The Intrigue


The vid screen continues to blare District 2's anthem, but the chariot has been delayed due to 'extra security precautions'. Apparently after this morning the Capitol doesn't want another Libertas uprising on their hands.

…an uprising the media have labeled escalating crowd violence, with Game Enforcer and Peace-Keeper force miscommunication.

"But two sides were firing!" I hiss to Klerkov. "They were there, the people saw-!"

"They do not deny two sides firing, moya Petren'ka," he explains. "They leave enough truth in their lie to be credible."

"How can people believe this?" I ask angrily over Malcovitch's immaculate curls. "After what they saw-"

"How can twelve Districts tolerate the Hunger Games when their own children were murdered only last year?" Klerkov intones sadly. "Answer me that, Petra Angelovna. That is the question that baffles me."

"I just don't understand," I mumble. In my arms, Xavier Malcovitch shrugs. "You're no help," I inform him, but Cry-baby is content to ignore me. He nestles his naked body closer against my armor, searching for my warmth.

"Understand what, girl?" Tiberia asks. Again, despite her blindness, her slitted cat eyes bore right through me.

"The Hunger Games," I finally state, so softly only Malcovitch and Tiberia's inhuman hearing can sense. "Why the Hunger Games, and why this ridiculous costuming? Chariot rides? Why bother with any of it at all? Why not just send for Tributes and execute them on TV and be done with it? I've tried and tried to come up with a reason, but it just doesn't make sense."

She pads closer, leathery soles silent, entirely noiseless except for the tapping of her cane. "It is not sense but what is sensed, girl."

"What is sensed?"

"Tradition." She hisses.

"Tradition?"

"Panem. It is an old word. Ancient word. From the world before the world before. Bread. Food. Life. Peace. There are other words, many forgotten, forbidden to utter." She bares her teeth, fangs glistening. "Tell me girl, what language do you speak?"

"The common, of course." The only.

"But your name, girl," Tiberia insists. "What is it?"

"Petra. Petra Angelovna."

"Petra, Daughter-of-Angelov, I tell you once there were many words for many things in many tongues. Now there is one. E pluribus unum. But names, names remain the same. Names. Myths. Curses. Small ripples, whispers, echoes. The dying tongue still speaks: Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutant."

"Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutant?" I repeat to my Mentor as Tiberia glides away. "Klerkov, what did she mean?"

"'Hail, Casesar. We who are about to die salute you'. Those words are forbidden." Klerkov warns, watching her retreating back with concern. "Do not speak them, moya Pet'renka. Ever again. People have lost their tongues for less."


District 2's Tributes finally appear. And again, Cinna Raelius—regardless of whatever else he might be—was right.

"Announcing Asha and Ashira Query, District 2 Tributes for the 72nd annual Hunger Games!" The twins are naked, shaved, bronzed and oiled to a shining glare in the vid. Her shoes are stone. A black magazine full of coppery bullets trails across his massive shoulders and chest. Both brandish rifles. They kiss, and the crowd loves them for it.

Tasha Pushkina raises a disapproving eyebrow. Cinna Raelius winks and mouths I told you so.

I don't trust him. Don't trust myself to respond. Again, my Mentor saves me. "Ah," Klerkov sighs, clapping his hands in delight. "Now that is a costume Victor Ivan Klerkov can admire."

"She's sixteen, you 'slovoc." I hiss. His coarse face shrugs, unabashed.

"Would it bother you to know I have had much younger?"

I glare. "Yes."

"Then, moya Pet'renka," he strokes his oiled beard thoughtfully, still watching Ashira's antics on the vid, "I shall not tell you."

"Klerkov, you're a pig." Tasha adds.

"And how old were you, Natalayia?" He returns. "Thirteen? Fourteen?"

She uncoils like a snake ready to strike, eyebrows rising to magnificent heights."That's different-"

"It is not," he says coldly.

"He wasn't twenty years older than me!"

"You were also not a whore. And that is where the difference truly lies, does it not, Natalayia Pushkina?" He thunders. "I am but a humble customer. If you do not like the wares, take it up with the management or else be silent!"

Cry-baby buries his face in my cloak. I have minutes to be in the Colosseum, where my Sponsors—and life—hang in the balance. I can't walk in these shoes, can't trust my own Stylist, and now my Mentor and Escort are fighting. "Just stop it!" I shout in my best Tasha impression. "Stop it, both of you!"

