Chapter 33: Chariots of Fire
It took me a long time to drift off last night. Even then, I don't know how much sleep I truly got – I think I might be suffering from a light case of insomnia, for if I did sleep at any point, I don't remember closing my eyes. The first gray hues poking in through the curtains in my sleeping car nudge me into rising, showering and dressing for the day.
We'll be in the Capitol in a little over two hours. I decide to use that time privately and productively, going over all the facts as they have been laid out to me:
This is a Quarter Quell that will see two dozen of the 59 living Victors thrown back into the arena for the Capitol's own amusement. The twist and the Reapings that followed have yielded tributes with a never-before-seen array of age and life experience – full-grown adults who will be required to make a mad dash for the Cornucopia and fight to the death once again. The oldest tribute is an 80-year-old grandpa (Woof) already experiencing significant mental and likely even physical decline. Approaching 70, Evelyn Morris of 9 is not far behind in age, nor is Seeder Crue; Beetee Latier is in his late 50s. Then, there are of course, my peers, Chaff and Brutus – nearing middle age but not quite over-the-hill. Everyone else is still young and the picture of health (relatively speaking, a Victor's physiological well-being is always in flux) right on down to my kids, both of whom are still of the normal Reaping age. I feel tremors starting to take over my body from nerves, and I have to sit down to get them to stop. Just what will an arena filled with grown men and women look like? I don't know, nor does anyone else, but I have a feeling it is going to be bad, tragic and any other pitiful terms that come to mind.
I then turn to studying the competition themselves. Two of the Reaped Victors – one of whom is my old mentor - have already explicitly indicated that they are gunning for my kids. That they intend to murder my tributes. Both give me grave cause for concern: though slightly older than me, Brutus Barsetti is still in remarkable shape, and still commands an intimidating presence among his fellow Careers even when he simply just walks down the street. Katniss was practically ogling the man when he leapt forward for another chance at glory; between that and the way she has shown clear attraction towards my son, it is clear that she really appreciates men with solid muscles, which tells me more about my goddaughter's sexual tastes and preferences than I have ever wanted to know.
Then there is Roan Tully, who is still lean and strong and in his prime after the Games he won 17 years ago, the year that both my goddaughter and my youngest son were born. Mid-30s now, Roan is known for being brash, aggressive and particularly cruel for a Victor from an outsider district. Many of my colleagues and I have learned well to steer clear of the only male Victor from 10; his two female counterparts, Bovina Martinez and Elena Perez, barely tolerate him. When he was a tribute, Roan frequently spurned their help and even disparaged them in public, referring to them in his first interview with Caesar Flickerman as "those Sazi bitches." I only know a smattering of information about District 10 culture, but that is a racial slur if I ever heard one. The cultural rifts between the settlers of Ten and the Anasazi indigenous people – though they have seen hopeful improvements in reconciliation since Elena's day – still hover like smoke over the district as much as the animosity between Merchant and Seam still hovers over Twelve. Like my Merchant people, the settlers in Ten have always expected that the Hunger Games was for the lower class… so when Roan got Reaped soon after I give birth for the third and final time, the southernmost district's elite took the decision hard. Roan was resentful, and although he productively used that emotion to hack his way through three Careers, his own district partner and two other tributes to reach the top, that resentment has festered like an open wound in him ever since. I've predicted that some Victors might lay the blame for this disaster at the feet of my kids, and Roan's temperament has inspired him to do just that. He is being forced back into a world he never wanted or asked for or imagined he would be a part of, and now he's out for revenge.
I cannot afford to dismiss either of these two men out of hand. Every Victor may have their vice, their… addiction, but those of Brutus and Roan will not have incapacitated or addled them in any crucial way. Brutus's kryptonite is sex (one could say it's also mine, resulting in a healthier sex life and marriage than most other women in my district), while Roan's is sheer cruelty. I shudder to think what either of them would do should they get their hands on Katniss. Roan would probably kill her outright. Dark and disturbing as it is, I cannot immediately assume that Brutus wouldn't do something like rape my goddaughter before bashing her head in. After all, I only need think back to my interview prep with Brutus, long ago, and how he propositioned me. He felt guilty about it afterwards, and we've both made our peace with it, but…. that was then. I don't think the Brutus I met when I was 16, the Brutus I know, is the Brutus who just volunteered to return to a contained war zone.
