The Tribute
AN: I began writing this before the movie, and based my canon characters solely on my impressions from the books which is why they might now seem OOC. I had always pictured Cinna as a dashing young Stylist and a lot more 'hip' (especially his younger, less mature revolutionary self), and it's a little too late to change that now. Team Peeta? Team Gale? Please, people. The main male protagonist should have been Cinna. That being said, I imagined Marcus as his formal, slightly Che Guevara of an older sibling. I think it's important to know this while reading Lamb to Slaughter, since if your mental picture were Marcus as Lenny Kravitz' older brother, he'd be way too old for Petra to be awkwardly crushing on.
"Please, please, somebody help me-" a girl's voice rings from the bed next to mine. We're separated by a thin curtain, sure, but it does little to stifle the noise.
"Holi, it's time to rest," I hear Marcus Raelius tell her tenderly. "You'll be okay for now."Holi. I think back to the Reapings, but Tasha and I watched the broadcast on mute. I don't know her face, but the shrillness of her voice and smallness of her shadow tells me she's young. Maybe as young as Malcovitch. My stomach sickens.
"Please, please-!" Holi pleads. I see her shadow sit up and clutch Marcus tightly. "I broke my arm please let me go home I have to go home-"
"Holi, I'm going to get you something for the pain," He promises, drawing back on a syringe to place in her line. "The medicine should be taking effect now. Rest."
"Please," She chokes quietly. "You're a doctor. Help me. Help me, please…"
I roll over. Curl up. I should be relieved at one less competitor…but the child in the bed next to mine was never a threat. Pizda, I bunch the covers up around my ears as Holi sobs. Why couldn't it have happened to Sheen or Shimmer?
"You'll be alright, Holi," I hear him soothe, and somehow I know he's sitting by her bedside the same way he sat by mine. He might even be holding her hand. I feel a sudden stab of betrayal like a slap to the cheek. I should be used to it by now. I'm Baba yaga Angelovna, the butcher-girl with a man's shoulders and a horse's face. And worse, it would seem, to him I'm still a just a child, same as Holi. We're both just fleeting Tributes in his long career. I'm such a fucking fool to have ever allowed myself to think I was special…
"Please, I can't, not the Games I can't go to the Games-"
The curtain swings back. I know he's watching me. I can't help myself. I have to look. When I roll over Marcus is old, old and worn, the golden shine gone from his hollow eyes. His handsome face is haggard and drawn."Help her," He says.
I stiffen. "What?"
"I have other patients. Help her."
"Marcus, I-" He thinks because we're both Tributes that I can understand. That I can help. I'm no good talking to other girls. Have never been. Holi needs comfort and I have none to give. "Marcus, I can't."
"Do it," he orders. "That little girl is suffering."
…and I'll suffer, too, if you make me talk to her before I kill her. Or let her be killed. Either way, Holi dies.
He walks away briskly, but he left the curtain open. A little girl with dark, streaming eyes and olive skin is staring at me from under a curtain of thick, glossy hair. I think back to the Reaping, but still can't place her. So very many terrified children blur together, but if I'm right she's the female Tribute from either 5 or 12."Who are you?" I finally ask.
"Holi. Holi Carnegie." She chokes.
"Which District?"
She lets out a sob. "You don't even know! No one does! No one here cares who I am!"
"Which District?" I ask again.
"Five." She sniffles. "I know who you are," she continues accusingly. "Everyone does. You're that Butcher the vids keep talking about."
"What happened?" I ask. "To your arm, I mean."
"Those shoes, my Stylist, I, I told her I couldn't wear them I begged her but she, she wouldn't listen an-an-and now I'm going to die!" Ire begins to burn, I can feel it rise in the pit of my stomach. Her Stylist should have listened. Her Escort should have stood up for her, her Mentor intervened—
But I've only watched the Hunger Games before, and as I think about it I doubt many have the support I do. Klerkov wants his Champion, for what reason I can't say. He's a Victor, well provided by the Capitol regardless of his Tribute's fate. Tasha is kind—too kind, I think. Even I have already all but forgotten the threat of that syringe of morphling hanging over her head. "I'm sorry," I finally tell her. "I'm really sorry, Holi."
