The Infiltrator
AN: Thank you all so much for your patience! And reviews, those are nice too...
"Tighten your core muscles!" Tasha instructs for the eighteenth time. For the past few minutes she's tried to teach me what Klerkov and Cinna cannot: how to be a woman.
…More specifically, how to walk in heeled shoes. I'm not sure they're the same thing, but Cinna Raelius and Tasha Pushkina (and I infer, the Capitol) think otherwise. "Core muscles?" I gasp, still reeling from my last fall.
"Abdominals," Cinna suggests. "Glutes."
I give him a blank stare.
"Tighten your waist and…" Tasha flushes.
"-Lady parts?" he offers unabashed.
"So basically walk like I'm trying not to let a fart out," I rephrase from the floor. "Great."
"Oh, Petra, only you could take something so glamorous and make it grotesque," She groans sadly. " Sure you're alright?"
"I'm going into the Hunger Games, Tasha," I state, smoothing the folds of the bear-skin cloak as I find my feet anew. "Of course I'm not." But however I feel about these damn shoes, I'm grateful again for my Mentor. And Stylist. And even her Apprentice. Cinna's predictions about both Districts 1 and 2 for the Chariot ride are surprisingly close to the truth. The hell if I know what "retro-modernistic" or whatever that govno is, but apparently Tasha—and the announcers—agree.
"Now that's too bold!" Tasha squeals as District 1's Chariot races across the Colosseum. Klerkov harrumphs. Cinna looks thoughtful. Tiberia's blind eyes are closed, content, but her cat's ears have turned to the sound of the vid. Her long tail twitches once, twice, then rests still as the Games critique begins.
"District 1:Tributes Luccan Sheen and Venice Shimmer!"
"Cassius' daring new pairing combines the iconic looks of Panem's past-" the announcer races, drowned by the noise of the Capitol's crowd. "-Clearly vintage material, but look at the bold cut and hemlines-"
"-with Sheen as poised as Snow himself!"
Sheen and Shimmer. They're tall. Strong. Well-muscled and well-fed. They're calm. Collected. Careers. Both have volunteered to be here, basking in the Capitol's glory, now assured of victory. They wear their paired costumes well…which means whatever their final intent, they've decided to partner for now.
My instincts were right, then, I decide as they raise clasped hands to accept the applause. Undermine them. Break them apart. Get 1 and 2 to turn on each other. I have the crowd. I have the costume. All I have to do is wear it well, and the Careers will be forced to accept me.
…which doesn't mean this Sheen or Shimmer won't kill me first chance they get. I've seen enough Games now to know the Alliance is a two-edged knife, and I've seen enough missing or disfigured fingers to know all blades deserve respect. My father isn't the only butcher in our village, but he's the one with ten fingers. Not large but strong, he's slow. Steady. Meticulous. He knows when to step in and strike, and when to jump back from the bull's horns of the boar's tusks. But Sheen and Shimmer aren't flailing animals in their death throes, incensed by the smell of blood. They're calculating, cool, human.
"Do you get it?" Cinna asks, jarring me from my plans.
"Get what?"
"Their outfits."
"They're-" I cast for the right word. "-'retro-modernistic'. Big deal."
"It is a big deal," he corrects, nodding my attention back to the screen. "Look closer."
He's a Stylist. I'm a Butcher from 6. I try to watch, but the colors, the costumes, they look like every other I've ever seen. Impressive, but pointless. If there's some underlying significance, it's as lost on me as the rest of Districts. "Sorry," I finally say. "Don't get it."
"Luccan Sheen is impersonating President-well, make that Senator-Snow," he signs in exasperation. "That's Snow's inauguration uniform, or a close replica."
Apparently the difference between saying and explaining is lost on both Raelius brothers. "So?" I insist.
"So Cassius's decided to go political," Cinna muses aloud. "This changes things. Either that or someone's decided for him. It's an election year, after all. My guess is some Senator paid a lot of money for that Costume."
Right. Sure. Bribes-there's a concept I can appreciate. As for the rest…"And the girl?"
"Isn't it obvious?" He asks with a superior smile.
No! I want to shout, but I'm sick of his arrogance. Sick of all of this…but it's no longer as trivial as it seems. Costumes buy Sponsors. Sponsors buy Victors. Victory…means life. If I want to win, I have to understand how. I'm too used to seeing the Games as a Spectator. As a girl from District 6. I have to see as a Tribute. A Sponsor. A Stylist. I close my eyes, and try to see past the image of a routine Career. Try to ignore her heels and bouncing breasts, the exposed skin on her long legs, the sneering, cold smile and charming wave of an assured Victor-
Then it hits. My eyes fly open of their own accord. I wheel to face my Stylist, but it just can't be-
"Wait, but that's-"
"-Tiberia." Cinna nods, impressed. "They've dressed District 1's female as Tiberia."
"But why Snow?" I press Cinna as District 2's fanfare fills the hall. "Isn't that insulting? He's Capitol-"
"Yeah, but luxury goods like Peacekeeper Uniforms all come from District 1. It's their way of reminding the public that the government's appearance rests on their industry and innovation. It'll also force Sponsors to cover his Tributes, increasing his chance for a Victor. That's what being a Stylist is all about," Cinna explains, lazily sipping a glass of iced fruit. "Making an investment that will keep you rich and settled for a lifetime."
