AN: Still haven't watched the movie, so readers should know I've based Snow solely off my impressions from the book and the real life bastardliness of Dominican president Rafael Leonidas Trujillo. For more information on one of the 20th century's worst misogynistic, meglomaniac, totalitarian motherfuckers , read or watch en el tiempo de las mariposas.


…Snow.

Fuck. Fuck no.

I turn slowly. Unwillingly. Snow. President Coriolanus Snow. I had hoped I was mistaken, but that voice is one I've known since birth. The stench of roses wafts overpoweringly, and I fight back a gag. He's shorter in person than the Vids make him out to be, unimpressive and surprisingly plain. But if Klerkov's taught me anything it's that appearances are deceiving. Just the sound of his voice was enough for Crane's force to drop weapons and stand at comic salute.

He's not terrifying like Klerkov, yet I have no doubts he's the most powerful, most dangerous person in all of Panem. "Petra, my Petra," he hails me politely. "I was ever so hoping you'd join me." But that politeness is mocking. This isn't a rescue…it's a prison.

No Klerkov, no Tasha, no weapons, and my only other protector is dying on the floor. "Go," my Enforcer whispers in defeat, laying her head down to die. "Just go."

I obey.

"You are enjoying your stay in the Capitol, I trust?" Snow asks me as a Peacekeeper undoes my chains. "I do hope the hospitality has been to your liking." I'm battered. Bloody. Small bits of glass stick from my feet and hands, and the sound of gunshots is still ringing in my ears. Now the most powerful man in Panem has called for me by name. I try to speak. I can't.

"No?" He asks, amused. "Perhaps not. I have known many to have found it…overwhelming on their first tour. But you shall grow accustomed to it in time, I don't doubt."

He levels a cool stare to Crane. "You and I shall speak later."

"But the plan-" Crane insists, clutching his ruined hand.

"Was merely that, a plan," Snow says curtly. "To be implemented if necessary. Nothing more. I trust you have resources to contain the situation?"

Crane flushes. "I-"

"See that they are satisfactory," he drones. "And now, my Petra, with me." He places a hand on the small of my back, and I have no choice but to comply. Over his small shoulder I catch a final glimpse of the slaughter. That Enforcer. The one who turned everything to Hell…her dark eyes are open, and a pool of red blood drains slowly from the corner of her sagging mouth.


It's a private car. A carriage, actually, drawn by the finest grey stallions I've ever seen. I try not to let my surprise show. Try to wipe my face, my heart of emotions, but somehow Snow sees.

"Are you surprised, then, to learn I prefer classic forms of transportation?" he asks casually.

"No," I lie.

"Oh, Petra—I may call you Petra, may I not?—you are in the Capitol now, and the tricks and propriety you learned in the Districts will not help you. You are amongst liars now," he pours a glass of strong, sweet smelling white wine, and offers it to me. I don't dare decline. "And every one of us is better than you."

"Yes." I finally blurt after a minute of silence.

"Yes?" He asks, amused.

"I'm surprised," I continue. "I thought you Capitol people liked your technology."

"Ah, yes," he reclines onto the cushions, "that has its uses. But you will find that so much technology, so much modernity, can be disheartening. We lose touch with our true humanity. I find a horse-drawn carriage to be strangely nostalgic, wouldn't you agree?"

"I don't know."

"You have no opinion?" He asks lightly. They must remain interesting, I hear Klerkov's voice. Even your idiot-child...I have to keep him talking, I realize. I have to keep him entertained.

I shake my head. "I don't know what 'nostalgic' means."

He chuckles. "Tell me, Petra. I spend such rare time in the Districts I hardly know. You still have schools, in District 6, surely?"

He's mocking me. "I didn't finish."

"How much?"

"Two, maybe three years. It was patchy."

"And why is that, I wonder?" Snow presses.

