AN: I'll be introducing several canon characters soon. I've dropped a hint for one of them in this chapter. See if you can find it!

This fic is rated T for violence and language.


The Aftermath

...Chyort, do I need vodka.

They truck Malcovitch and I back in the tank formation. I overhear Game Enforcers ordering the Tributes from Districts 7 through 12 be brought in as well. No more fanfare. No more parades. No more disasters, and no more deaths. At least not yet—the Hunger Games will continue on schedule.

They let us out in a heavily guarded compound. I recognize the towering hotel where the Tributes are hosted. Malcovitch just buries his face between my breasts and shudders. We barely get to see Klerkov and Tasha before we're dragged away by Game Security. It's Just enough for a tight, teary hug from her and a cool, unreadable glance from my Mentor as he strokes his oiled beard.

The crowd was frightening, sure; but facing the aftermath alone without either of their aid seems more harrowing than the thought of the Hunger Games themselves. I doubt you're a woman, either, Petra Angelovna. I feel strangely like a child. I need answers. Guidance. Direction. Does the Capitol know about the Resistance? Will I be held responsible? What about the people I injured, even killed-?

And most of all, if I somehow make it out of this alive, have I lost my Mentor's aid? Klerkov's champion wouldn't have lost her temper and attacked a man, and she sure as hell wouldn't've gone back for Malcovitch. I'm Petra Stoneheart, and I just committed a cardinal sin: I felt.

Cry baby squeezes my hand questioningly. He looks up at me for reassurance. "It'll be fine," I lie to him. "We'll see them in a bit." I made the mistake of making Xavier Malcovitch my pet. I won't let him be the death of me.


We walk until our feet are sore. Mine and the escort, that is. Cry baby seems to have momentarily forgotten the use of his legs. Every attempt to set him down has elicited shrill whimpering and his body going completely limp. "Where are you taking us?" I demand the Game Security force. "Tell me."

"You were assaulted," A female guard says stiffly. "You will submit to full medical exams."

"Why?" I press.

One eyebrow raises in cold scrutiny. Ordinarily, her uniform and countenance combined would be enough to cow me. But after a day with Tasha Pushkina's severe expressions, I've become immune. "You will be assessed for physical handicaps or limitations," she continues icily.

"Why?" I ask again. I've seen Tributes sent to the Arena in leg casts before. The Capitol doesn't give a damn about health or safety, so what's going on?

"It is Game Ordinance." She recites with such forceful finality I give it up. Clearly, not all Capitol women are vapid, brainless bimbos. Some of them can act the complete bitch.


They take Malcovitch. I'm not comfortable with it, but sour-face states something about Game Ordinance. I lie and say it will be okay. "It's just a medic," I tell him. "It'll be fine." Warily he lets them lead him away, neck craned back to watch me until he is out of sight.

Just a medic. Right. I haven't been to see one since I was nine. If there's one thing I've learned, it's never to trust a man with a needle.

The guards sign me over to the nurses. They lead me to a tiny, claustrophobic cell with a curtain. For a moment I panic, thinking it's a prison, not a hospital, but I am carelessly flung a robe and told to strip. Completely.

I take off my clothes, wincing as sore joints and bruises begin to edge their way to the forefront. The adrenaline is wearing off and the pain is eating through now that the danger is over. I take of my underthings and inspect my body. Ribs scoured, knees bruised, and lots of long, jagged cuts across my fingers, neck, and face. None are deep, and few bled. My scalp is raw and tender from the tugging, and blood cakes the back of my neck.

I decide that the moment my interview is over, I'm shaving my head. Period. I don't have that long of hair, but I'm not about to get caught and killed in the Arena over something as stupid as vanity.

Right, Petra, I snort. Because you were so beautiful to begin with.


I'm taken to a sterile room with blue walls and bright, eye-watering lights. There are no windows, just a cold, metal table sitting solitary in the center of the room. The nurses are waiting, wearing starched white uniforms, but it doesn't stop the Capitol in them from showing through. Many have plumes in their hair, and bright colors swirling under their painted on brows. One even has full scale alterations done to her face, neck, and the back of her hands. Combined with her cold, yellow eyes, she looks as fierce and unfeeling as a snake. I shudder.

"Sit," the serpent instructs me. I comply. They hook me up to machines to monitor my heart rate. They hover menacingly. I start to sweat.

"Where's Tasha?" I ask. "Why isn't she here?"

I am ignored. "I asked you a question!" I demand. "Why can't my Chaperone be here?" Regardless of how small or powerless she might be, I've never wanted to see anyone more in my entire life than I want Tasha Pushkina right now. I hate medics. I hate clinics. And I hate having to wear this goddamned gown. I might as well be naked.

"She's ready," serpent says. "Send for the medic."


I can't catch a break today. They don't even send me a female medic. He's probably thirty, incredibly slim, with short brown hair and green eyes flecked with gold, I curse myself for noticing. He also has long eyelashes, although nothing compared to Cry baby's. Great, just great. A goddamned attractive doctor.

I flush, and pull my gown tighter around my neck. What sort of idiot made these things to open to the front, anyways? But there's no need-rich, Capitol men with looks like that don't take second glances at girls like me. Hell, they don't even take firsts, unless forced to.

He assesses me once, eyes traveling from my bare feet to my face, but he never once looks into my eyes. "District 6," he says to no one in particular. "Female. Eighteen years of age. One hundred and eighty-three centimeters, eighty-one point five kilograms." A voice recorder, I suddenly understand, he's speaking instead of writing.

I look up at him, but again he avoids my gaze. It's not even intentional—it's habit. I've seen it before, when farmers bring their livestock to market and father and I go inspect. He expects us to be killed, and refuses to make attachments. He's Victor Ivan Klerkov and Tasha Pushkina, only colder. They hid behind drug-induced stupor. He has simply ceased to consider us human at all.

District 6, female. That's all I am to him, a number and a gender. He didn't even so much as introduce himself. He wants to remain as anonymous as he's made me. With that realization, I'm suddenly cold. I miss my Drunk and my Addict even more so than my home.