The Overheard


I trek my way back the empty hotel halls the way we came, lambskin slippers sticky on my humid feed. A desk-station clerk doesn't bother looking up, apparently accustomed to seeing Tributes—and all other manner of women—wandering about in various states of undress and utter embarrassment.

The impressive double-doors aren't difficult to find, but on approaching I hear raised voices. Klerkov's deep bass and Tasha Pushkina's shrill tones are unmistakable, even muted.I have less than an hour to be dressed and in the Chariot displayed for all of Panem to see. Heart racing, I press my ear against the door. With my luck, Tiberia went and died or something.

"It's cruel, Klerkov!" Tasha shouts. "Haven't they suffered enough already?"

"The Games are cruel, Natalayia Pushkina. Not me." Just this morning I would've disagreed with him, but now I'm not so sure. I would have sworn if anyone would mistreat Avox whores, it would've been him. But he didn't raise a hand—or any other body part, for that matter—to them that wasn't welcome. My father used to say if you truly wish to know a man, my Petra, watch how he treats his cattle.

Tributes aren't cattle, we're prize stallions, fighting dogs or cocks. The Avox are available for whatever task they've been assigned, with no rights of refusal or personhood, which makes those women the closest thing to cattle the Capitol truly knows.

"But that outfit-"

"That outfit will show everyone how strong my Petra really is," he boasts.

Her tone changes, softer, pleading. "Klerkov, please, listen to a woman-"

"What, you think because she is ugly she is afraid to be beautiful? Ha! My Petra is fearless. Strong. Stone-heart! She will wear this and make a mockery of femininity, the Games, this ridiculous costume tradition, and most importantly, herself!" My heart races at his answer. "Nothing terrifies Man like the thought of a self-confident woman. Find a Woman who can scorn even herself—and even I shudder in fear. "

Footsteps. I leap back from the door as Klerkov's strong arms swing it inwards. They stroll out, so deep in thought they pay me no heed.

Tasha is silent a moment, her face drawn. "The other Tributes will hate her."

"The females, yes," he chuckles. "They'll be so caught between jealous spite and wanting to emulate her who knows what they'll do. "

"And the males?" she continues lowly.

"Will want to fuck her so badly their khui will get in the way of killing her!" he roars. "Believe me, Natayalia Pushkina. Right now, being cruel is the kindest thing I can do for that girl."

"How touching, Klerkov," I say as Tasha Puskina jumps nearly out of her skin. "Or it would be, if I didn't know you knew I would be listening."

"Petra!" Tasha gives me a quick hug. "You're soaking wet—oh, feel how soft your skin is!" She squeals, running her fingers over my forearms with delight.

My Mentor merely shrugs, not the slightest hint of surprise or guilt crossing his features. "It was either that, or a long argument, Petra Angelovna. Now you've heard my reasons. Will your wear the outfit of a champion?"

I cross my arms, all but ignoring Tasha's doting. "Do I have a choice?"

"There is always a choice, Petra Angelovna," Klerkov relates emphatically. "Wear the costume, or go stark naked. It is up to you."

I chew my tongue. "I'm not stupid, Klerkov. Either way, you win. You get to show off a woman's self-confidence and scorn. Fine. I accept your premise and your plan." And if I can do it in a manner that doesn't involve showing my ass to Panem's public, more the better. This day has already had more than enough nakedness to last me a lifetime.


Klerkov puts a hand on my arm to lead me inside. I step on his foot purposefully, a futile gesture given his iron-clad feet and greaves. Tasha Pushkina gives me a knowing grin and shakes her painted head, and slips in ahead of us.

"Blya!" Klerkov feigns being deeply aggrieved nonetheless, limping comically on the wrong foot. "My Petra, what was that for?"

"Pull a stunt like that vyebyvatsya again and I'll tell Tasha what you were really up to," I warn him.

Under the shadow of his heavy beard, his mouth twitches. "I'm sure I have no idea to what you might be referring."