Now it's even more confusing. "Why will it force Sponsors?"
He shakes his dark head, green eyes rolling in impatience. "Do try to keep up, Petra," he chides me like a child. "It'd be a pity to waste such an original costume only to lose Sponsors after your interview. It's simple: not sponsoring District 1 will now give the appearance of disloyalty to the party and the President. In essence, political suicide for all aspiring Senators and their staff."
My apologies. I didn't realize you were intelligent. Marcus Raelius' words, not Cinna's. I doubt Cinna Raelius has ever apologized to anyone in his life. But I won't let that arrogance cow me. "But…why?"
"It would demonstrate their loyalty to another District's exports, showing food, medical supplies, or the technology the Capitol depends on as more important than the Party itself," he continues with an air of arrogance. "It would be tantamount to treason not to support such an avid supporter."
"That's just dumb," I blurt. But I speak too soon. Cinna Raelius' charisma has worked-I've become too familiar. Already I've forgotten Tasha's warning. In the corner of my eye I see her forehead furrow above her painted brows, her face frozen, for once ignoring Cry-baby's cuddling.
So he tries to come off chic and cool, Petra, but underneath it all Cinna Raelius is just a lazy, arrogant 'slovoc who got this job because his uncle's in deep with President Snow. Boys like that make dangerous men.
I remember her warning, just as a tame bull remembers his instincts in the second my knife slits his throat. I, Petra Stoneheart-Baba Yaga Angelovna-was lulled into trusting him by his confidence and good looks. Boys like that make dangerous men.
Pizda, Petra!
To our surprise—and relief—Cinna Raelius only laughs, bemused. "I agree." But even though Marcus Raelius' flashing green and gold eyes sparkle with mirth under those long lashes that smile's warm charm never reaches me.
My Mentor saves me. Victor Ivan Klerkov belches loudly and scratches his belly, sending the stench of vodka and onions wafting our way."For Games' sake-" Cinna protests, but Klerkov waves him off with his deadly hands, nails glinting with a poisonous sheen.
"Yes, yes, for Game's sake," his deep voice echoes in the stone chamber. "You are not needed, boy. I must speak to my champion!" Before Cinna can begin to protest being called boy those bearish claws quash my flesh in an iron grip. He wheels me to the wall for privacy, but I will not cry out in pain. Victor Ivan Klerkov meant to hurt me, but I deserve to be punished.
"Durak! You must keep your wits about you. Did Victor Ivan Klerkov not tell you there were spies? Plots? Accidents?" he hisses. "Have you not watched enough Games to know the betrayer is one inside the Alliance? Trust no one, my Petra," he whispers, beard prickling my face. "especially him."
I can't lose him. I have to be his champion. In the Hunger Games Arena, Victor Ivan Klerkov is the best chance I have. I meet his gaze—and breath—unflinching. "I know."
"Do you?" He growls. "Then know they will use your weaknesses against you."
"I know."
"Do you?" Those nails bury deep into the oiled bristles of his beard. "Then tell me, moya Petren'ka…what is your weakness?"
"I-" I'm ugly. Uneducated. A backwoods butcher's daughter from District 6. And despite what all of Panem believes, I am willing to kill Xavier Malcovitch...and I will.
What is your weakness? Klerkov's bloodshot eyes demand. I find myself floundering for an answer. In the long winter of my childhood an old man in the outlying villages survived by eating the remains of his wife after she died from the cold—so he claimed. My father always said man was incredible for his will to survive, that will was what set us apart from animals…my mother only gleaned if you must marry, marry someone thinner than yourself.
But now I know. Petra Stoneheart has a weakness: when the deep snows come with the dark nights, no one wants to be in a cave with a cannibal. And in 6, when winter grows cold enough, everyone knows the man who sleeps alone won't wake. "I'm too willing to survive," I tell him. "They know it. I'll be alone in there."
"No," Klerkov softens, that iron grip leaving my flesh to bite anew on my shoulders. "No, my Petra," My Mentor sighs. "No." Then he kisses me, folds me to his chest and as oiled leather, roughspun silk and his bearskin-like beard are etched into my cheek he whispers, "You are young and unloved. And now you are far from home. Do you understand?"
I feel a weight drop deep within, like I've swallowed a bitter bite of rotten meat or Petra's cold heart has finally turned to stone. I am weary. Ache. The world spins in a whirl of flashing colors in an orange dragon-silk kimono, raw and ripping like bleak winter winds over a sea of deadly diamonds. I shut my eyes, hold tight to father but Lilly bleats from Malcovitch's mute mouth as he stares blankly out of a pool of rich black blood but those eyes, those eyes are wrong, they're green and flecked with gold-
I won't cry. Can't cry. Can't let him—any of them—see me cry. But I can't force back the blanch. "You mean even—"
I can't say the name. Can't think the name. "Even Avitus was just a ploy to get me close to him?"
"Perhaps," my Mentor whispers. "Perhaps."
How can you live like this! I don't have to scream at him. Clasped in his arms even the Capitol's perfume can't hide the reek of piss, whores and vodka but even if he's fucked a thousand of them I know now Victor Ivan Klerkov only always drinks—and wakes—alone.