I shake my head, trying not to cry. There definitely is a part of me that seems to be going into mourning when thinking about Brutus. About how he openly threatened my son, then made good on that threat by willfully stepping back into the Games. The chances of my mentor and my baby boy confronting each other are higher than I am comfortable with, and too much for me to contemplate. I think about how blindingly enraged Brutus became at the death of Cato last summer. How he declared up and down that my Peeta had 'cheated'. That is not the way the Games are played, he insisted. My response to that should have been, well, then how are they played, Brutus? How can you play a Game with close to zero rules? Brutus taught me about the values of good sportsmanship, and that the person who is Victor is so because he or she deserves to be. He never said that about my son. Or Katniss, for that matter, although I imagine that if Katniss had walked out of the arena alone, he would have accepted her as Victor. Brutus first introduced me to the concept of glory with honor. Have the Games so thoroughly radicalized Brutus – a man who regularly watches re-runs of media-broadcasted, state-sanctioned murder for fun – that he thinks the only tributes who know how to play the Games are the ones whom he supports? That Peeta and Katniss showed no honor in their pursuit of glory so that therefore they are unworthy of either? Somehow illegitimate? For my old mentor, an ancient quote from that almost mythical statesman of what was once the United Kingdom, Winston Churchill, must ring true: "You were given the choice between war and dishonor. You chose dishonor and you will have war." And Brutus will be the one to wage it. He's made no equivocations about that.
I blink back the tears. My relationship with Brutus as I once knew it might be finished. He might be re-entering the arena for a second chance at glory and a dash of vengeance. He might have a score to settle… but he won't settle it. He threatened my son. And when you threaten my son, you threaten me. He won't have Peeta. Not my son. Not my children.
Unfortunately, Brutus and Roan are not my only problems. Nolan de Naro of 9, though not much younger than Beetee, is still remarkably strong for a man his age, and is known to be a bit of a loose cannon. Add to that the fact that District 9 tends to look out for their own, and probably won't be sympathetic to the uprisings or the rebel cause, and Nolan might be a threat to my tributes. He hasn't made it clear that he is coming for them, the way Brutus and Roan have, but I can almost guarantee Nolan wouldn't be interested in an alliance. Cecelia Rheys of 8, though well into her thirties herself and a mother thrice over like me, could also be a wild card. When Cecelia won, the year I had to bring baby Rye to the Capitol, she personally butchered through ten tributes, earning her the nickname the Angel of Death. Enlisted back into the arena due to Cora's passing and Cotton's unwillingness to volunteer, Cecelia has something to live for and get home to – three little babies and her husband, a family that means everything to her. I never have known Cecelia that well, but I do know her well enough to postulate that desire to return safely to her family means more to her than any bigger picture of a potential revolution. The one thing that makes me take pause is that she is from District 8, where current fighting has apparently been fiercest (according to intelligence I've received) and where some of the worst battles took place during the Dark Days.
The Delacroix twins… I don't want to think about them. But if Brutus assumes the position of Pack Leader and issues a manhunt order for Katniss, Gloss and his ditzy sister will back him without question, like automatons. Enobaria Malachite would and likely will carry out similar orders with relish.
That's seven tributes right there – nearly a third of the field – who could be a contender for the Crown and thus a threat to the survival of my kids. I wish I could say the number of tributes who are easy cannon fodder is even higher. But so far, that list just comes down to the following people: Woof Barton, decrepit and probably not too many years off from a natural death anyway, will be lucky to make it off his pedestal. Mitt and Maeve – the Morphlings from Six – are stoned off their asses and will likely be going through withdrawal by the time the gong sounds. Matthias Fletcher can barely walk without the help of a beer bottle; he will likely be suffering from similar substance abuse afflictions. Wiress will need Beetee to give her directions like he's her own personal traffic cop, and poor Annie Cresta will likely be wandering in literal circles when she isn't glued to Finnick's side….
