breastplates, many of them wielding weapons. But for the fact that they were past reaping age, they might have been tributes in the arena. Indeed, he recalled seeing tributes from 2 dressed in a similar way at the tribute parade, though he'd often wondered what this had to do with masonry. Statues? That seemed the most likely explanation, but it didn't account for the paintings of what were obviously soldiers of some kind. Soldiers from some ancient time long before Panem, but still soldiers. At least the columns were an obvious reference to the stone quarries he'd passed on his way here.
Reaching the front entrance, he heard the national anthem playing and the voice of what could only be District 2's mayor announcing him. This was followed by the now familiar ritual of the doors opening, enabling him to step out of the Justice Building and into the main square, out to face another district where two young people had died in the Capitol's sadistic Games. Two young people, one of whom he had killed personally.
No, he wasn't going to think about that. He was going to think of Lupus as just another tribute, someone who'd had to die so that he could be here now. Kill or be killed. He'd had to kill Lupus to prevent Lupus from killing him; that was just how the Hunger Games worked.
With that in mind, he held his head high and walked through the doors, emerging on the stage which had been set up in front of the Justice Building. As District 2's mayor, a tall woman with collar-length dark hair, gave the traditional speech in his honour, he found his gaze being drawn inexorably towards the platform where the families of the dead tributes sat. On one side, Bellona's parents and younger brother, a tough-looking kid of around twelve or thirteen years old who probably wouldn't let his sister's death put him off volunteering for the Games himself in a few years; if anything, it might make him more determined to succeed where she had failed. On the other, Lupus's parents and a young woman, the latter cradling a small baby that couldn't have been more than two weeks old in her arms. Was she Lupus's sister? If so, she didn't resemble him very much, though there was something familiar about her. And what was the baby doing there?
However, Dyson did not have long to think about this before a little girl came onto the stage and presented him with a wreath of laurel leaves. His cue to give the speech thanking the people of District 2. He had to get through this. He was not going to break down and have to be escorted off the stage like he had in District 8, not in a Career district. Holding his wreath in front of him, he began to speak in an even tone that betrayed no emotion.
"My thanks to the people of District 2. It is an honour and a privilege for me to be here. I also wish to thank the families of Bellona and Lupus for offering up these tributes. While they didn't win, they fought bravely and you can be proud of them for that. Let their sacrifice serve to remind you of the power of the Capitol and be thankful."
The mayor then stepped forward to present Dyson with his plaque, but before she could do so, the young woman on Lupus's side of the platform suddenly got to her feet and, still holding the baby in her arms, marched towards the stage.
"See this?" The young woman, having mounted the stage, stood directly in front of Dyson, brandishing the baby before his eyes. "Do you know who this is?" When Dyson didn't reply, she hurried on. "Well, I'll tell you. My daughter, Diana. Lupus's daughter, not that she'll ever know her father - because of you! Because you murdered him!"
Realising the implications of these words, Dyson tried to calm her down. "I'm sorry; I had no idea . . ."
"That's it? You're sorry for killing the boy I loved? I was going to surprise Lupus with the news about Diana when he came home, and we were going to get married and live in the Victors' Village as a family. Me, Lupus and our kids. This was supposed to be his Victory Tour, but you . . ." She was cut off in mid-rant as Diana, disturbed by the way her mother was shouting, started to cry. At the same instant, Lupus's mother made her way onto the stage and walked over to the young woman, gently touching her on her arm.
"Augusta." The young woman looked round at the sound of her name. "Augusta," Lupus's mother said again, "there's no way he could have known you were expecting Lupus's child. Now, come away and let the mayor get on with the ceremony."
Augusta scowled and looked as though she was about to say something. Instead, she shook her head and allowed the woman who would have been her mother-in-law had things worked out differently to lead her back to the platform. Resuming her seat, she concentrated her gaze on the child in her arms as the mayor handed the victor's plaque to Dyson and the crowd applauded. Needing both arms to hold Diana, she could not join in the applause, not that she wanted to, not if it meant applauding the person who had killed Lupus.
Dyson stood clutching his laurel wreath and plaque, wishing the mayor would hurry up and declare the ceremony over. He genuinely hadn't known Lupus was in a relationship, much less that his girlfriend was pregnant, but would it have made any difference if he had? Probably not, he realised; it certainly wouldn't have made any difference to Lupus. The District 2 boy would have killed him without hesitation, without thought to the fact that Paula was waiting back in District 5. Kill or be killed.
All the same, Augusta's stage invasion had shaken him up, reminding him that he was alive at the expense of twenty-three lives, including Lupus's. Twenty-three lives. Twenty-three grieving families. That was the price of being a victor in the Hunger Games.
"So what's going to happen to that girl?" Dyson asked as he and his entourage waited to meet the victors from District 2.
