Chapter 3
Over the course of that entire next year, I see Darius intermittently around Town, the Hob, outside the Barracks. When I encounter him while trading, he still jokes for a kiss in exchange for game, probably for old time's sake. But now the joke seems forced. Indeed, the easy-going Peacekeeper seems decidedly less at ease around me. More formal. When he addresses me once as Miss Everdeen, I jump about a foot in the air and even erroneously look around for my mother.
More than this, Darius seems to be seen less and less just hanging around the district and more and more on patrol. Others in the Seam notice this change too, and whispers fly about how Darius has been taking on extra postings around Victors' Village and even the mines - largely thankless guard duties. He even volunteers for stations at night.
"I think he's looking to get promoted, maybe even take Cray's job," Thom theorizes one day at Greasy Sae's stall.
Sae nods as she pours him and me a bowl of her stew. "Could be. If you ask me, I think he's saving up for something."
It's an interesting hypothesis. Contrary to popular belief, Peacekeepers are not much better off than the rest of us, particularly the cadets. If the Seam folk are dirt poor and even the Merchants are working class, Peacekeepers are still only middle class.
I lean forward, intrigued. "What sort of something?"
"Let's wait and see," Sae gives me a toothy grin.
Winter melts into spring, ensuring that an already miserable year continues apace. Gloom has gripped District 12 since the previous summer, as losing Peeta Mellark to a heartbreaking third place finish still stings deeply. He fell to Thresh, the boy from 11, and Cato, the boy from 2, the latter of whom became Victor. No tears were shed for Ciera, Peeta's District partner, who was one of the first to die in the Bloodbath. For their son's strong showing, the Mellarks are presented with a bronze medal, as is custom. And at the tributes' funerals, the Baker pulls me aside and tells me that Peeta was in love with me since we were small children. This stunning declaration makes me guilty that he never said anything, while at the same time making me regret less the stolen, hurried, impulsive kisses we shared after the Reaping.
In March of the following year, the special twist for the 75th Hunger Games, or Third Quarter Quell, is announced. Previous Victors will be sent into the arena once more. District 12 will be showered with embarrassment, as we barely have a male and a female Victor to fulfill the twist. But also notoriety will be directed our way, as the last Quell had our own Haymitch Abernathy win the Crown.
The day of the Reaping dawns hot and sultry. Spying Gale and Madge, both free of the Reaping and happily married, clutch to each other makes me glad they are safe. And my sister, too, for her second eligible year. But that relief soon turns to pity as I watch Emmanuelle Southard and Haymitch Abernathy transported to the stage under heavy guard. Both guaranteed for the arena.
The Victor of the 2nd Hunger Games, Emmanuelle Southard was a girl of seventeen from the Seam who won by spending weeks hiding and making bombs out of materials not unlike those used in Twelve's mines. She killed a few tributes individually before saving her real firepower for a Feast where there were only four tributes left. Her unorthodox Victory promoted changes in mining age employment in Twelve, and her Games have never been re-aired. Both decisions have since left our tributes at a distinct disadvantage. Now 90 years old, she is the oldest Victor still alive and needs the assistance of a motorized chair, and then a cane, to reach the stage and stand up with dignity.
Haymitch Abernathy won the 50th Hunger Games at sixteen, when the Quell twist was double the normal number of tributes. He is rumored to have killed multiple Career tributes personally, including his last opponent. He even apparently used the arena itself as a weapon. However, his Games have also never been re-aired. An impressive Victory, regardless, if true. But since then, he has devolved into a middle-aged drunk, largely useless.
My neighbors feel the mockery deeply. "Poor Emmanuelle. She's never hurt anyone in years, since she won."
"Snow has gone mad," a Seam miner mutters darkly.
They are both going to die. Emmanuelle almost immediately - she is far too old to run, and would a motorized chair even be allowed in the arena? Watching her wheel through a wilderness would look painfully, tragically, cruelly comical. As the winner of the last Quell, Haymitch might have it in him... but, no. He is too drunk. And even if he tried to withdraw from the stuff, likely watching that process on TV would be painful.
I watch sadly as our two washed-up heroes are led away to their deaths, almost certainly never to return.