"My sisters were sick. My father needed help to pay bills. The school was far. It got too cold." And I was ugly. My father paid, and the girls bullied me so much I ran home. He whipped me. Made me go back, and the next time the girls teased me I knocked out their teeth. When Matrona whipped me for it I took it, but when she called me an ugly ingrate I punched her teeth in as well. I wasn't invited back. But I'm not about to tell Snow any of that. Not unless I have to.

"Tell me," he continues, stirring his wine glass disinterestedly. "Can you read, at least?"

"Better than some," I admit. "Worse than others."

"Read this," he places the wine bottle in my hands. "Please."

I squint. Hold the wine-label close to my eyes and reflect it in the candlelight. It's been a long time since I was asked to read, and these letters are strange, flourished, faint. "I can't," I tell him after a minute.

His smile widens, and a bead of blood dribbles from his lips. Again that horrible stink of rotting roses. "Try."

I try not to stare. Try not to gag. Take the bottle with shaking hands and hold it again to the candle. My head—and heart—begin to pound.

"I'm wating," Snow sips his own glass patiently.

"R-" I begin, then stop.

"Go on," he prods.

"Roly…rol, rolli-" Be interesting, durak! Impressive. Think, suka, think! But there's too damn many letters, and no sounds that make sense. Maybe I'm reading it wrong. Confused. Maybe I don't remember anymore. The wine, the light, the ever-present, plastered smile hiding his impatience…

I try. Several more times, until my voice shakes as bad as my hands. I shove the bottle down on the table, nearly tipping it in my frustration. "Damnit, I said I can't."

"There's no need to swear, Petra," he steadies it lazily. "It was cruel of me, a jest, if you will."

"Well I can't read it," I push my wine glass away, disgusted. "Satisfied?"

"Very. In fact I would have been astounded if you could." He deliberately places the crystal goblet back in my hand. "You see, it's a antebellum wine."

The word, and meaning, hangs heavy in the air. It's meant to frighten, to impress. Hesitantly I take a sip. "Antebellum?"

"Before the war. That label is written in a language now forbidden to utter."

My blood goes chill. "So why ask me to read it?"

"Petra, Petra," he chides. "You think too small. I ask all District children to read it. On every tour. Every trip. And do you know why, Petra?"

"To make sure we can't," I realize with a shock. "You're not interested in whether the schools are teaching us. You make sure they don't."

"Very good," he nods in approval. "A very good thought indeed. But here is another. Why didn't you finish school, Petra?"

I flush. "I already told you-"

"No. You offered excuses," he corrects. "I wish to know the reason why."

"Lots of reasons."

"The simplest reason," he demands. "I'm a better liar than you, need I remind you?"

"It was school or survive. My family chose to survive."

"Survival," he repeats. "Let us hope your limited schooling taught you that lesson, at the very least. You're the Butcher, aren't you?"

It's an abrupt change. I don't trust it. "I'm the daughter of one, yes."

"But that's what the crowd calls you, isn't it." Another inexplicable drop of blood leaks from his mouth. "Your eponym."

I lean away, carefully replacing my goblet on the table lest my hands or eyes betray me. "I didn't chose it."

"Perhaps not," he wipes blood from his pale lips with the corner of a crisp, white cloth. "But it is apt, is it not?"

"Perhaps." I finally concede. He's toying with me. Toying with me like Klerkov did. Like a bored cat with a crippled bird…but I won't be toyed with any longer. "Where are you taking me?" I demand.

"My summer Villa, of course," he explains conversationally as the carriage pulls to a halt. "You're to be my escort for the evening. Tell me Petra, do you dance? Oh, how thoughtless of me," he smiles condescendingly. "Doubtless you've never been asked. Well then, I'm not so cruel as to send a young woman into the Arena so deprived of her budding sexuality."

Dread and bile rise in my throat. "Think of tonight as your debut," he finishes as the footmen await him with a small flight of stairs. "And Petra?" He calls in parting, "Finish your drink. It's an excellent vintage…and you'll need it."