Chapter 26: These Kids Are on Fire

Luckily, when I find him in the dressing rooms assigned to Twelve, my goddaughter's new stylist seems to have independently absorbed the conceptual seed Chaff has planted inside me. When I ask Cinna how he came by such amazing intuition, he silently turns on the TV mounted on the wall, and selects a playback of the District 12 Reaping. When Peeta mounts the stage, he points out the way he and Katniss are gazing at each other with absolute heartbreak. I see it too, and I realize: if people already don't suspect they are in love with each other, then I'm President Snow. Of course, with how vapid the Capitol audience can be, they might need it spelled out for them; as to how that will happen, I'm less certain. I'll worry about it later. Additionally, in sitting through a third viewing of the Reaping, I notice something I had not noticed before. When Effie announces Katniss as the female tribute from District 12, a great many of our people in the Square press three fingers to their lips and hold them aloft. An image of Glen performing the same ritual flashes through my brain, and I gasp: it's a sign of respect, likely only known among the Seam folk. I guess I didn't notice it in real time because I was in such a state of shock. Perhaps this was what made Chaff target Katniss as a potential ally for the rebel cause. District 11 knows a thing or two about courage – they've been willing to mix it up with the Peacekeepers more than any other district.

I shake my head. I'm getting ahead of myself. I have to remain calm and take everything one step at a time. Pace myself. If I want this too much (though I do desire to have both my kids come home alive, very, very much), I just know I'm going to fuck it up along the way.

That means, as Cinna and I turn back to where Flavius and Octavia, Katniss's prep team, are just finishing up her makeup, I need to focus on getting my godchild and my son through the parade first and hopefully rake in sponsors from that. Then, we will turn to training, then the interviews, and then the rest will follow. One step at a time, Maysilee….

When Katniss and Peeta are finally released to face me, I am stunned by how… flawless each of them looks. The Capitol appreciates a certain kind of beauty, one that only a few tributes throughout history have ever seemed to possess naturally (Finnick Odair is a perfect example). Nevertheless, I am pleased by what little improvements Cinna, Portia and their teams needed to make to get these two ready for primetime. Katniss, of course, has always been a very attractive young lady – a gorgeous, perfect mix between Belle and Glen. Whereas Peeta is pretty much his dad everywhere, complemented mostly by my coloring.

I nod once, the firmness in my jaw and in my approval masking how I want to cry. "You both look splendid," I judge. "Let's get you both to the chariots." Allowing myself a closer look at their outfits as I walk beside them to the stablehouse, I note the faint, shapely indentations in both of their costumes. The pattern looks like…. a tongue of flame? What is it supposed to symbolize? I look to Cinna and he must recognize the question in my eyes for he merely shakes his head with a smile. I am to wait and see, just like everyone else in the audience. From the way the stylist's own eyes sparkle, it is clear he can hardly wait to show off his work.

We arrive at the District 12 chariot at the back of the line. I only note a few of the other district delegations and their tributes; though some of them do rubberneck to study curiously the black and skintight jumpsuits worn by Katniss and Peeta. My son gallantly holds out a hand to his intended, and she gratefully accepts his offer to help her into the chariot. What a gentleman. Cinna passes a small object into Katniss's palm; it looks like a clicker.

"Press this when you're ready," he instructs. My stomach clenches a little in anxiousness: how will Katniss possibly know when the right moment will be? Again, I must be giving away everything on my face for Cinna nods to me reassuringly: She's got this. I trust her. I realize I should too. My goddaughter is nothing if not ingenious and resourceful.

I step back with Cinna and Portia as the distant cheers of the crowd signal us that the District 1 chariots are starting to move forward. I had better get up into the stands along the Avenue of Tributes and find a good seat. Waving goodbye to my tributes and their prep teams, I take my leave.

The Avenue of Tributes has actually always been one of my favorite places in the Capitol (other than the penthouse suite in the Training Center reserved for District 12 every year). There is also an Avenue of Victory several blocks further south, which is lined on either side by marble statues of each of history's 73 Victors. I have always maintained that my statue there is a much better likeness than the one that was unveiled in the District 12 schoolyard, soon after I came home. The year Cecelia Rheys won, I took Rye to the Avenue of Victory to show him Mommy's statue. I don't think he understood what it was all about (he was only three months old at the time) but we made a day of it and had a great time. It also helped me cope with the recent loss of my girl tribute, who had just perished in a rockslide in the arena, partially at Cecelia's hands.