"You're so lucky. You did so well. You're going to get Sponsors and I'm, I'm…I just want to go home!" As she rubs her eyes miserably I see paint on her nails, bright blue and silvery. Even in the dim light I can tell there's not a scratch on them. Her hands are soft, unused, clean.
She's rich, I realize. Holi Carnegie has never known hardship a day in her life. "We can't go home, Holi. Never again."
"We're all going to die!" she shrieks. "I don't want to die-!"
No, Holi. Not all of us, I think. One of us will live.
…Me. I was right all along. I have no words to comfort her.
Marcus appears again suddenly, drawn by the sound of her screams. Wordlessly he draws another syringe and plunges the medicine into her veins. I gag. "You're going to sleep now, Holi." Her dark eyes roll back and her chubby, child's breasts rise deeply once, then still. For a terrifying moment I think he's killed her. His flashing green eyes meet mine inscrutably. I shiver.
What did I see there? Pain? Sorrow? Anger?
…Disappointment?
I find it hard to get back to sleep. The cot is too short, my feet resting on the iron bar. Too narrow to curl up comfortably, and all around us are the sounds of the wounded and dying. I'm used to animals bleating, but this is different. For the animals, I feel only pity. For these victims of Libertas, I'm not so sure. I pull the sheet off my face and watch Holi sleep. She's short but buxom, perhaps thirteen. Already her breasts are fuller than mine. Her tinted skin is sleek, not blotched or pocked, and the tiny glimpse of teeth between her full lips is a startling white. She isn't beautiful, not by Capitol Vid standards, but she still has an air of childlikeness that makes her as darling as a spring-born kid.
But the Capitol won't sponsor adorable. Not for long. She might win a few over, but as the odds thin out the betting changes. I've seen it before in the Games, the packages becoming fewer and fewer until one day they stop, and the Tribute is left to die of Careers or exposure. Year after year I never knew which to hope for. Nature in the Arena could be both the crueler or the kinder, depending on the Gamemaker's whim. Holi will be no different, she'll be sold to the slaughter. If she dies well, there might be some tears shed for her. even here in the Capitol. She's small and young. I doubt anyone would weep for me.
I wake to the sound of raised voices. I roll to my stomach and peer around the curtain, searching for Tasha and Klerkov.
Harsh lights glare down in the center of the domed ceiling. The hall stretches on in both directions, lined with curtained booths filled with the injured and the dead. A naked woman struts down the aisle, turning heads of patients and medics alike. No wonder they're arguing, that mudak's sent one of his whores to come get me. But as she saunters closer I realize my mistake.
Klerkov's Avox were handsome, but normal. The woman approaching has more genetic enhancements than I've yet to see either in the crowds at the Capitol or on the Vids. Her skin is slick, scaled and leathery, her neck webbed with a hideous hood. Her eyes are fixed, pupil's slitted like a snake's. Some of her scales glitter even in the cold light, off-set with jewels, creating a mask around her eyes, trickling down the hood where her hair might be, encircling her navel and a sparse smattering across her shoulders, the very tips of her breasts and all around her slit-and I doubt they're there for modesty. As they wink in the light, she casts withering sneers at the gawking men around her.
I watch her walk with mounting dread. Beautiful women are forced to be seen, Tasha Pushkina's words come back to me. There's only one way the Cobra or any woman could afford an enhancement like that, and there's only one reason why they would. If Avitus' antics were any representative, I'd say she's an absolute pizda. From the look on Marcus Raelius' face right now he must agree.
"Medic, I require my Tribute," the Cobra demands, standing within a foot of him. I'm sorry, Holi. I'm really, really sorry...her Escort probably fucking laughed when the accident happened.
