The Victor

Some bonus canon cameos for you all-I hope they're all within character!


The Crowd's roar is present, even here. The Tank crawls through the Capitol like a crone with swollen joints, and everywhere the din of their applause follows us. Unloading at the hotel is worse than leaving the hospital. No less than two-hundred Peace-keepers and a squadron of Game Enforcers line the red carpeting. Confetti rains down so hard and fast for a moment I feel trapped in a sweltering blizzard.

"Remember-"

"Put on a show," I growl to Klerkov. "I know."

Malcovitch goes first, clutched in Tasha's arms. Women fawn and young girls scream. There's even some men in the mix now, I note queasily. She bobs and bows, curtseying coyly as Cry-baby does what he does best: be invisible. He's so small, so huddled he's almost lost in the folds of her gown. He's absolutely helpless, but the Capitol loves him for it.

"Are you ready, moya Pet'renka?" My Mentor asks.

But she would know, and in knowing, would be false. If I fake this, or try to act, I am lost. I think of my Reaping. Malcovna. Klerkov's solicitation, that syringe of Morphling, those girls clutching at my hair. I think of Tasha's kiss, of Klerkov's whores, of a bath of blood and a Colosseum collapsing, of a Medic and his brother…

The rage eats me. My blood is burning. It's only the metal collar and chain that allows Victor Victor Ivan Klerkov to drag his champion away from the pressing throng, up the stairs and inside.


"The Butcher again provides the crowd with grotesque demonstrations of violence-"

"-and up and coming contender against this year's Career Districts-"

"-not much to look at, but definitely the Tribute to keep your eye on-"

"-with an astounding display of feminine finesse and contempt, Tiberia makes a shocking return to the Hunger Games scene with this year's 'Life and Death', a two-part costume series featuring District 6 Tribues Petra aka 'the Butcher' Angelov and Xavier Malcovitch-"

"-clearly the crowd favorite-"

"-awaiting tomorrow's Training Scores with anticipation to see if Anglov can live up to her name, 'the Butcher'."

"There's nothing about the blast," I whisper over the shouting of Vid reporters.

"No, no!" Klerkov continues to smile jovially, waving to the media. "Of course not, my Petra." He returns through his teeth. "The rest of Panem will never know."

"So they're focusing on me instead," I observe. He nods curtly in reply. Victor Ivan Klerkov is ten times more dangerous than I thought. He knew. All along he knew about the bomb, arranged for me to take the press…

He's using you, I think. You can't trust him. Not entirely.

But I'm wrong. I can trust Klerkov…to be Klerkov. I don't know how, I don't know why, but I know as long as our two goals intersect, Victor Ivan Klerkov will deliver what he says…regardless of cost. He wanted a champion, I wanted to live. I don't know how long or how far he can take me, but if I play his game, I can't lose. "How the hell did you arrange for that?"

"Plots," Klerkov shakes a seedy man's hand, laughing bawdily at his jests. "Spies." His enormous arms encircle me for a photograph. "Accidents." Even the lobby of our hotel is crowded, their din mixing with that of the Vids. No media here, Klerkov explains in my ear as he holds me firmly by that chain, but many Sponsors. And Victors. And Tributes.

I glare at all.

I see several faces I recognize. Luccan Sheen of District 1 eyes me, and smiles when I look his way. Asha and Ashira—now in clothes, I note—pretend indifference. And the pinched-face girl with sly, piggish eyes from District 3. Portia? A naked woman with a scaly hood attracts glances from male Sponsors, Victors—especially Klerkov—and Tributes alike. Iridina. But her wares are in vain. She might get money herself for fucking them, but no eyes wander from her body to her male Tribute, Mycah, from District 5. To my surprise, he smiles and waves. I have to look away. Some of the others are faces I've seen before in Vids, politicians of sorts. Senecca Crane with his face swollen, bruised, and stitched. More Hunger Games Enforcers. From the ageless faces and ridiculous dress of the rest I assume they're rich. Obscenely rich. Potential Sponsors, then. I stand straight, like Klerkov taught me, like Tiberia's costuming makes me, and meet their eyes.

By time we clear the lobby my feet are burning even over the Morphling Marcus rubbed on them. My face aches from constant snarling, and even with the leather underside this collar has chafed my neck.

"Blyad." I tell Klerkov. "Just take me to the Games already. These Crowds are killing me."

"We are not safe yet," my Mentor hisses. "Hallways have eyes. Ears." Avox. Spies. If Klerkov has them, there are other Mentors who must have bought some off as well. No sooner is his warning given then a door bursts open to our left.

Klerkov shoulders in front of me, armor clanking, He dips his nails into a hidden pocket, and their sheen is even brighter than before. Poison, I realize suddenly. He paints his nails with poison.

"Victor, would you really?" The man slurs, smelling of stale vodka and urine. "After all we've been through together?" He seems familiar…

"Ah, Haymitch," Klerkov grunts, clapping his hands excitedly. "Sadly yes. I have a Tribute worth training, at least. That merits some degree of protection." Haymitch, my Mentor called him. Haymitch Abernathy. I know the face now. A Victor.