"There she is! Hey, little darling!"

I glance up from watching my feet as I maneuver myself into a row in the bleachers. A big old grin on his face, my old mentor is waving me down. Smiling wanly, I excuse myself past the crunch of people to join him.

Brutus Barsetti is still the most annoying and yet amusing SOB this side of the Appalachian Mountains. He's still bald, though I am of the opinion that the look no longer works for him at 44 than it did when he was 20. Still, we embrace warmly, and he slings a friendly arm over my shoulder.

"Where you been, Maysie? I've been kinda lonely since getting here." I wouldn't have guessed that – he appears even more buoyant and gung-ho than he normally is… and that enthusiasm is pretty damn high to begin with.

Glancing down into the street far below, I can see the Career chariots rumbling along the Avenue. Brutus is grinning ear-to-ear with pride, and he points out his boy, decked out to look like Ares, the ancient Roman god of war. He is adorned with gold, giving off the distinct vibe that the Capitol has crowned him Victor already. "See Cato? You're looking at the Victor of the 74th Hunger Games. And I will have mentored him to glory!"

I smile tightly. "I don't know. My kids are pretty fierce this year."

Brutus side-eyes me, chuckling awkwardly, as though he doesn't believe me. "Who are they anyway?" he tries making conversation, if only to indulge me. "The girl who stepped up for her sister looks like a hot piece of ass."

My grin is now so strained, my teeth are clenched. "That's my goddaughter you're mentally masturbating to, Brutus. You're that hard-up, go screw Cecelia or a prostitute!"

Brutus has the good sense to gape at me. "Goddaughter?" he splutters. "You're kidding!"

I shake my head. "I wish I was."

Rubbing at the back of his neck, my old mentor quickly changes the subject, while District 6 trudges on by below us. "What about the boy? I watched the tape of your district's Reaping; you seemed…. out of it, somehow. When his name was called."

I cock an eyebrow. "Wouldn't you and Cecelia be, if it was your Aaron's name who was called? Wouldn't you be distraught, if it was your son?" Tears are pricking at my eyes, but I don't let them fall; I refuse to cry in front of this man. Had I ever done so when I was still his tribute, he would have called it weakness.

Brutus's cobalt eyes are as big as the diamonds they must mine in the Nut, District 2's largest quarry. "He… he isn't the one who you had to bring to the Capitol during Cecelia's year? Not the one who threw up all over me right after the trumpets sounded?"

My lips upturn into the tiniest of smirks at the memory, though my eyes are still gutted. "No, that was my middle kid, Rye. Effie Reaped my youngest…. Peeta."

Brutus doesn't quite seem to know what to do with his face. There's a part of him that clearly wants to exude some empathy (such as he can muster it), but the dominant part of him – the part that thirsts for glory in the Games – wins out. "What a shame, Little Darling. I'm sorry." He shrugs. "Well, that's just the spirit of the Games, I guess." He smiles at me faintly. If he had tried any less to grant me sympathy in the only way he knows how to, I would probably feel disgusted with him, but instead I just feel exhausted.

That feeling quickly goes away when a deafening roar splits the air, and everyone's attention is drawn towards the far end of the avenue, back near the voms.

Brutus tries to crane his eyes over everyone else's heads, actually curious. "Who the hell is that for…?"

When he and I both finally get a good look, my jaw drops. My heart leaps.

My son and my godchild are literally on fire.

The flames lick up the synthetic material of their jumpsuits, though neither of them burns or otherwise experiences any harm. They stare straight ahead, a united front, dark and mysterious, and when Peeta hefts his fist in the air, his fingers laced through those of Katniss, the audience goes even more berserk. On the Jumbotron, Claudius and Caesar look to be undergoing a collective stroke together, and I am deliciously satisfied at how Brutus's jaw is nearly on the floor of the bleachers. He recovers enough during Snow's speech to glower at me, as if the fashion designs are somehow my fault, and I just smirk innocently and shrug.