Finnick… that gives me an idea, and with it, a little bit of hope. With Annie in the mix, Finnick will almost without a doubt stay far away from the Careers. He won't let them anywhere near Annie. He will be protecting her. If I could convince him to protect two more… Finnick Odair has a monopoly on some of the biggest financiers in the Capitol. He's handsome, charismatic, and an exceptional fighter, particularly in water. Armed with a trident, he could fend off bigger combatants and shield my kids. Oh, the man might be wary of taking anyone else under his wing if it might interfere with his ability to protect Annie, but my kids aren't completely hopeless. Katniss has her bow; Peeta is quick with his knife. Anybody who thinks they just waltzed through their first arena (never mind that the Careers did most of the work) is kidding themselves.
That doesn't mean my goddaughter and my son aren't vulnerable, though. There are going into an arena with experienced killers, not trembling children. They will need allies, and it is something I will have to sell them on, likely this evening or tomorrow morning before Training, when I finally have them alone to talk.
But other than Finnick, who else could I trust that is capable? Chaff immediately comes to mind; he practically fell in love with Katniss when she dared to proverbially tell the Capitol to go fuck themselves. He may have only one hand, but I have personally witnessed how much damage he can do with that hand. And Seeder Crue may be getting up in years, but she's no wilting flower. An alliance with the pair from District 11 could grant my kids a comfortable degree of safety. Add Finnick into the band, even better.
Johanna Mason… she can be quite brittle, and even reminds me a little bit of Katniss when she was younger, before love softened her and she fell quite desperately for my son. But Johanna is wicked with an axe blade, turning on her other competition in her first Final Eight after everyone had written her off. And Blight Gavin is quite the vicious jackal. I know Blight is sympathetic to our cause, and if he signs on, he might be able to persuade Johanna to tag along. Better to have a useful warrior in Blight than to have more cannon fodder like Jules Elmer, though that would have made my kids' path to the Crown a little easier, had his Reaping been allowed to stand. I feel for poor Annie in the exact same way. Had Mags' desire to volunteer been acknowledged, there would not be the concern of Finnick placing Annie as his highest priority. I still don't know if, boxed into an untenable position, Finnick won't choose to rescue Annie, even at the expense of my kids.
So whom does that leave me with? A vicious pretty boy with his half-mad lover in tow, a lovably roguish lumberjack, his shrewish district partner and two aging black people (one of whom is a cripple). It would be quite the alliance of misfits, but they all can fight, except for Annie. And even with Annie, that's a third of the field – which would be more than enough to take on the Careers, and Roan and Nolan and possibly even Cecelia if Brutus's crew courted them to bulk up their numbers. The remaining third are pretty much doomed – other than who I've already sifted through above, Beetee, Elena and Evelyn Morris from 9 are all getting too old to defend themselves adequately in a fight. The last unaccounted for piece on the board is Circe Montoya, from District 5; I have no idea how she'll play, but she was a loner in her last Games. She'll be a loner in this one, and won't get drawn into combat willingly unless she gets really close to the end.
An urgent THWAP on the door makes me glance up from where I've been taking notes at my writing desk. "Miss Donner… we have less than an hour before we arrive in the Capitol. The children are rousing themselves and heading to breakfast."
I sigh sadly. "All right, Effie. I'll be right there."
"Very good, ma'am."
The roar of the Capitol crowds sounds like an earthquake.
It sounds even louder than their greeting of the tributes is in an ordinary year, but there is something off: it is more desperate somehow, in its tenor. When our train rounds the bend into the station, I am shocked to see many of the vapid citizens in tears, pressing in against the glass. When they see it is Peeta and Katniss who are aboard, the weeping and screaming becomes even more hysterical.
It's like these tragic, stupid people already know. They already know how this Quell twist is affecting us, because it is affecting them. I had imagined these citizens would be excited – to think of Victors themselves going back, and there can only be one who triumphs a second time.
There can only be one… I feel bile and acid starting to churn in my stomach, but I hold it in. At least one of these young people beside me will be dead in a matter of days. And the Capitolites know it, too. It never occurred to me how… attached President Snow's direct constituents would get to their champions. I've had my legions of fans here over the years, particularly from the Capitol Free Love Society, but I never thought…
As the train slows to a complete stop, I tell Katniss and Peeta what Brutus told me all those years ago before the last Quell: "Look impervious. Tough and intimidating. Like this whole thing is beneath you."
