Chapter Twenty-one

After a brief tour of one of District 10's cattle ranches, Dyson changed into a white shirt and a dark blue jacket and trousers, before he and his entourage met up with the mayor and his family, plus the livestock district's three victors (Tammy, Carl and Holstein) for the Victor's Dinner. Like Yield from District 11, Tammy was in her early eighties, but whereas his apparent frailty concealed a hidden strength, she was so feeble that she needed a walking frame to get around. It was hard to believe she had once been a young girl, much less that she could have won the Fifth Hunger Games. Carl was polite, but distant, which told Dyson he must have been mentor to Randall, the boy Astra had killed, and had therefore not wanted a tribute from District 5 to win. As for Holstein, he bitterly regretted that he had been unable to save Tallulah, but added that it was "better she went out the way she did", especially since she was so young.

"Your partner wasn't much older," Holstein said, looking Dyson in the eye. He sighed, then added: "I saw what you did to her and I'm sorry. I know what a tough decision that must have been; I had to do the same thing to my partner." He recalled the moment his district partner, Marta, had been stung by a scorpion mutt whose sting contained a poison far worse than that carried by ordinary scorpions; it left her in such agony that he had been forced to slit her throat with the knife he'd obtained at the Cornucopia in order to end her suffering. Marta's last words before he killed her had been a request that he would do his best to win for both of them. He'd managed to fulfil that request by lying low and waiting until the field had cleared of all but himself and Grove, the boy from District 7, who he had killed with the same knife he'd used on Marta.

Nearly thirty years separated him and Dyson, but Holstein couldn't help seeing the parallels between them. They'd both had to put their district partners out of their misery, and they'd both gone on to win their respective Games. Which meant Holstein was all too aware of how Dyson must be feeling.

Holstein continued talking, but Dyson didn't register what he was saying. Images crowded his mind. Himself and Astra running for their lives as lightning flashed and crashed around them. Being knocked off his feet by one of the bolts. Seeing his partner burnt beyond recognition and realising there was only one thing he could do for her. Drawing the blade of his machete across her throat. Leaving her lying lifeless on the ground as he fled the scene. Even if he'd been able to hear the cannon over the noise of the lightning storm, it would only have confirmed what he already knew.

Astra was dead. He'd killed her, slit her throat. He might not have thought of her as anything more than an ally he suspected might be out to kill him, but he'd never wanted to be responsible for her death. Thirteen years old. She was thirteen years old and that was the age she would be forever.

"Dyson?" An elderly woman's voice. "Are you OK?"

Brought back to reality, Dyson looked up to see Tammy standing next to him, leaning on her frame, a look of concern on her wrinkled face. At the same time, he registered that his own face was wet even though it had not come into contact with water since he'd washed up in preparation for tonight's dinner. "Yes," he said, wiping his face on the back of his hands. "I'm fine." But, even as he spoke, he knew he was not "fine" and he doubted he would ever truly be "fine" again. He'd spent the last six months trying to forget the arena and everything that had happened there, especially what he'd done to Astra. And Holstein had just brought back his memories of his role in her death. He knew the man was only trying to empathise with him, but did he have to remind him like that?


District 9 was another large district, but it was also sparsely populated, the people living in small villages scattered throughout a landscape dominated by fields of cereal crops. Acres of wheat, barley, oats . . . and so on stretched as far as the eye could see, though at this time of year there was little sign of the golden bounty these acres would later contain, just a few fields of winter varieties that looked like they would be ready for harvesting soon. Not that the locals benefited from their bounty; like the fruit and vegetables grown in District 11, all the grain produced here went straight to the Capitol.

Dyson was just wondering what would happen if Panem's food-producing districts refused to send their respective products to the Capitol when the fields gave way to crumbling concrete buildings. District 9's main town and it looked a rather grim place to live. Ugly. Dominated by factories for processing grain. Dyson had caught glimpses of it on television over the years, mostly while watching reapings or Victory Tours, but seeing it in reality was worse. Far worse.

For the fourth time since the Tour began, the train came to a halt. Dyson (dressed in a white shirt, grey sweater and trousers, with a golden brown coat over the top) emerged onto the platform to face a ritual which was by now so familiar that he could repeat all the steps in his head, not that he wanted to.

Justice Building. Main square. Mayor's speech. Flowers. Scripted thank you. Plaque. All the while, he tried to avoid looking at the people assembled before him, especially Valerie and Glean's grieving families. At least he'd never had anything to do with the tributes from 9 and neither had Astra. Justice Building again. Evening clothes, a cream dress shirt, brown trousers and vest. Victor's Dinner.