Plots. Spies. Accidents. I step closer to Klerkov's protection.

"So you finally did it, did you?" The tottering man slurs, leering at me. One hand clutches a bottle of cheap-smelling alcohol. "You found her?"

"Yes," Klerkov boasts proudly. "I have found my champion."

"You're…sober!"The man hiccoughs, raising a dirty hand to jab him. "Mistake. Big…mistake…it'll be the same. It's always the same. Look at her. Look at her!" His unwashed fingers yank Klerkov's beard. "Some rags and metal don't make a girl a fighter! Your champion will die just like the rest of them-"

Klerkov is silent.

"Look at the bear!" Haymitch howls drunkenly, swaying on the spot, his unkempt blonde hair flying. "The dancing bear with his cubs-! The helpless newborn. The nubile she-bear. She'll run, you know she'll run! She'll run, same as the others, at the first sight of blood!"

"First blood. How odd you should speak of it," Klerkov intones coldly."As it is likely to be your Tributes."

I wasn't ready. He might be drunk, but he's fucking strong. Shorter than Klerkov, perhaps, but just as muscled under that belly. He charges like a bull, head down, and takes Klerkov by the waist. The force slams us back, but Klerkov stays on his feet. He's armored, and the clash of glass can do nothing to hurt him. They grapple, wrestle, rip hair and clothing—

Do I run? Stay? Is Haymitch going to sell his story just like Quinta?

Is Klerkov testing me?

I join in. Wrench the bastard's arm like I'd wrestle a bull by the horns. When he turns to face me I punch him. Hard. Blood gushes from his nose. Teeth crunch and flesh tears. Whatever else he was, Cinna Raelius was right about these nails.

Haymitch stumbles back. Sits shakily. "Bitch," I hear him mutter.

"You're wrong, mudak," I tell him. "This She-bear will fight. She's got claws and she knows how to use them. Now piss off. No one hits Klerkov." But Haymitch only laughs. Then cries. Then screams.

I gawk. Klerkov drags me away.

"What's wrong with him?" I burst in the elevator. "With Haymitch? Why'd he attack us? Why didn't you hurt him? What the hell just happened!"

My Mentor sleeks his mussed beard. "He is mad, my Petra. Mad."

"The Games?" I ask.

"That, yes. And the drinking. His District is poor. His Tributes poorer. He drinks to forget." I'm from 6. Even our children share the ales and wines, although good vodka is for the rich and the men. But there are drunks. Many drunks. The kind who piss in public, steal food when sober enough to walk, who lay down in the streets at night to sleep or die. My father felt sorry for them. My mother never did.

The Games. The Drinking. Very soon, Haymitch could be me. I pity Malcovitch. Pity lambs led to slaughter. Pity Holi, and the other children dying. Rocks can't feel. Rocks can't die. I have no room for Haymitch Abernathy. But from the look in his eyes, I know that Victor Victor Ivan Klerkov was speaking of himself. I find I have no pity for him, either.

I'm silent.

"You should not have done that," he continues, frowning. "Now he will warn his Tributes against you. Other Districts as well. And I was not aware you had grown so fond of me, my Petra."

"I haven't," I state, less than half a lie. "But you're my Mentor. So if anyone gets to hit you when you're being a mudak, it's me." I think back to last night's broadcast. "Which District?"

"12."

Two children. Only Cry-baby is less a threat. The worst his warnings could do is make them run. "I'm not worried about them."

"You live, and kill," my Mentor advises. "Leave worry to me. But I do wish you had paid more attention to our conversation, my Petra." Plots. Spies. Accidents. If Haymitch Abernathy has to drink that much to forget the children he lets die year after year, he wouldn't risk killing them by killing me, I decide. He isn't dangerous like Klerkov. He isn't searching for a champion. He cares.

I smile. Press Klerkov's poisoned hand. "He wouldn't dare."


The elevator doors open. I am relieved. A warm bed, a hot—hot!—bath, a cup of spiced wine or vodka to help me sleep…then training in the morning to prepare me to slaughter children. But I must sleep. I must. Two nights of rest before the Arena…I need all the strength and sleep I can get.

We're doors away. My aching muscles throb in protest. Almost there-

Another door slams. Klerkov spins me behind him wordlessly. "Well, well, well," a girl's low voice and muscular body emerge from the shadows. "Look what the Cat dragged in."

Cat. Only one person that could mean: Tiberia. I don't like how she emphasized that. From Klerkov's tenseness he doesn't either.

Wide-set eyes, short, dark hair. Like Haymitch, I recognize her face from previous Games: Johanna Mason. A great strategy, that one. She purposefully failed her Chariot Outfit, her Training Score, and her Interview to be misjudged in the Arena as a clumsy, whiny weakling not worth targeting. It wasn't until the last days, when the Alliance had turned on itself and the few remaining Careers were hunting the others down that she began her retaliation. Johanna Mason, the girl who couldn't even start a fire with matches, proved to be lethal with an axe.