Katniss's face scarcely has to move to reach a pitch-perfect imitation of this exact expression. "That should be easy."
The minute the doors open, we are mobbed.
Everyone is pressing in, sobbing, shrieking, reaching out to touch us. A woman in a purple-blue wig draws back, screeching about how she got a lock of Peeta's hair, and at least four others tackle her like they're linebackers, also wanting the artifact. The Peacekeepers are acting the roughest I have ever seen them, here or in District 12, flinging people back with their batons and clearing a path for us, but barely. Even the white-plated officers seem jumpy.
A stretch limousine takes us to the Remake Center, and we enter to find Cinna and Portia waiting for us. Katniss lets out a strangled cry as she throws her arms around her stylist. Cinna merely rocks her, patting the top of her head, before leaning back to look her in the eyes.
"You ready to go to work?" Beside them, Portia is warmly embracing Peeta, talking to him in low tones.
Once both of my kids are whisked away, I head for the stablehouses. Amidst the hustle and bustle, I see a very familiar blond and balding man wearing purple Gamemaker robes.
"Mr. Heavensbee!" I dash over to shake his hand.
He smiles at me with empathy. "Hello, Maysilee. How are your charges?"
"Still a little in shock, I guess."
"I know," Plutarch murmurs.
I sigh. "Can't imagine the pressure the Head Gamemaker must be under this year."
"That would be me, so thank you for reminding me of all the stress on my plate."
I snap my head back up to him, blinking. "You've been promoted?"
"Yes," he chirps. "Seneca Crane was…. relieved of his duties after the disorganized ending to last year's Games." The pause conveys to me what actually happened to Plutarch's predecessor: he was murdered. "There was ordinarily going to be a press bulletin sent out months ago, just after the Reading of the Card, but power plants have been down in Five."
I am able to once again translate what Plutarch is telling me with ease: Five is in revolt right now.
"Given the unusual nature of the Quell, Miss Donner, I have tasked Chaff with spreading the word: I would like to meet with as many Victors as possible to go over some ground rules for the Quell. Tensions will be higher, and I fear the spirit of the Games may be lost if we forget how to perform our duties cleanly." He checks a gold pocketwatch from the folds of his robes. "And now I must prepare for another meeting." He flashes the timepiece out to me: "It starts at midnight."
Is it just a trick of the waning sunlight, or do my eyes detect the image of a…. mockingjay? Plutarch turns away before I can get a clearer look, and I move on.
I busy myself by heading over to the mobile phone store, and registering to purchase a cell phone with its temporary SIM card for the duration of the Games. With a little bit of time left before the tributes begin arriving to load into the chariots, I place some initial calls to sponsors. The Capitol Free Love Society is devastated that my kids are going back in, and now seem convinced that Peeta and Katniss are Haymitch and I reincarnated… even though I'm not dead (yet) and standing right here talking. The call leaves me frazzled, and I hang up.
Thankfully, I do not have to wait much longer before evening is coming on fast, and the tributes begin to arrive in the stablehouse. I pick out Katniss arriving first, in a black and glittering outfit with a headdress adorning her brown ringlets. I make my way towards her, but then I see Finnick Odair – clad in absolutely nothing but a loincloth – reach her first and the two get to talking. I can't make out what either of them are saying, and frowning, I hang back. Pretty soon, I glance over their shoulders to see Peeta striding in, clad in a tunic matching Katniss's in color, and Finnick saunters away, tossing a sugar cube between his fingers.
"Finnick…." The name is breathed like sweet music and then a beauty with flowing auburn hair flies into his arms and kisses him. Finnick kisses her back in a way I've never seen him kiss any of his many lovers. Annie purrs in his arms and pretty soon, they are quite involved. Finnick hoists Annie into the air by her thighs and pins her to their chariot, rutting against her. Growling, Annie grips Finnick's ass cheeks in her nails and gyrates back. Wanting to give them privacy, I hurry to my kids, who are just getting into their chariot. Cinna is handing something to Katniss and whispering to her.
"I'm going to find a seat. Good luck!" I tell them both.
The atmosphere along the Avenue of Tributes is even more claustrophobic than usual. The sheer number of people around me seem to carry me along with them like a wave, and I fear of being pulled under. Suddenly, a hand grabs me and maneuvers me down into a seat.