"Your Tribute isn't ready to be released," Marcus informs her without withdrawing, eyes not so much as flickering to her breasts. "She suffered an open fracture of both the radius and ulna, over a liter of blood loss and intense psychological trauma. She needs further rest before I release her from my custody."
"Yes, yes, rest and rehabilitation," Holi's Escort waves boredly, tossing her near-naked body back and forth. "Both of which she can receive at the hotel. The press is waiting."
Marcus is unimpressed. "The press can continue to wait."
"Oh, for that little thing?" she sniffs through flattened nostrils, jabbing a jeweled fingertip to the booth next to mine. "I hardly think so. Everyone knows she's a dead girl walking…" her voice trails off coldly. "But I do have a sympathetic journalist who would love a shot of some sniveling and tears, he seems to think it adds a human side to the Games, the fool. It's the girl's only chance at Sponsors, Raelius. Take it or leave it."
"Holi will stay here until I see fit to release her."
The Cobra draws herself up, jeweled breasts brushing him as her hood spreads wickedly. "I'm her Escort."
Marcus Raelius doesn't so much as blink. "I'm her Medic."
She moves to strike. I nearly cry out, but Marcus is ready for her. An uncapped syringe is clutched tightly in his left hand, and as she surges forward the point pricks her skin. The snake recoils instantly. "You impertinent asshole!" She screeches, rubbing a rapidly rising welt spreading across the skin of her scaly chest. "What have you done to me!"
"It's only saline," he states coolly, capping it. "It can't kill you, but given your altered physiology I imagine it will sting quite terribly. I suppose that's the price you paid when you stopped being human."
"You'll be sorry for this!" she swears.
"As will you if you do not adhere to the requisite protocol. You can have your Tribute in the morning, no sooner," Marcus informs her evenly. "Call your journalist friend. Tell him. In the meantime I'll allow you access to your Tribute, but if you deviate from protocol again I'll have Security remove you. Forcibly."
She sneers, her sinewy neck twisting sensuously, poisonous lips so close to his they nearly kiss. "Oh, and how long do you think the Enforcers will listen to the likes of you, Raelius?"
His eyes are stern."I have absolutely no idea what you may be implying."
"I hear trouble's coming," she spits. "For you. And all your little sympathizers."
"It's been lovely catching up, Iridina," Marcus slides the stethoscope from around his neck emotionlessly. "But I believe we both have work to do. If you'll excuse me." As he brushes past she sticks her forked tongue out and licks his ear. I find my hands have turned to shaking fists around the curtains.
She catches me staring. "What, Tribute?" Iridina hisses, fangs falling forward from the roof of her mouth. "What are you staring at?"
But this Iridina can't frighten me. I just saw a Medic stop her with nothing but a needlestick. "A snake," I state. "And a suka. Go find a man who's interested in fucking you. Maybe he'll even buy you clothes."
"At least a man would," she sneers scathingly, but I only smile. She huffs and hisses, then shakes her blinding tits at me before stalking off. At least a man would, she said. A man like Klerkov, perhaps.
...Not mine.
"A Victor Ivan Klerkov is here," Marcus states mildly on his return, looking refreshed in Iridina's absence. "And he's threatened to tear me limb from limb, eat my intestines and drink my blood if I don't release you to him this instant." The corner of his mouth tugs into a smile. "Should I be concerned?"
"Klerkov's drunk and blundering," I tell him. "He's also dangerous. You should probably do what he says."
"He's accompanied by a woman with terrifying eyebrows. Do you know her as well?"
"How terrifying?" I insist.
"Exquisitely," he intones with grave seriousness. We both laugh. "I suppose I ought to release you, then, Petra Angelovna."
"I suppose you should."
"We keep meeting like this," Marcus continues ruefully. "I fear if you leave my custody now another disaster will only be forthcoming." It's banter, like Cinna's, only Marcus Raelius lacks the charm and wit of his brother's crass flirtation. His failed attempts still make me smile.