Like District 5, District 9 had won the Hunger Games four times, but their first victor, Ethan, had died more than a decade ago, leaving Thalia, Ruth and Consus, the respective winners of the Thirty-fourth, the Forty-fourth and the Fifty-seventh Games. The two women seemed relatively well-adjusted, though Thalia did react with alarm when approached from the side where she was missing an eye and Ruth had bags under her eyes that her make-up failed to conceal. Consus, however, had that look about him that could only come from morphling addiction, eyes unfocused, body already showing signs of deterioration. Another twenty years or so and he would be like Delta and Marius from District 6.

During the dinner of chicken and pasta, Dyson concentrated on the food, letting the conversation between his entourage and the mayor and victors of District 9 wash over him. At one point, however, he caught a little of what Ruth was saying. " . . . not that it's ever easy. I remember Lukas and I talked about it in our Games; thankfully, we never had to face it."

"Yes, I noticed he was barely holding it together in 10," Rik replied, taking a swig from his hip flask, the glass of water in front of him standing untouched. "Especially when Holstein mentioned that he did the same to his partner," he added, his words slurred. "I just hope he can get through the next couple of weeks."

It was all Dyson could do to resist the urge to get up from the table and storm out of the room. First Holstein, now Rik; that was twice he'd been reminded of what he'd done to Astra lately. And, as far as he was concerned, it was twice too often.


The train made its way past row after row of textile factories, punctuated by ugly tenement buildings. No sign of any plant life apart from a few weeds poking through the concrete. District 8, the first of the urban districts through which the Tour would pass - and the first where Dyson would have to face the families of tributes he'd actually killed. In his mind's eye, he saw himself sitting astride Pleat and slashing her throat, putting Linus out of his misery after the acid-spraying bird mutt attacked him. And he would soon have to thank the people of District 8 for offering them as tribute. It had been hard enough giving the Capitol's speech during his first four stops, but he hadn't killed any of the tributes from those districts, though Astra had killed Randall from 10. Here, however . . .

"Dyson, come on; we're nearly there." Adonis's words snapped him out of his thoughts and he followed his stylist and prep team to his compartment, where he would get ready for his appearance in District 8's main square. District 8, the stop he had looked forward to least on the whole Tour, but he had no choice in the matter. He was required to visit all the districts, without exception. All he could do was hope he would be able to maintain his composure during the victory ceremony.

After several minutes, the train came to a halt and the doors opened. Dyson, dressed in the red shirt, black corduroy trousers and charcoal grey coat which Adonis had designed for his public appearance in District 8, took a few deep breaths before stepping out onto the platform.


Dyson and his entourage were driven towards District 8's Justice Building, passing more factories and tenements along the way. Most of the tenements looked as though they had been hastily thrown up with little consideration for the people who had to live in them, a stark contrast to the well built and well maintained apartment buildings in District 5. Apartment buildings like the one he had lived in with Rodd, Zeta and Tia before he won the Hunger Games and was given a house in 5's Victors' Village. It was obvious that this was one of Panem's poorer districts; signs of urban poverty were everywhere. The paint flaking off the front door to one of the tenements. Windows boarded up because they had been broken and the people who lived in the buildings couldn't afford to replace them.

So this was the environment Pleat and Linus had grown up in. An ugly concrete jungle with hardly a blade of grass to be seen. Their only hope of a better life had been to win the Games and thus become eligible to live in District 8's Victors' Village. And he had robbed them of that chance.

He had killed them.

No, that wasn't quite true, at least not where Linus was concerned. He hadn't targetted him with the bird mutt; that was the Gamemakers' doing. All he'd done was end Linus's suffering, but that didn't alter the fact that he would soon have to face the District 8 boy's grieving family. Pleat's too and he hadn't killed her as an act of mercy, he'd killed her because they were fighting over a backpack. If it hadn't been for him, she might have lasted at least a few days in the arena. Instead, he'd slit her throat and she'd been among the seven tributes whose faces were projected into the sky at the end of the first day.

As he had with Astra, he'd spent the six months since the Games trying to forget the tributes from 8 and the role he'd played in their deaths, knowing all the while that the Capitol would not allow him to do so indefinitely. And indeed they hadn't. He was in District 8, the place where Pleat and Linus had been born and brought up, the place they had last seen on the day they were reaped, the place they had returned to as corpses in wooden boxes. Dead. Because of him. And he would soon be on the stage in District 8's main square, only yards from their families.

How was he going to get through this?