They face off like snarling dogs, and Tasha's retort is nearly out of her mouth when the unexpected happens.

"Victor Klerkov?"

"VICTOR IVAN KLERKOV!" Klerkov roars, long strings of spit spraying Tasha as he wheels.

"I h-have Victor Victor K-klerkov," the mousey Game Enforcer squeaks, dropping her radio and papers. "D-district 6?"

"Ah, yes," he immediately adopts a less terrifying pose. "Victor is my first name, and title, but my full name is-"

Tasha silences him with just one eyebrow. "Yes?"

"T-the Stables request your Tributes," she stammers. "Districts 1 and 2 have d-disembarked, and Districts 3 and 4 h-have already loaded."

"We're on our way," Tasha informs her smoothly. The girl nods, and takes off at a run. Malcovitch wrinkles his nose at the scent of urine.

The door swings shut, and my Mentor and Escort clutch each other fiercely in attempts to stay upright. Cinna Raelius cracks a wry grin. Xavier Malcovitch hiccoughs out his nose. Only Tiberia doesn't find it funny. "That-" Tasha gasps, "that was-"

"Pizda!" Klerkov chokes red-faced, untangling himself from her kimono with difficulty. "So much for District 2! Perhaps the mining would have been better, yes? For costumes? Peacekeepers, ha!" he slaps his great thighs. "Come, my Petra. And little zaychik. The Capitiol awaits."


I can't carry him in these heels. But the moment I stand him on the floor I realize something's wrong. "But what about Malcovitch?"

"What about Malcovitch?" Cinna asks, intrigued.

"Not you too," I state emphatically. "We can't leave yet. He hasn't got his outfit on!"

"He is dressed," Klerkov echoes Tiberia.

I glance down to Cry-baby's curls. "You spent three hours on his hair."

Klerkov peruses him carelessly. "I know."

I'm unprepared. "You're sending him out naked?"

"Naked?" My Mentor chuckles, "Goodness, no. Little bunny will wear this." A studded, spiked, collar of leather and iron with a heavy chain.

I'm aghast. "And what's Xavier supposed to be? My pedik-?"

Beneath his beard, Victor Ivan Klerkov grins mercilessly. "Art mimics life." Cinna Raelius' flecked eyes grow huge.

"We sleep together!" I shout hotly. "It doesn't mean we…bang!"

"Bang?" Klerkov laughs. "Dear heavens, is that really what your generation calls it? You really do need to learn to relax, moya Pet'renka," he ruffles Cry-baby's hair while attaching that choker. "You are ever so much a prude."


"I didn't believe him," Cinna Raelius has lagged behind with me. In these heels I can't even keep pace with Xavier Malcovitch. For now, Klerkov holds the other end of that metal leash, and it's a queasy sight. With his elaborate head of curls, painted eyes and smooth, boyish skin, Cry-baby looks all the world like a izvrashenets' dream.

"What he said about you and Malcovitch. Not really."

I flush, but offer no reply.

"What, you're not talking to me now?" he grins. "Did Klerkov tell you not to trust me?"

"He said trust no one," I answer evenly. "You're included."

Cinna laughs. "And what makes you think you can trust him?"

"I-" I pause to think. "He's my Mentor. He's done this before."

He snorts. "Yeah, and for twenty-four years he's just let kids die. Does that sound like someone who's trustworthy to you?"

"Oh, and you are?" It's hard to look intimidating when taking mincing steps and trying your damn best not to fall over. But I sure as hell try.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He asks coolly.

I know my weakness, Klerkov. And you were wrong. I'm going to die in the Capitol from having to have the last word. "You have an uncle on the Senate," I remind him. "Close to Snow."

There. Now I've said it.

…Fuck.

Cinna drops the charm as easily as shedding a shirt. The warmth in those green eyes fades into stony jade. "Someone's been talking since you arrived."

"It's the Capitol," I say, trying to pick up my pace in the dimly lit tunnel. "People talk. I just happened to hear."