"Perhaps you should hire a squad of Peacekeepers to keep me safe." I return.
His reply is a second too late in coming. "Perhaps I should." His face is frozen. Unfeeling. The air goes chill. I've said something I shouldn't have…but what?
"You're leaving?" Holi sits up in alarm, oblivious to the sudden turn in our conversation.
"My Mentor's here." I explain, glad for an excuse to turn away, pondering my words. Perhaps you should hire a squad of Peacekeepers to keep me safe...
"Oh." Her voice is small.
"Oh, what?"
Her dark eyes are downcast. "Mycah and I don't have one."
"You don't even have Mentors?" I demand sharply.
"No one wanted us," she whispers. "And besides, we didn't want to learn to kill people. I think it's awful."
I'm silent. "Don't you?" she chokes.
"Yes." I agree reluctantly.
"I don't want you to go." Her thick hair flies as she shakes her head. "I don't want to be all alone."
"I'll look after you, Holi," Marcus promises, left hand trailing to the pocket of his long white coat. Needles, the hair on my neck stands up. "I won't leave you all alone."
"I want you to stay." She hiccoughs at me. "You're really nice."
Hardly. "I'm sorry about your arm." I distract her. "I'm really sorry."
"I want to see my mom!" she starts to cry again suddenly. "And, and my dog, and my best friend-"
"I'm sorry, Holi." I repeat. "I really am."
"Tell them I can't go, please tell them I can't go not like this please not like this-"
"…oh." Holi mutters softly, Marcus' needle jutting out of her nape. Something hot and gurgly hits the back of my throat. I can barely hold it down. Her neck arches back like a bird's as Marcus pushes her down against the pillows. "Do you think, maybe, maybe since I'm so weak they'll leave me alone?" her voice is hopeful, dream-like, far away. "Like Johanna Mason, that girl from 7? I'm not a threat," she yawns, the medication catching her up. "You tell them I'm not a threat. Tell everybody, telbody…tell I'm not a thr…" she begins to snore softly.
"Would you just stop doing that!" I gasp sitting back on my bed, face flushed and heart pounding.
"What?"
"Sticking people in front of me. Gah." I burp, still sick. "I need some water." When he returns with a cup, my fingers shake so badly I can barely hold it.
"I thought you were over your fear of needles," he lifts the water to my lips then takes it back before I can spill it all down my front. I would retort, but there's something much more pressing on my mind.
"What's going to happen to Holi?" I ask.
"I'll manage her pain," he evades my question.
"And in two days she'll go into the Hunger Games, won't she."
"Yes."
"Maybe she's right. Maybe she won't be targeted," I try to hope. "Since she's not a threat." Right, Petra, and maybe some day you'll walk out to the kill shack to find all the animals have died peacefully in their sleep instead.
"You know she will be," Marcus reprimands me. "They always are. She won't be able to run or climb, not with that arm the way it is."
"So she's just going to die. Alone and afraid."
His answer is unflinching. "Yes."
"And there's nothing, nothing anyone can do to help her," I choke. Tears well up unbidden, but I will not let them fall. Rocks can't feel. Rocks can't die. Tasha was right: the Raelius brothers are only here to make me vulnerable, their every seeming kindness cruel and calculated. Nothing more. "Why the hell did you make me talk to her," I accuse him.
Far from angry, Marcus Raelius leans down to look directly in my eyes. His gold-flecked irises are dull and full of pain. "Because you're wrong, Petra Angelovna." He holds my gaze. "You can."
That little girl is suffering, he told me, and his words from this morning come back to haunt me: If I knew another way to ease his suffering, any other way, I'd do it.
I close my eyes. When I open them again, he is gone.
AN: Denmark? Austria? United Kingdom? C'mon you guys. You can't intrigue a girl with a read from Europe and not give her a review. Please?