"She'll have to appear in court," Janus replied. "And then she'll most likely get a fine for disrupting the ceremony. She's lucky she was born in 2; the Peacekeepers are more lenient here than in most districts. If this was 11, for instance . . ." He mimed cutting his own throat. ". . . baby or no baby. And the child would have had to go to the Community Home unless she had family who could take her in."
Another example of how the Career districts had it easy compared to the other nine. From what Janus was saying, anyone who invaded the stage during the victory ceremony in one of the outlying districts as Augusta had done here would be in serious trouble. They could even face summary execution. But because Augusta was from the largely pro-Capitol District 2, the chances were she would get away with a fine. The injustice of it rankled, made worse by the fact that there was nothing anyone could do to change things. Unless, as Dyson had wondered back in District 3, there had been a coded message in Wiress's song.
Before he had time to give this much thought, however, he was walking along the row of victors, shaking hands with each of them in turn. District 2 had produced more victors than any other district, fourteen in total, all but two of whom were still alive. Twelve victors, the most he would meet on this Tour. The only district which came close to rivalling District 2 in terms of victors was District 1, which had won the Games eleven times and had nine living victors.
As he had done on previous occasions, Janus introduced Dyson to each of the District 2 victors in turn. Ulysses and Faustina, a pair of siblings who'd won the Eighth and the Twelfth Games respectively. Magnus, the victor of the Eighteenth Games, who looked like he could still hold his own despite being in his late sixties. A woman named Eris, who'd won the Twenty-fourth Games and had been only the second Career victor in the history of the Games. Tiberius, who'd been the victor in the Thirty-first Games, and Lyme, who'd won ten years later. Brutus was the victor of the Forty-ninth Games and looked so much like a younger version of Magnus that Dyson guessed they were father and son. Then there was Drusilla, who'd become a victor in the same year Dyson was born. Basalt, the victor of the Fifty-fifth Games. Hannibal, who'd won the Sixty-first Games. Enobaria, who'd won the following year and had famously ripped another tribute's throat out with her bare teeth. Finally, there was Hercules, who'd made a notch on the shaft of his spear every time he made a kill; by the time he was declared victor, his spear contained nine notches, three of which were for other members of the Career pack.
Dyson tried to smile politely as he shook hands with the victors from 2, but all he could think about was how many tributes had died at their hands. Of course, tributes had died at the hands of victors from other districts, but District 2 tributes had long had a reputation for being bloodthirsty, celebrating each kill as Lupus had done with his imitation of a wolf's howl. Dyson knew he would never celebrate what he had done to four of his fellow tributes and the last thing he wanted was to be around people who had willingly taken the lives of other human beings and rejoiced in doing so. But he had no choice but to be here, no choice but to meet these people. At least he wouldn't have to see them again after tonight, not until the Games started again in July.
Because so many people attended the Victor's Dinner in District 2, two tables had been set up, with the mayor and her family, plus Dyson and his entourage, seated around one, while the district's victors sat around the other. Dyson was glad not to be at the same table as the victors, especially Enobaria who'd proudly shown off how she'd had her teeth filed into fangs and inlaid with gold. The sight of them reminded him of how she'd killed someone with a bite to the throat; the sight of her blood-stained mouth had made him feel physically sick. And that was before she'd had her teeth modified, making them even more lethal. He shuddered at the thought of those fangs clamping round his throat, severing his windpipe . . .
He shook his head, telling himself that he and Enobaria were both victors now, that victors did not go round ripping each other's throats out. That sort of thing only happened in the arena. All the same, he did not want to be anywhere near these people who had been raised to see the Hunger Games as something to be celebrated. If he could have left the room right there and then, he would have, but he didn't have that option. All he could do was avert his gaze from the District 2 victors.
As everyone tucked into the goulash which they had been served, Dyson caught a little of the conversation between Eris and Drusilla over on the victors' table.
"You can't really blame Augusta," Drusilla was saying.
"But to interrupt the ceremony like that . . ."
"You have to remember she lost her brother to the Games a couple of years back. And then she lost the father of her child, and had to face his killer on top of that. I know how I'd feel if it was me."
Drusilla's words set Dyson to thinking. She'd mentioned that Augusta's brother had died in the Games "a couple of years back." That would make it the Sixty-sixth Games, the year most of the tributes froze to death and the Gamemakers tried to liven things up with an attack by polar bear mutts. Three out of the four remaining tributes had been killed by the bears, including District 2's male tribute, Justin. Dyson remembered seeing his parents and sister on television during the Victory Tour a few months later. His parents and sister . . . Of course! That was where he'd seen Augusta before. First her brother, then the boy she'd loved, both fatalities of the Hunger Games. Drusilla was right; you couldn't blame her for being upset.
Upset. That was the last thing he would have imagined someone from District 2 being. He'd always thought of the people from 2 as hard like the stone they quarried, but apparently this didn't apply to all of them. And it was equally apparent that, for all the Games were glorified here, the loved ones of the District 2 tributes who died in the arena felt their loss as keenly as the friends and families of the dead tributes from the other districts.