"Yeah, it's the Capitol. And you don't know a damned thing about the Capitol, Petra Angelovna, do you?" He pants, jogging to keep up. "You think you can trust Klerkov just because he's from your District? Since he's your Mentor?" He sneers in disgust. "Tell the old man he's slipping if he's telling secrets to a girl who can't keep her mouth shut."

"Klerkov didn't say- "I stop myself.

"But Pushkina did." Cinna replies. "How lovely."

I flush. "I never said-!"

"But you implied." His voice is icy. "I told you, Petra, you don't know a damned thing about the Capitol or the Hunger Games. In fact, you don't know a damned thing about Klerkov or Pushkina and I could tell you some stories that would make your head whirl."

My Mentor. My Escort. My only hope, only chance…"I don't believe you."

"How about Pushkina's mysterious sleepover and the suddenly dropped Peacekeeper investigation into a morphling overdose?"

I keep walking.

"She was barely your age, too. The girl who died," he calls.

Fuck you, Cinna Raelius. "Stop it."

"Or my personal favorite, what happened to the fourteen year-old whore from 12 Klerkov was screwing on his first Victory tour? I hear in 6 you call him the 'Man-Eater', but you really ought-"

I can't help myself. "I said stop it-!"

"You're in the Capitol now, Petra Angelovna," he says plainly. "And if you were honest with yourself you'd say there was no one, and I mean no one, that you can trust. Who knows? Even Malcovitch could be pulling a Mason and just faking it-"

They will use your weaknesses against you. My stomach knots and my veins turn to ice. "Don't you even say his name."

Cinna blinks.

…I've scared him, I realize. In this armor, in the dark, even surrounded by Game-Enforcers and cameras I've scared him. Maybe he's seen the vids from this morning, maybe he hasn't. But I know for damn certain that Tiberia's costume has worked.

"You leave Xavier Malcovitch alone," a woman's voice orders. "You and everybody else. Or I'll kill you. It'd be easy, like gutting a pig."

"You wouldn't dare," Cinna steps forward cautiously, testing the ice. "Not here. Not now."

"Because you and your brother were nice to me? Because you're my friend? Because we're surrounded by Game-Enforcers and the whole world is watching? Think again. This morning I bashed a man's brains out with a rifle on live television, Cinna Raelius," she continues, "and you know what they did?"

A vein pulsates in his neck. "What?"

"Nothing." I stare him in the eye. "Absolutely fucking nothing. I'm a Tribute, and until I walk into that Arena I'm goddamn untouchable. So what were you saying?"

"You're good," Cinna finally says, his expression lost in the darkness. "You're really good. You had me going there for a second, but you're lying."

"Am I?" I ask him. "Look into my eyes. Am I lying?"

It takes him a long, long time. "No. You're not." He swallows. "But neither am I. There are things you need to hear, now, before walking out into that arena for the world to see."

"And why should I listen to you?"

"No reason," he says. "But if I were in your shoes—which right now looks rather painful—I'd want to know as much about the people around me as I could."

He's right, I realize. As much as I hate it he's right. "Fine," I chew my tongue. "But this doesn't mean I trust you."


"Klerkov is from your District alright, but he's a Victor. He doesn't give a shit about whether you win or not, he'll be supplied with liquor and women all the same," Cinna mutters under his breath as we struggle to keep up. "Pushkina's an Addict, and she'd do anything to keep it from going public, and I mean anything, Petra. She'd sell you and your pretty little idiot friend for freedom or a few grams for her next fix."

"And I suppose I can trust you?" I hiss.

"Sure." He shrugs. "I'm the only one with everything to lose—or gain—from your Games. The longer you live, the better I look. Unlike Klerkov and Pushkina, my Career depends on you walking out of that Arena alive. Klerkov will always get more Tributes. Pushkina could sell that body to any Vid producer, she doesn't need a Tribute to support her habit."

I turn to face him. "So basically I should trust you because you're a greedy mudak?"

"I don't know what that last part meant, but I have a pretty good guess." He returns. "And yes. It's the most rational choice."

He's right. I won't ever admit it but he's right. "Piss off."

"You piss off," he jokes half-heartedly.

"Oh go fuck yourself."

"You fuck yourself. You're the only one likely to-"

I shove him. Hard. He loses his balance, but these shoes betray me. In the split second before I fall my fingers scrabble for something—anything!—to hang onto.

Cinna.