Just then, the cars came to a halt. Dyson and his entourage got out and were escorted into District 8's Justice Building, where Dyson went through the by now familiar ritual of having a microphone clipped to him. The entire group then walked together as far as the front entrance, stopping before the closed doors. The national anthem playing. District 8's mayor announcing the arrival of the latest Hunger Games victor. The doors opening. Dyson took a deep breath, telling himself not to think about what he'd done to the tributes from 8, then stepped through the doors and out into the textile district's main square. As he appeared on the stage, he felt (or thought he could feel) the eyes of the crowd boring into him.

Especially the families of the dead tributes. A middle-aged couple and a girl of around twelve years old on Pleat's side. A woman, a boy in his late teens, two girls who looked to be ten and eight years old and another boy who couldn't have been more than four years old on Linus's. None of them spoke, but Dyson could tell they were all thinking the same thing as they turned to look at him.

"You killed them! You killed them!"


Dyson barely registered that District 8's mayor was making the speech given by the mayors of every district when the Victor Tour passed through, the speech in honour of the winning tribute. The words "You killed them!" were playing through his mind on an endless loop that wouldn't shut off. And, as a small boy stepped forward to present him with a bunch of very realistic-looking fabric flowers - clearly real flowers weren't available here, unless you counted the weeds growing in the concrete - they continued to echo.

"You killed them! You killed them! You killed them!"

As he had done at previous victory ceremonies, Dyson took the flowers and stood clasping them in his hands as he mentally prepared himself to give the Capitol's scripted thank you. This was the part of the Tour he hated above all others, uttering words which made him feel like a mouthpiece of the regime which had forced him and the other tributes to fight to the death, but the fact that he was in a district whose tributes he'd killed made it worse. Far worse.

He began clearly enough. "My thanks to the people of District 8. It is an honour and a privilege for me to be here. I also wish . . ." His voice became choked at this point, but he forced himself to continue. ". . . to thank the families of Pleat and Linus . . ."

"You killed them!"

". . . for offering up these tributes. While they didn't win, they fought bravely . . ."

"You killed them! You killed them!"

". . . and you can be proud of them for that. Let their . . ." That was as far as he got before his voice gave out completely and it became impossible for him to say anything else. The mayor quickly apologised that the victory ceremony would have to be cut short as the victor was in no fit state to continue, not that anyone in the crowd minded, especially the families of the dead tributes. They were only here because they had been given no choice in the matter. Just as Pleat and Linus, and most of the other tributes including Dyson, had had no choice but to take part in the Games.

Rik was summoned to the stage, but did not appear; he had been drinking again and was passed out on a couch. So it was Janus who emerged from the Justice Building and walked over to Dyson, putting his arm round his shoulders as he escorted him back inside. Away from the accusing eyes of the people of District 8.


"Will you be all right now?"

It was Adonis who asked this question as he and the rest of Dyson's entourage sat in a room in the Justice Building, waiting for Dyson to regain his composure. Right now, Dyson was sitting in a chair, head in hands, the fabric flowers lying on a nearby table. He looked up at the sound of his stylist's voice, revealing a face that was as wet as it had been in District 10 - and for the same reason.

"I - I think so." Dyson's voice shook, but he fought to control it, feeling a surge of shame that he had broken down in front of so many people. He'd known the victory ceremony in District 8 would be difficult for him, but he'd hadn't expected it to be so hard that he couldn't even get through it without losing it and having to be removed from the stage. Even now, images of Pleat and Linus, dead at his hands, seemed to hover before his eyes, along with the faces of their still grieving families. Pleat's family had lost a daughter and sister, and Linus's family had lost a son and brother. Because of him.

But he quickly dismissed the images from his mind, telling himself he was not going to let his emotions get the better of him again. He was going to hold it together for the rest of the Tour, even when he passed through District 2 and had to face Lupus's family, who would have been watching Lupus's Victory Tour had the final battle of the Sixty-eighth Hunger Games played out differently. And especially on the final stop of the Tour, at which he would come face-to-face with Astra's parents and siblings.

First, though, he had the rest of the Tour to get through, starting with tonight's Victor's Dinner, at which he would meet the victors from 8. And, even though he'd killed both the tributes from the textile district, he was not going to let their mentors know it had affected him in any way. Pleat and Linus were just two more dead tributes who meant no more to him than Stoke and Cormac, Mallow and Husk, Tallulah and Randall, Valerie and Glean. This was just another stop on the Tour.


