Chapter 17: My First Victor

I always expected that we would have to wait a lot longer before Peeta and I produced our first Victor. It took Haymitch nearly a quarter century before he got a tribute out of the arena alive. And though the stories say that Lucy Gray Baird had disappeared long before the Second Quarter Quell, she would have needed to wait forty years before getting Haymitch out, if she had mentored him.

I should feel elated. Only my second year as a mentor, and I have a Victor. But instead, I am left terrified. If I had known that this is how I would feel upon getting a child out of the arena alive, I don't think I would have tried so hard.

The Capitol is certainly making us feel like we shouldn't have.

The entire city has plunged into chaos ever since Claudius announced Emilia's come-from-behind Victory. Haymitch, Peeta and I first see Emilia again when she steps off the hovercraft on the roof of the Training Center. The little girl flings herself into my arms and I pick her up and hold her against me. It's not unlike how I would sometimes hold Prim when she was little. Immediately, we whisk her to the medical ward, where the Capitol doctors pump Emilia full of fluids, give her some food. Outside of a few bruises and scratches, there are hardly any injuries to treat; Emilia has come out the other side of the Games more physically unscathed than most. The real test will be how she fared mentally, but the most trauma she experienced was hearing Connor's death screams from afar, nearly being taken down by Twitch and Mend, and her final battle with Kora. Signs of PTSD may not show up for a few weeks yet, by the time we're already home. In any case, the Capitol itself seems to be worse off than my little Victor.

The first signs that something is wrong occurs at the final interview. Caesar actually looks a little lost, his silvery jokes not rolling off the tongue quite the way they usually do. It's almost like... he wasn't prepared for this. There seems to be a part of him that doesn't even want to be there, which is really disturbing - no one enjoys the Games more than Caesar Flickerman. The Crown is placed on Emilia's head, she is made to watch a three-hour condensed version of her Games, and we whisk her off to bed.

An Avox wakes Peeta and I early the next morning, handing us an envelope. Having seen other Victors like Finnick and Johanna and Cecelia receive these, I fear that this is our first foray into sexual slavery, even though Peeta and I are happily married. But when I open the clasp and Peeta takes the note from me, he reads that the President has requested an audience with us and Haymitch just after breakfast.

Our morning meal is a subdued affair with Haymitch already a little tipsy at the table. "What did the note say again?"

"Snow wants to meet with the three of us. He made it explicitly clear Emilia is not to come."

"Good," I clip. "I don't want her anywhere near that fucker."

"Speaking of the little one, is she still sleeping?" Haymitch glances around.

As if on cue, a bleary-eyed Emilia shuffles into the kitchenette. "Morning, guys," she smiles weakly.

"Hi, sweetie," I coo. "Sleep well?"

She actually nods, which surprises and pleases me to no end. Give it time, Katniss, the pessimist that is my inner voice tells me.

Haymitch glances at his watch. "We'll have to hurry if we want to make it to the White House." At Peeta's and my confused frown, he amends, "That's Capitol lingo for the Presidential Mansion. You'll pick it up soon enough."

Effie emerges from her rooms in time to see us off. As Haymitch is retrieving a light jacket, I kneel down in front of my winning tribute.

"Emilia, honey... Peeta, Haymitch and I have to go meet with the President."

Emilia frowns in thought, eyes leery. "Am I in trouble?"

"No, you're not in trouble! No..." Peeta chuckles from behind me. "But we'll be back in a couple hours. You and Effie can watch some TV, OK? I recommend the soap operas - they're always good for a laugh."

I hug Emilia tight. "We'll see you soon."

Taking the elevators down to the street, we walk out into the unusually chilly, foggy summer morning. Haymitch hails down a cab, and forks over some sesterce for a quick drive to the White House. Security clears us past the iron gates and we pull up to something the cabbie describes as 'the North Portico'.

As we are guided into the mansion by elite Peackeepers with slick earpieces towards something referred to as the Oval Office, Haymitch hisses to us, "Let me do the talking, OK? Speak only when you are directly spoken to."

Peeta nods. "Good plan."

Unfortunately, that plan falls apart within seconds of us entering Snow's office.

The President is carrying himself ramrod-straight, almost stiffly. His muscles seem almost locked up. Just from his physicality alone, I can tell: he is enraged, and barely able to contain it. Yet his voice is smooth as honey as he greets us.

"Such a surprise ending to this year's Games. I really enjoyed young Miss Witheart's interview last night. Very moving. You must be very proud of yourselves."

"Thank you, sir. We... are?" my voice lilts uncertainly into a question, as I am not really sure if we are entitled to feel pride at all. The Capitol hasn't made us feel that way.