When the tributes are released to their mentors, Brutus is not the only one who is glaring daggers at my kids. Clove is all good and ready to carve up my goddaughter like she's a Winter Festival turkey. Cato is about as bad as Brutus in ogling her. Chaff and Seeder show better sportsmanship and Effie is so thrilled, someone might mistake her for being stoned.

I can feel my mobile phone with its temporary SIM card ringing off the hook in my pocket, and I brush it aside for now, at least long enough to whisk my kids to the elevators and ride up to the penthouse suite. I order them both to bed early, seeing as how they will need a fresh start to begin Training come the morning. Peeta makes a show of acting petulant, like how he would sometimes get when he was five and didn't want to go to bed, until I finally have to feign sternness with him and order him to bed by use of his full name. Effie is terribly amused by this; though I can't be sure I actually saw her smiling, I think Katniss is too.

I stay up later than everyone else, seated at my writing desk lit by a single lamp and going over my notes. It's lighter studying than I've ever had to do before, as I have cared for both of these kids since they were in diapers. One of them literally came out of me! The school records provided to me by the District 12 headmaster are almost remedial learning; I signed off on Peeta's report card often enough.

Then I move on to the sponsors, replying back to voicemail messages. I put in a request to the Daughters of the Panemian Revolution, who are usually so generous with their funds and tend to back tributes who make a splash at the parade. I then place an initial call to the Capitol Free Love Society. They're a group of old biddies who have always been one of my staunchest supporters. The ladies are mostly high, believe that my love story with Haymitch Abernathy was the greatest romance of our time, and that the world essentially ended when Haymitch died in my arms. The summer after Peeta was born, when I mentioned on a call how I had named my newborn son partially after my fallen district partner, two of the women were sent into such an emotional ecstasy, they had to be admitted to the hospital. Even nearly a quarter of a century later, there are no shortage of "Haysilees" (that's what they call themselves) still in the Capitol. Their tagline is "If Jack could have fit on that door, Haymitch could have survived that stab wound" – whatever the fuck that means.

I work until my eyelids start to grow heavy before deciding to call it a night. I will need to conserve as much energy as I can for the harder days, which are unfortunately still ahead.


When prepping Katniss and Peeta for training, I drill into them what I told them on the train yesterday: "Do not, under any circumstances, show your hands. Don't let the Careers know what you're good at." Now that my kids made a statement at the parade, Brutus's charges and the District 1 tributes will be watching my son and my goddaughter closely, hoping to learn what they can do. My own fears of him seem to manifest themselves when I instruct, "Most of all, avoid the District 2 boy. Cato. He's going to be Pack Leader." Images are swimming in my head of Cato trying to rape Katniss after getting her alone in a corner somewhere, or of Peeta trying to challenge him on the mat, only for the bigger boy to nearly kill him in a chokehold.

"Oh," I finish, making it sound almost like an afterthought. "And I want you two to stick together like glue."

Thankfully, the kids don't question my advice. Over the next three days, they come back with reports of the new things they have learned.

"I met a trainer over at the Long-Range Weapons Station, Auntie," Katniss tells me one day. "He was… actually nice. Says he knows you well."

I smile fondly. "Proximo. He was working that station when I was a tribute. Gods, he's gotta be… close to 50 now."

Katniss shrugs. "He sure didn't look it." I blink, taken aback by the closest Katniss will probably ever get to saying 'He's cute.' Peeta also seems to read into this statement, and I almost laugh at his envious expression. As for my son's reports, his are more muted, going not much beyond sharing what new skills he's been learning. I don't let myself worry over it.

At the end of the three days, Katniss and Peeta are called in for their private sessions with the Gamemakers. Before they leave for their final morning of training, before they will have to wait to be seen throughout the afternoon, I impart them with this bit of counsel: "Make sure they remember you."

It is certainly the longest final afternoon and evening of training I have ever experienced, even more than my own year. I pace the penthouse frenetically. I try and distract myself by placing more calls to sponsors, which seems to go much better and is more productive. Effie is a big help, keeping me focused.

But as the sun is setting and Katniss finally appears in the elevators, she looks shaken. No, more than that – she appears panicked, nearly in tears.

"What happened, sweetie?" I ask her, taking her hands and guiding her to the wrap-around couch.