We hit the sand in a sprawling heap, his weight and these laces knocking the wind out of me. Sand, hair, grit and leather fly into my eyes as I strike out blindly under this ridiculous cloak. "Get off me get off me get OFF ME!"

"Petra-!" Klerkov shouts.

"YOU LEAVE HER ALONE YOU MOTHERFUCKING SON OF A WHORE-" Tasha's dulcet tones ring through the tunnel. Even muffled by bearskin and Cinna the sound is deafening. "YOU LAY ON MORE HAND ON HER AND I'LL-"

"-Lovna?"

It sit up so hard it hurts. Our foreheads clunk!, then I shove him off me. "Did he just-" He did. He had to. Somehow I know there's only one person in the world with a voice like that, even if I've never heard it, only one reason Tasha and Klerkov would halt-

"Cry-baby?" I choke, blind and reeling. I fling the heavy cloak back, still wiping sand from my eyes and stagger up. "Did you just talk?"


With the Game-Enforcers watching our little 'incident', Klerkov makes me apologize.

"I'm sorry," I mumble, red-faced. "For shoving you."

"You're not the one who just insulted my mother's virtue," Cinna nods to Tasha, only her tattooes and wig hiding her flush. "We're good."

"Still. I might've hurt you."

He raises an arm as the uniformed Enforcers undo the metal cuffs, and long, parallel scouring marks mar the copper flesh. I wince.

"Don't worry, you got me through the cloak," he explains. "And that thing's so thick I doubt it'll show on TV. You'll be fine."

"Still. Sorry." I say meekly.

"Don't worry about it," he rubs the scratches thoughtfully. "Besides, I ought to be thanking you. You've just made me popular."

"Popular?"

"Yeah, when I go out tonight after the celebration people'll ask me about my back and arm, and all I've got to tell them is I spent several seconds in heaven on top of Petra Angelovna with handcuffs involved and there'll be free drinks all around."

For several slow seconds I feel the blush on my face trickle even down to my breasts.

"Nothing to say?" Cinna says lightly. "That's a first." Then he bursts into peals of genuine laughter, so loud he grips his sides and moans. Even Tasha and Klerkov seem somewhat amused.

"What?" I demand. "What's so damn funny!"

"You!" He chortles. "Klerkov was right. You're such a prude."

"Like he would know," I counter hotly. "Victor Ivan Klerkov wouldn't recognize a prude if one danced naked in front of him."

Cinna gasps, spitting sand. "That's ridiculous!"

"You're ridiculous," I seethe.

"This is not true, my Petra," Klerkov says woundedly. "Why just yesterday I saw one on the train."

Now even Tasha Pushkina is giggling, albeit silently. I shut my eyes. "I hate you all."

Xavier Malcovitch makes a strangled, choking sound. He understands, I realize. And he can talk…was Cinna right? Has he just been faking it-?"Not you, Malcovitch," Cinna says kindly. "Just the rest of us." Cry-baby capers and hugs my legs, tugging my cloak to be let up.

"Does this mean we're friends again?" Cinna asks with a playful grin as Malcovitch beams at him.

"We were never friends," I remind him.

"That can't be true," he presses. "I saw you naked."

So did Marcus...And Malcovitch. And Tasha. And Klerkov, and eww. "So?"

"So now you have to be nice to me, or I'll tell everybody how small your tits are."

His gold-flecked eyes sparkle, and Malcovitch laughs. Xavier Malcovitch trusts him, I realize…and all the fight goes out of me. "To be honest, I think everybody important already knows," I concede.

"So there is someone, then." Cinna cajoles with a knowing smile as the Enforcer escort redoubles our pace. "Who's the lucky girl?"

"Girl-?" I sputter, indignant.

"Gotcha." He winks, and I can't help but smile grimly back.

You are young and unloved. And now you are far from home. Do you understand? Maybe Cinna Raelius is reporting to the Game Enforcers, maybe he's not. Maybe I'm a fool to trust him, but maybe, right now, as I place my life in Klerkov's bearish hands I simply need a friend.


AN: Like "dubbing" and shocking patients who have flat-lined, the use of this phrase before every gladiator combat is most likely a widely accepted misconception popularized by Russell Crowe and Ridley Scott, to name a few. But however historically inaccurate it may be, it's a nice touch.