"Need a hand there, Maysilee?" I turn to see Abram Mills of 9 smiling at me, and I smile back weakly.
"Thanks."
"No, problem. Your boy and his honey doing OK?"
I sigh, picking at some lint on my shirt. "As good as can be expected. How are Nolan and Evelyn holding up?"
Abram shrugs. "I wouldn't know. Ben is mentoring them."
"Wait, I thought Ben was retired from mentoring duties…?"
"Nah, he's dipped his toe back into it, ever since he came out of retirement to mentor me. I've been loaned out to District 11; they have no mentor, you see, and neither does District 3."
That's right. Both of those districts are the worst off, compared to the rest of us. "Who's looking after District 3?"
"Jules. The Capitol was going to deploy an extra Career, but he volunteered."
Probably to make up for having Blight go back into the arena in his place, I think. Even so… "And they let an 84-year-old assume mentoring duties? Are they crazy?"
"Connor can handle Blight and Johanna on his own. And besides, Beetee and Wiress are pretty low maintenance." Several of the chariots have already pulled out onto the square, but I don't hear them, hanging on Abram's ever word. "Better an outlier who understands than a Career…" His voice trails off, as he is now staring at something behind me. "Holy shit, they're at it again… Turn around!" And he literally takes me by the shoulders and spins me front facing.
When I see what Abram is seeing, my jaw drops. Katniss and Peeta are on fire again, but this time, even though the roars of the crowd are ear-splitting, neither one of them even turns their head. They stare straight forward, faces chilled as ice, while their chariot pulls them into the City Circle. Abram and I sit and listen to Snow's speech, and when his face is displayed on the Jumbotron, I could swear the President is glaring down at my tributes.
I say goodbye to Abram after the parade and head down to meet my kids. From where everyone is congregating in the shadow of the brand-new Training Center, Seeder Crue of Eleven has drifted over to talk to Katniss, who greets her with a surprisingly warm hug. When I arrive, Chaff swaggers up.
"Katniss, Peeta, this is Chaff Habarti from District 11."
Beaming radiantly, Chaff dives in and kisses my goddaughter right on the mouth. She jerks back, startled and spluttering, and Chaff hoots, even when I smack him on the arm.
"He's quite a naughty boy," I admonish, half-jokingly, even though I'm trying not to laugh myself. Turning to me, Chaff embraces me tightly.
"Meeting with Plutarch after Training tomorrow," he hisses. "Don't worry – we're going to do something." We say goodbye to the District 11 Victors once Abram, their mentor, appears, and we head for the elevators. Katniss still seems to be trying to get the taste of Chaff off her. "These tributes are crazy, Auntie!" she hisses to me.
"No, not all of them; Chaff's a good guy. I'm just sorry you had to taste the alcohol on his breath."
"Well, Peeta is certainly the better kisser." And with that, my goddaughter pulls him to her and kisses him deeply, just in time for Johanna Mason to walk in on them before the doors close.
The only living female Victor from 7 observes the pair for a moment, and Peeta and Katniss finally break apart. My goddaughter eyes the other young woman expectantly. Can I help you? she silently asks.
Johanna turns away with a scoff of disgust, tossing the leafy crown off her rusty-red curls. "My stylist is the biggest idiot in the Capitol – the next Antonia!" Neither of my kids answers her, but I chuckle, getting the joke. Johanna allows me a slight smile of appreciation as we ride up to her floor. When the doors DING open on 7, she jaunts out, her hips swaying.
"Later, bitches."
We continue rocketing up to the penthouse suite, and as soon as we arrive, I dismiss both of my charges to bed.
"Set your alarms early. There are some things I want to talk to you about before training."
Both of my kids nod, and head down the hall to their rooms. When I see Peeta open his door and Katniss following him in without another thought, I raise an eyebrow, but don't do anything to stop them. They probably really need to lean on each other, especially now, but if they're making love in there…. I just hope they use protection.
Effie finally comes up about fifteen minutes later, sidetracked into conversation by some of her escort friends. She bids me goodnight, and I try to stay up and go over my notes on the Reaped Victors. Within five minutes, however, I give up and march straight off to bed.
That night, I dream of blood and pain.