Snow turns away from us, glancing out the expansive windows behind a desk made of the finest mahogany. I know that Effie would love a piece like that.

"Unfortunately, I have a problem, Mrs. Mellark. It seems that much of my problems lately have something to do with you, or District 12 in general. Is this conversation already starting to sound familiar?"

I squirm as I think back to the sight of the President in my mansion's living room nearly eighteen months ago, before Peeta's and my Victory Tour. I gulp. "Yes, it certainly seems to."

Snow doesn't move a tick from where he is standing. Around us, the little sunlight that is managing to poke through the overcast clouds filters into the room so that little pockets of the Oval Office seem to sparkle. The President finally turns to pick up a saucer of tea from the desk, swirling its contents.

"Now," he circles the fine piece of furnitiure. "I confess to enjoying an underdog tribute, a surprise Victor, as much as the next person, provided the consequences of that surprise aren't... severe."

Peeta diplomatically clears his throat. "Forgive me, Mr. President, but I'm not quite sure what you mean."

"To put it another way, Mr. Mellark, I know many people who are now out quite a bit of money due to the loss of Miss Lennen. The Dow Jones is in free fall. Markets have gone haywire."

"An economic meltdown. Due to the loss of betting money? How much cash are we talking about?" Haymitch looks skeptical.

"Thus far, at least 3 trillion sesterce, probably more."

Peeta's eyes nearly pop. "3 trillion...?"

"Wait, wait a minute," I cut in. "So a bunch of people are out of their savings because they backed a losing tribute. Even if the markets are contracting, it can't last forever. You'll bounce back." We only studied a little Economics in school, but I know the basics: recessions sometimes turn into depressions, but more often than not, the markets will eventually begin to expand again, at least before things get really bad.

Snow merely tssks. "Oh, Mrs. Mellark, I'm afraid it's not quite that simple. We had a lot riding on the Victory of Kora Lennen, and not just gambling payouts. Sponsors were already lining up for private liasons with her. A vacant mansion in the District 1 Victors' Village was in the process of being furnished for her arrival. Television spot contracts for her to represent the best Capitol products - all of that, now gone."

I worry my bottom lip, thinking it through. Snow has just confirmed what I suspected even before the Games concluded - they were rigged in Kora's favor. It makes me wonder if Haymitch is here in defiance of a rigged Victory, likely intended for the Career girl from 1 he killed. Was Peeta's and my Games rigged? And if so, for who? Cato?

It does seem like District 12's tradition - to win, even though we're not supposed to. But it's happened anyway. Peeta and I. Haymitch. Possibly even Lucy Gray Baird. And now, of course, Emilia.

Peeta pipes up. "Mr. President, if I may, I still fail to see how this is our problem." He doesn't notice Haymitch shooting him the hairiest of eyeballs. "From what I'm hearing, it sounds like you're suggesting..." He falters, tries again. "You seem to be blaming us for... doing our jobs. For mentoring a winning tribute."

The silence that follows is tense and ugly. Snow's eyes flash, but he makes no outbursts. Instead, he merely continues stirring his tea: clockwise, counterclockwise, clockwise again. At last, he turns to me. "Mrs. Mellark, I am sure the final moments of the Games were stressful for you. Did you notice anything... suspicious? Anything at all?"

I put on the acting performance of my life in maintaining a flat affect. I know about Johanna's theft - the stolen box of shell casings that - like the berries - have resulted in a dizzying array of consequences. Not the least of which being that, if not for those shell casings never making it into the parachute, Emilia would almost certainly be dead. But I can't tell Snow that.

But I can tell him...

"Well... right after the parachute landed, I noticed Brutus Barsetti yelling at one of his colleagues: Lupus. Lupus somebody."

"Lupus Pagano?" Snow supplies.

"Yes, him. Brutus kept screaming and asking 'Where are the shell casings?' 'Did you put the shell casings in the parachute?' And Lupus looked really scared. My guess is he merely misplaced the shell casings."

Snow is eyeing me hard and I keep my expression as neutral as possible. If I pin the blame on Lupus, and make it look more like an accident, Snow won't have any reason to suspect that the shell casings were stolen... or wonder by whom. He might even suspect that it was me, if he knew. Besides, I'm not telling him anything that isn't technically true. And I owe Johanna - more than I'll probably ever be able to repay.

Finally, Snow nods, seeming to accept this answer: "I suppose the question now becomes, Mr. and Mrs. Mellark, and Mr. Abernathy... where do we go from here?"

"I'm quite sure I have no idea," Haymitch clears his throat. "What do you suggest, Mr. President?"

Snow smirks. "In order to mitigate the economic fallout, I propose that young Miss Witheart could begin liason duties in place of Miss Lennen."

My stomach roils. "No," I croak. Even Peeta looks thoroughly repulsed.

