The Explanation
Harsh, white light. I think of winter, think of home, think of the sheen of sunlight on the frozen shores beside our home. Irena is alive, Zoya is alive, Lidiya and Marta screech with laughter as flakes fall into their pale hair. It's nothing but a memory, a dream before the White Winter and the consumption that killed thousands. But that was years ago now, years since my father buried them one by one in the frozen grey earth so the unfeeling men in orange suits wouldn't come to burn them. So long ago now that in the darkness of night I have ceased to wake with dreams of girls who were not my sisters but skeletons instead drowning in mouthfuls of blood. The glare grows brighter, my sister's laughter fades. I know now it's not the glint of sun on snow that wakes me. This light is unfeeling. Heartless. Cold.
"Petra?" A familiar voice calls from far away. Green and gold-flecked eyes appear over me, full of concern. "Petra Angelovna?"
"Cinna," I mumble as the world stops spinning. My sisters are gone.
"I see you met my brother," Marcus Raelius says with a patient smile, the bell of his stethoscope laid lightly over my breasts. "Are you awake now?"
I try to sit. "Marcus-? Where, how, what…where's Malcovitch!" I demand weakly.
"Petra, lay down," he orders calmly. "Mr. Malcovitch is fine."
"Blyad," I spit, eyes rolling around. The small bay is crowded with cots, the wounded and bloody. Sharp cries permeate the air. Libertas, I think. "Marcus, what happened?" I shudder. "Why do I feel so…tell me that's not a needle in my arm." I shut my eyes tight, unwilling to look.
"Lay still," he places another flat pillow beneath my neck. "You're in adrenal letdown but you'll recover if you just rest. Rest and let the medicine work."
"I ache everywhere," I groan.
"I would imagine so. The Game Enforcers were forced to use electroshock netting to capture you. Fortunately the voltage was low enough you sustained no musculoskeletal damage or subsequent renal injury," he continues to ramble. "Your neurotransmitters will be off balance, but they'll adjust within the hour."
"Capture-?" I ask dazedly. "Neurotransmitters? Where…" I remember something important, something pressing. "I have to get to the Chariot Ride!"
His face falls. "Petra-"
"Klerkov's going to kill me I've got to, got to…" I struggle even to sit, neck hanging limply, limbs flopping useless by my sides. I'm bloodied and scraped, bruised and covered in sand and I've never felt so helpless. Or scared. I have to go into the Hunger Games in two days time, and I can barely move.
I take a shuddering breath to control my fear. "What the fuck happened to me?" I finally whisper.
His green eyes are full of concern. "What's the last thing you remember?"
"I-" …Cinna. "I was…getting on the Chariot."
"The ride is over now, Petra Angelovna."
"I don't, I don't remember any of it."
"That's understandable," Marcus explains. "You suffered minor temporal lobe trauma in the crash, and a brief amnestic episode following such brain damage is typical. It's also probable you suffered a psychotic break."
I don't understand most of it, but glean the important bits. Crash? Trauma? Damage? Something happened. Something terrible happened out there in the Colosseum and now Marcus Raelius is hiding something from me. "Where's Malcovitch?" I insist.
"I'm treating him for skin lacerations and minor friction burn. He's fine."
I don't believe him. "I need to see him-"
"You need to rest, Petra Angelovna. If I see you attempt to get up again I'll sedate you," he warns, but not unkindly. "And we both know I will."
My head falls back in defeat, cemented hair giving way with a faint crunch. "Where am I?"
"Emergency medical bay, Petra. You're safe. I have other patients I have to attend to." He lays a gloved hand on my bare shoulder in parting. "Rest."
I flit in and out of dark dreaming, but always I hear the sound of horses screaming. I shudder and cringe in the cold, but a heavy fur is tucked in around me smelling faintly of blood and vodka…of home. I sigh. Fade deeper into a restless, fitful sleep.
When I wake again a cool, gentle caress falls against my face and neck, spreads trickling across my shoulders and chest, down my long limbs, clean and comforting all at once. I open my eyes, unfocused, and a dark hand wipes the grit and blood away.
Somehow I know he's standing over me. "What's going on?" I ask Marcus. "What happened?"
"You've had an accident, Petra, but you're fine now," his voice is calm and soothing.
"Where's Malcovitch?"
"Resting."
I'm awake now, I realize, but those horses are still screaming. I shudder. "Who are all these people?"
"Some were Gamemakers," he finally answers. "Most others were injured in the blast."
I raise my head weakly. "What blast?"
"An incendiary device went off in District 12's stable bay shortly after their Tributes had disembarked," he informs me. "Several hundred civilians were killed. These are the survivors."
"So they're safe?" I ask. "The Tributes from 12?"
"Yes," he bathes my face again. "It seems the device was rigged to destroy the Colosseum's infrastructure. Both Tributes escaped unharmed."