Dressed in the grey pin-stripe suit, crisp white shirt and paisley tie which Adonis had designed, Dyson was introduced to District 8's three victors. First Woof, the victor of the Seventeenth Games, who was in his late sixties and was already suffering from memory lapses. "Too many blows to the head when I was a boy!" he joked, referring to his Games which had come down to him and the District 1 boy, Rich, who had tried to bash Woof's skull in with a club. Woof had managed to disarm him, then taken advantage of the fact that they were fighting on a cliff to push him off the edge to his death. But, though the blows from Rich's club appeared to have done no lasting damage, Woof had found himself getting confused about things lately. Nothing serious so far, but he knew his memory would only get worse, having seen his grandmother go through the same thing. Towards the end, she hadn't been able to recognise her own family.

Woof had been Linus's mentor, but he'd struggled with the task and kept losing track when he tried to talk tactics. It was becoming clear that he couldn't continue as a mentor for much longer and he'd informed the Gamemakers that he would be retiring after the Sixty-eighth Games were over. Linus's early exit had served to cement that decision. But, even if he was no longer mentoring, Woof was still expected to meet Panem's latest victor. The red-haired boy standing in front of him. What was his name again? Woof had a feeling it began with a D, but he couldn't for the life of him recall what it was. Dylan? No, that wasn't it, but it was something which sounded similar.

A middle-aged woman named Damask, who'd won the Thirtieth Games, was next in line. She'd been left permanently paralysed after a boulder crushed her spine when the Gamemakers triggered a landslide, killing three out of the five tributes who were still alive at that point. The other tribute to survive the landslide had been the girl from District 2, Andromeda, who'd tried to finish Damask off when she found her among the rubble, her legs useless. But Damask, in a final, desperate effort, had thrust the knife she had obtained at the Cornucopia into Andromeda's chest, piercing her heart. Andromeda's cannon had sounded and victory went to Damask, but when the latter was removed from the arena, it soon became clear that even the Capitol's best medical experts couldn't make her walk again.

Now, she sat in her wheelchair, looking up at the boy who'd won the Sixty-eighth Games. As was traditional for a district's victors, she had not been present at the ceremony in the square, but she had heard about it having to be cut short. "I'm sorry about what happened out there," she said as she shook Dyson's hand. "It can't have been easy for you."

"Understatement of the century," said Dyson, forcing himself to smile and reminding himself that he was not going to think about what he'd done to Pleat and Linus. That was the only way he could avoid another emotional breakdown of the sort he'd experienced earlier.

Cecelia, District 8's most recent victor, had won the Fifty-ninth Games, the earliest Games Dyson remembered. During her Games, she had shown a deadly accurate aim with a throwing knife, but had been careful to avoid the other tributes until only a handful were left, so the Careers wouldn't see her as a threat. Eventually, it came down to Emerald from District 1, Gill from District 4 and Cecelia from District 8. Cecelia had stalked the two Careers and, while they were discussing how they were going to take her out, threw two knives at the backs of their heads. Both knives found their marks and Emerald and Gill fell to the ground as their cannons fired, leaving Cecelia as the victor.

Nearly ten years later, Cecelia shook hands with Dyson as she was required to do whenever the latest victor passed through District 8. Even if the victor had killed the tribute you had been mentoring, you were still expected to go through this ritual. As she clasped Dyson's hand, Cecelia looked into his eyes and saw the pain etched there; he was still struggling with his emotions. She had to say something to let him know she didn't hold any grudge against him for what he had done to Pleat.

"Dyson," she said after pausing for several seconds, "I just want you to know I don't blame you for what you did."

"Thanks," Dyson said in reply, realising Cecelia must have been Pleat's mentor. He felt a little better to know she didn't hate him for killing her tribute, but he doubted the image of Pleat lying on the ground with her throat slashed as he sat astride her with a machete in his hand would ever leave him.

The victors from District 8 chatted with Dyson and his entourage while they waited to go in to dinner. The conversation quickly turned to the birth two months earlier of Cecelia's first child, a girl named Taffeta, who had been left in the care of her father while Cecelia attended the Victor's Dinner. But when Cecelia handed round a photograph of a baby lying on a pink blanket, all Dyson could think was that the baby in the picture could end up in the arena one day, and she probably wouldn't get out alive. As had been the case for all but three of the District 8 kids who had been reaped over the years, including Pleat and Linus.

Cecelia might not blame him for killing Pleat, but Dyson didn't think he would ever truly forgive himself. All he could do was push the memory to the back of his mind, which should be easy enough since, after tonight, he wouldn't have to see anyone from District 8 again until the Sixty-ninth Games began in July. As for Taffeta becoming a tribute, she wouldn't even be eligible for the reaping until the Eighty-first Games, so there was no point worrying about it until then.