"Your seven girlfriends?" I raise an eyebrow, feeling nowhere near as intimidating as Tasha Pushkina.

"Girlfriends?" He chuckles patronizingly. "My Petra, you misunderstand. That was nothing so long term."

I cross my arms. "Whores, cocubines, pleasure-women, whatever. Just don't disappear on me like that, okay?"

"How else was I supposed to arrange this little incident, eh? Besides, my Petra, you're in the Capitol," he shakes his head, bemused. "A Tribute! You're perfectly safe."

So this morning's incident was 'perfectly safe? Right, mudilo. I glare at him. "Until two days from now."

"Well, naturally only until then. But soon I will have to be more careful: there will be other Victors here as well."

That catches my attention. "Other Victors?"

"Ones not assigned as Mentors, not this year or yet. There is no reason to worry this early in the ceremonies…but after this ridiculous chariot ride they will become my chief concern."

"Well, damn," I say drily. "Here I was worrying about the other Tributes."

But Victor Ivan Klerkov only shakes his head. "The other Tributes would not dare touch you, my Petra. The rules state clearly any and all pre-Games injuries will be reciprocated by the Game Enforcers."

I'm outraged. "What?"

"If another Tribute were to purposefully handicap you-or attempt- he would be injured in an identical fashion."

I snort. "And then we'd both be fucked."

"Naturally. The same rules apply for Mentors. Were the Careers from, oh, let's say District 1 to fall ill from poison, the poisoner's own Tributes would suffer retaliation."

"But that's not fair!" I protest.

"No, but it is the only deterrent," Klerkov continues. "It keeps the Game within the Games. Victors without Tributes suffer personal penalties, however, that do not reflect upon their District."

So a former Career from a Career District with Mentors to spare, given enough incentive, might attempt to even the playing field before the Games even began."Oh." I finally say. "So don't talk to strangers."

"No," Klerkov draws me close for a whisper, in what must look to all the rest of the world as a rather passionate embrace, which, to the rest of the world, must look like typical drunken, horny Klerkov. "No, indeed. Much money changes hands during the Hunger Games, and there are those who will do anything to…how shall we say? Make the odds more in their favor. There are plots about these halls for an accident, Petra Angelovna. You must be careful."

"Plots?" Accidents? I don't like the sound of either of those. "How would you know?"

"I have my spies."

I shiver, and my voice turns to the tiniest of squeaks. "Spies?"

"Yes," he enunciates sharply, pretending to graze my ear with his lips. "Penetrating every level of the Capitol, even to the very highest."

My heart skips a beat, and my surprised grip on his arm tightens involuntarily. Those whores weren't just whores, after all. I might not know much about the Libertas movement, resistance groups or the Capitol scene, but who more likely to have ties or sympathies to a resistance movement than the Avox? There's got to be a reason their tongues were stripped out and rights taken away…what better motive than treason? They're commonplace slaves, mistreated whores, invisible and present in the thousands. Even I hadn't given them a second thought until Klerkov had abandoned me…The Capitol thinks them powerless slaves. They haven't realized they've invited an occupying army into their very homes.

Risky, risky, risky…how was I supposed to know the Resistance would join in? I would never endanger my champion like that! His words from this morning bring an even deeper chill to my bone. Did my Mentor know? Was he behind it? Or is it all simple coincidence? There's no way to out and ask it, not safely. But if I read his cryptic message right, Victor Ivan Klerkov has access to conversations that take place even in President Snow's and the Senators' bedchambers. "I, I think I understand."

"Ah! Good!" He beams loudly enough the desk clerk shoots him a shushing glare across the lobby. Klerkov only winks knowingly, and swats my ass with a playful flick of his wrist.

Another thought occurs. "Have you warned Malcovitch?"

He chuckles, ushering me through that doorway again. "Moya Petr'enka, the personal penalty is quite high. One does not risk death for a simple bunny when it is a She-bear who poses the threat."