"You would sell a little girl who hasn't even fully gone through puberty?!" Peeta's voice actually rises. Haymitch now looks terrified, silently glaring at Peeta to shut the hell up, but my heart swells with pride. "Where's the logic in that?"

If Snow looks insulted, he doesn't show it. But I know better - he doesn't have to. Peeta is literally dancing on the line of insubrodination, offending the President, though I would prefer to use the term, 'calling him out.'

"I need to make a recoup on my lost investment, Peeta. I'd call that logical enough," Snow answers coolly.

My eyes now fill with tears. "Please don't hurt Emilia," I beg. "She's just a little girl, and this isn't really her fault. She just happened to win."

"It isn't any of our faults," Peeta states firmly. "As I said, we were just doing our jobs. If a few investors are pissed... well, Mr. President, what do you expect us to do about it?"

Haymitch now looks like he wants to throttle Peeta right over the mahagony desk. Snow's eyes glint like steel, even as he drolly continues to stir his tea. "I think you all will find that you can do quite a bit about it," he purrs. My veins freeze with ice. The President bobs his head. "Good day to all of you."

We trudge out of the Oval Office and onto the North Portico, glumly making our way to the car. It isn't until the cab door slams behind us that Haymitch lights into Peeta.

"Getting in the face of the President like that - what the hell were you thinking, boy?!"

"He's trying to blackmail us and put Emilia up for sale to save face, Haymitch! What did you expect me to do?"

"Be the quiet, good boy you usually are, for a start! And here I thought Sweetheart here was the problem child!"

"Haymitch, leave him alone!" I snap, before turning to Peeta and beaming at him gratefully. "You were wonderful." He grins bashfully back.

"And you!" Haymitch rounds on me. "You're lucky you can lie so well, but you don't think Snow will go digging?"

"Digging for what? I didn't lie," I frown.

"Maybe not, but you excluded some stuff. Now what really happened?"

I might as well tell them here. The odds of this one particular cab being bugged are nearly zero compared to the devices that will almost definitely be listening in once we return to the penthouse. So I spill it. "Johanna stole the shell casings."

Peeta's jaw drops. "What?"

"I saw her slip them into her pocket, right after the parachute was sent."

Haymitch sits back, face creased, mind whirring. "While I applaud Johanna for fucking over Brutus and his crowd, it's now put us and a little girl barely old enough to have her period in a world of hurt. From now on, any moves we make, have to be done with Emilia's safety in mind. We have to protect her."

"How?" Peeta asks. "She'll be 14 next year, and Snow will make good on his word to -"

"We have to rebel," I breathe. The men look to me. I turn to my drunken mentor. "Haymitch, whatever you know, whatever dirt Finnick and the others have but aren't saying, you have to tell us. Unless we want more young kids to end up like Emilia, we have to start a revolution - now. Or at least within the year."

Haymitch shakes his head. "No. Snow has been watching you lovebirds for two years, and he'll be watching Emilia now, as well. But... I promise you, I will go to work."

I nod. It's the best I can do, for now.

The three of us try to keep our faces placid, even fake cheery, when we re-enter the penthouse suite to find Emilia watching a romantic soap opera, enraptured, with Effie by her side and dabbing at her Capitol makeup with tissues.

That very afternoon, the five of us board the Capitol locomotive bound home for District 12. Emilia eats heartily, not asking us how our meeting with the President went. I can't help but stare at her as she innocently goes about her business. It's a miracle she has any left. In time, even that might fade away as the realities of what she survived have hit her full-force. She reminds me so much of Prim, even as my little sister has been forced to grow up in her own way. Whatever light can be found, I desperately wish for Emilia to hold onto that - for as long as possible.

I can see the rolling coal fields of Twelve now - we likely have just a few more miles to go - when the train begins to slow.

Peeta frowns, getting up to peer out the windows. "Why are we stopping? We can't be there yet."

Noticing the Peacekeeper stationed by the door talking into his earpiece, head slighly bowed, I frown and march over to him. "What's the hold-up?" I demand.

"Nothing that need concern you, Mrs. Mellark. We're getting chatter that there's been a fire at Donner Train Station. Small explosion, it seems like. A few have sustained minor injuries, but there are four casualties."

"Was anyone else hurt?" I ask, feeling my stomach turn into foreboding knots. The Peacekeeper won't look at me. "Was anyone else hurt?" I repeat, tightly.

The officer finally lifts his eyes to mine. "They, um... they need Miss Witheart to identify the bodies, ma'am. They think it's her family. The casualties."

I stagger back, brain spinning. When Snow said there was quite a bit we could do, that wasn't what he really meant. No, what he really meant was that there was quite a bit we could pay.