And the people? What people, I think bitterly. All those people in the stands, cheering us on, just waiting to watch our blood run. I remember a girl no older than Malcovitch snatching a hank of my hair, jubilant at her prize. "That's good," I mumble. "I'm glad they're safe." But it'd be a lie to say I'm not glad that those Capitol citizens are dead.
…I am Petra Angelovna, the Stone-heart. I have not yet entered the Hunger Games and already I have become a killer.
"You burned your hands on the reigns," Marcus Raelius takes my hands gently, folding them palm-up. "I'm going to graft them. It won't take long." He sits by my bedside. I feel my heart speed up, feel a little bit sick, feel a warm blush spread across my face. Don't be a durak, Petra. He's only holding your hand because you're injured and now he's going to stick a hundred needles in it. Up close again he reminds me so much of Cinna, but the tell-tale, tiny wrinkles around his tired eyes say differently. He's got to be 30 at least, I berate myself, he's handsome, and he's grown up in the Capitol surrounded by women infinitely more noticeable than me.
…He also catches me looking.
I turn away.
He studies me intently, his stunning eyes watching the many monitors on the wall vid screens. "What are those?" I finally ask, writhing in our awkward silence.
"Vital signs," he cleanses my raw palm with a cool rag.
"Vital signs?"I whisper.
"Your cardiac rate," he expertly removes a splinter with tiny tongs. "Your respiratory status," I hear the crinkle of paper as he opens sterile packaging. "Your blood pressure."
"What's that for?"
"Your blood pressure?"
"No, that," I jerk my head towards my palm as he stitches something in place, glad for a legitimate reason not to face him.
"Recombinant mesh. Part porcine and part human with a DNA acceleration matrix. Your dermis and subcutaneous tissues will be fully reconstituted within a few hours."
Again his words mean nothing. Again he didn't answer my question. "So it's going to fix my hands?" I press.
He laughs a little, gives my fingers the faintest trace of a squeeze. "It's going to fix your hands."
He works in silence for a long while, gloved fingers touching me only briefly as he works the thread through my flesh. He's so adept, so gentle, it barely stings. "What happened?" I finally roll to face him. "Out there in the Colosseum?"
"You still don't remember?"
I shake my head.
"Shall I just say you caught their attention?" He evades an answer. "Tell me, where'd the blood come from?"
"…Cinna." I say quietly.
His startling eyes widen with concern. "Petra, is my brother alright?"
"I-" don't lie, Petra. "I don't know." Two brothers, so alike and yet unlike. "You met my brother Marcus," Cinna growled when I told him. "We're nothing alike…I don't need his help for anything." The mere mention of Marcus made him hostile. I find their disparity baffling.
"Cinna—" I begin.
"Doesn't share my sense of purpose or propriety, as you've probably become aware," Marcus says stiffly. "I apologize if he's done or said anything to upset you."
"I'm used to being teased," I reply. Ugliness and adolescence aren't a kind combination. "He doesn't bother me. He just doesn't seem to like you, that's all."
"Cinna wouldn't. He has good reason not to."
"But you're still worried about him?" I ask.
"Of course, Petra Angelovna." Marcus affirms. "He's my brother."
"Why wouldn't he like you?"
"I was older, quieter, academically and politically minded." he explains humbly, attention still focused on my hands. "Cinna was always questioning, artistic, outspoken, and charming. Our father—and uncle—made it clear from an early age which characteristics were admired."
"He's jealous," I rephrase, beginning to understand.
"Jealous?" Marcus laughs. "Hardly. Cinna is much nobler than that. My brother possesses the singular quality of absolute disdain for the opinions of others. If anything I was always jealous of him."
"Why? You're a Medic." I find it hard to believe. A Hunger Games Medic, I don't have to emphasize to him. Marcus Raelius has exclusive contact with Tributes the rest of the Capitol would literally kill for.
"And Cinna is an aspiring Stylist. He'll be known, applauded, revered. People will see him on the streets and Vids and say 'that's Cinna Raelius'. The work I do is important, yes, but I'll always be behind in the shadows. I have a mind for science, for planning and structure. Cinna understands people's hearts, how they work and how to reach them," Marcus says lightly. "And more importantly, he can."
"But you help people," I object.
"I don't make as much a difference as I'd like," he continues. "Growing up I may have had the marks, the praise, the adulation from parents and professors, published papers and journal articles, worked with top researchers in the prime of their fields…" he finishes wistfully. "But my brother always had something I never did."
His answer makes me sad somehow. "What?" I whisper.
"Friends," Marcus Raelius stands abruptly, the final stitches in place. "Keep moving your hands. Retained elasticity is crucial for recovery of full range of motion."
Friends, I think, flexing my fingers as he walks away. He might be a handsome, educated man from the Capitol, but despite those differences Marcus Raelius and I are very much alike.