In typical Katniss fashion, she tries to weasel away from the difficult, emotional, vulnerable question. "I'm fine…"

"Katniss Magenta Everdeen, I know you better than that. Now what happened?" She glowers at me in a way that reminds me so much of Belle when she would get upset, but I only cock an eyebrow. I can use the full name on you too, young lady.

Katniss ducks her head into her lap. "I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers." She almost whispers it, but I catch it anyway.

I stare. "What? Why?"

"I was one of the last ones to go!" she splutters, and I will myself to reserve judgment and listen until she has fully explained herself. "They were tired and bored after seeing 22 other kids all goddamn day, and they were paying more attention to some stuck, suckling pig than they were to me. So I…. shot at them. My arrow plucked the apple clean out of the pig's mouth. Then I left." She's blushing furiously.

I sit back, arms crossed over my chest as I consider all that I've just heard. Honestly, Katniss's actions could go one of two ways – either benefit her quite greatly, or deep-six her very, very badly. Evidently, she must believe the result will be the latter. I have to reassure her.

And, anyway…

"Good for you."

She raises her grey eyes to mine, blinking. "Huh?"

"If they weren't giving you your due, then you made them give of their time and pay attention to you. That's your right, as a tribute."

Katniss turns further pink. "I guess I took your 'Make sure they remember you' advice too literally, huh?"

I laugh. "Perhaps. We won't know until Caesar announces the score returns tonight. In the meantime, try to relax."

Peeta soon arrives, the last tribute seen of all. When I ask my son how it went, he merely grunts out, "Fine." I frown, but don't press him for details. I cannot escape the nagging feeling that something is wrong. I decide to wait him out, and hope Peeta will come to me when he is ready. I just hope that moment won't come too late.

That evening, Caesar broadcasts all two-dozen training scores live. Cato and his Career allies from his district and District 1 rack up 9s and 10s. Thresh also gets a 10. The rest range from pretty average to downright forgettable.

"And now, for the youngest boy of the District 12 beauty Maysilee Donner, it is Peeta Mellark…!"

Caesar skipped Katniss, I blink, frowning. In every structured event pre-Games, the tributes are always presented in a gendered order – girl, boy. Why would Caesar change that rule right at the end of the night? Unless…

I surface out of my thoughts long enough to hear Caesar give my son a score of 8. Right behind the Careers.

Cinna whistles, impressed. "Where did you say this kid came from?"

"My womb," I quip, smirking impishly. Portia nearly chokes into her drink from laughter, which makes me chuckle. I beam at my baby proudly. "I'm so proud of you, Peetey!" Peeta winces at my pet name for him, but lets it slide. I think I catch Katniss smirking in an almost… tender way.

"And finally, we have the lovely Katniss Everdeen! With a score of…." Caesar pauses for a long moment, checking the paper in front of him, then checking it again, as if he can't quite believe what is written there.

"…. 11."

Effie lets out a shriek of excitement and Cinna belly laughs triumphantly. Katniss's tongue is hanging nearly out of her mouth. Me? I'm smirking like a smug bastard who just got off on bail. Chew on THAT, Brutus.

Peeta is also stunned, coupled with what is clearly immense pride. "Congratulations," he breathes to his crush. She nods to him politely, and Peeta's grin of pride widens. "This is amazing! Katniss, I'm so proud of you, I could kiss you!"

Everyone falls silent, all of us looking at my goddaughter. Katniss is blushing bright red, but makes no moves to respond to Peeta's praise before merely getting up and rounding the couch. Just before she exits the room, she abruptly turns back, stares straight at my son and stammers out. "Good… good night." Then she flees.

Portia seems stumped. "What the hell was that?" No one answers her.

Cinna pops the cork on some champagne, pouring the wine liberally and raising his glass in a toast. "To Katniss Everdeen, the Girl on…. Fire!"

We all copy him and give three cheers. I am beaming, more hopeful than I have ever been that I might really be able to save one of my kids, and possibly both of them, if I can get away with it.

Simultaneously, I am more terrified than I have ever been, for largely the exact same reasons, plus several others.

For now, there is a giant red target on my goddaughter's back. Suddenly, she is the one to beat. The one everyone will now want to kill…. especially Brutus's boy, Cato.