I'm big, brutish. The Butcher's daughter. I never had that chance.

"Busy, busy," Klerkov brushes her aside. "Cannot talk now. No."

"I'm wearing clothes, Klerkov. Do I look like I'm here to talk to you?" Mason sneers. "Though come to think on it, they never do much talking, do they?"

There's a sudden chill. Avox, I realize. She means the Avox. She knows-! "Hello, Sweetheart," she continues, sauntering past Klerkov lazily. "I bet you think you're clever, don't you, Klerkov?" She asks in disgust before turning back to me. "Bet you think your Mentor just did you a favor, don't you? You're wrong. Hours ago you were the ugly Butcher. Now you've gone and gotten yourself noticed…"

Her hands find my hips and give the slightest shove-

Damn these shoes. I feel myself falling backwards, rocking onto those tiny heels and I reach out instinctively for something-anything!-to hang onto, Holi's voice ringing desperately in my ears. Next thing I know I'm grasping Johanna Mason by the shoulders, leaning back as though swooned in her arms, and know the panicked feeling Quintina must have had just seconds before Tasha Pushkina's lips met hers. Mason's face twists into a cruel smile. "And you can be a sexy little thing, can't you?"

Haymitch I was prepared for. The walks I managed well. For Johanna Mason, I have no instincts. No training. No chances of survival.

"Here's my advice," she rights me and shoves me into Klerkov. "Don't live to regret it."

My face is flushed, heart heaving. "I-I don't understand."

"He hasn't told you?" She asks in surprise, rounding on my Mentor. "You haven't told her!"

But Victor Ivan Klerkov is as stubborn—and stoic—as ever. "A Mentor prepares his Tributes for the Games."

Mason swears and puts a fist through the plaster of the wall. "Goddamn you, Klerkov!" She shouts. "Goddamn you all!" But her sudden coolness is even more ominous than that outburst. "I'm appealing again for equal Gender-distribution of excess Victors."

Klerkov sniffs. "Absurd."

"What's absurd is you and Blight sending girls into the ring without preparing them for what comes next!"

What comes next, my blood runs cold. What could make Mason—a Victor, and a good one at that—sound so shrill? "What comes next, Klerkov?" I nearly beg. "What did she mean? Don't live, live to regret it-?"

But my Mentor is silent. Perhaps ashamed.

"The moment you walk out of that Arena your body becomes Capitol property," She spits. "So now that you've gone and gotten yourself noticed, I'd suggest you don't. The Arena isn't the only place in Panem where the monsters run wild." She tosses her dark hair over her shoulder, then retreats.

Capitol Property. I'm from 6. I'm old enough now. I recognize the word whore when I hear it. I don't believe her. Can't believe her. I am Petra Angelovna, and I want to live. "Klerkov, what, what does she mean-?"

"Well," my bear whispers, eyes shutting in defeat. "She meant well."

"No, no about b-becoming Capitol property…Tasha…Tasha said in the Capitol, beautiful women must be seen…" My voice is desperate, pleading.

"Nocturnal arrangements," he states. "Erotic entanglements. Call it what you will it serves as a campaign fundraiser for Capitol politics."

"Erotic-?" But I'm old enough now. Grew up in 6. I know the word whore when I hear it. "Oh, God, Klerkov, I, I c-can't I'm a…I've never, I-"

"Shh, shh, no," he holds me. "Not now. Not yet. Only after. Only after-"

I shove him back. "Why didn't you tell me!"

His next words are plaintive, pleading. "Moya Pet'renka, I wanted you to live."

"But what sort of life!" I shout. "What life is that!"

"You must understand this," He commands me gently. "Petra Angelovna died the moment her name was pulled from the lists. Do you understand? Already dead. Your life is gone, Petra Angelovna. You can never have it back, and Victor Ivan Klerkov cannot save you. All he can offer you is a second life. Another life."

I snort. Sob. Sneer. "What would you know, huh?" I shove him. Hard. "What would you care?" I pound my fists against his chest, every word a blow. "You and your goddamn seven fucking whores and and seven Klerkov seven you, you-"

He grips my wrists firmly in his fists as I curse him and kick. "It is not how you think, my Petra-"

"Yes it is!" I sob. "Yes it is don't you see? That's me that'll be me some drunk bastard will be fucking and I don't want it! I don't want it! It's not worth it it's not worth it for a life like that-!"

"But it is a life, my Petra, oh, my Petra," he whispers sadly. "A life better than what 23 other children will have."

There's a vid screen on the wall, and I see—Panem sees—a face, a face I recognize from the mirror, a determined, blood-splattered face, a face that all of Panem knows will win the Hunger Games. A face that will never back down or away, will never surrender, a face that laughs as horses and bone, wood and stone are smashed against the side of the Colosseum…

…and it's my face. Mine.

Marcus Raelius wound't remind me, but I remember. I am Petra Angelovna, the Stone-heart, the Butcher, the Victor of the 73rd Hunger Games, but for now I'm sobbing into Victor Ivan Klerkov's bearish arms, crying over a virginity I've never lost and a life I'll never get to lead.