The Ally
I wait.
Just wait. My bare feet hurt too much to pace, shoulders aching from shivering. Even bloodied and tattered my thin night dress is more than enough to keep me warm in the Capitol heat, but it's fear that makes my muscles twitch. And the fucking waiting just makes it worse.
From the party I hear music. Laughter. The clanking of glasses and spoons. All these people, all the Capitol people, are enjoying themselves feet from me, oblivious.
Not oblivious, durak, I remind myself. They know what this is. Know why I'm here. Why Luccan is here. And Mason and Games knows how many others.
Luccan. I grab a cup of wine and dip my hands in it. Begin to scrub my face. Blyad, it stings, and I can't help but hiss. Crane might not know how to use a whip, but I still feel the welts and cuts protest shrilly. I mop my hair from my eyes, blood and glass coming away with my fingers.
Did I do it right? I wonder. A place on the Alliance…but he saw through me. Saw my fear. And I saw his. As momentary as it was, I saw it. Luccan Sheen might be a Career…but he's human. At least a part of him.
I'm Petra Stone-heart. Rocks can't feel. Rocks can't die. If I can kill Cry-baby, I can kill him. Which is the worse crime? The man, or the innocent child who can't understand? But the answer is Malcovitch. It will always be Malcovitch, and I have no room for pity for the man who would kill him, kill me, kill us all. My mind is made up. Let Luccan Sheen see my weaknesses. Propose an Alliance in a moment of fear. Seeing me as human will only make it harder for him to kill me, not me him.
My potential Ally is gone, my Mentor and Escort nowhere to be seen. And the little boy who believes me his friend is still sleeping alone in my bed while I wait to go to another's. You are young an unloved, Klerkov warned me, And now you are far from home. Sitting here alone, it feels like even further.
Snow's party continues, just out of reach. I am isolated, bare-foot, half-dressed and friendless. I wait. And wait. And I wait.
When that awful door finally opens I raise my head in relief. Come on, then, I will the man approaching me, just do it and be done.
"Miss Petra?" He calls jovially. I sit up. Sigh. Eye him warily as he crosses the floor. He's another Capitol freak, draped in purple and gold of every imaginable hue, braided fringes and tinkling coins lining every seam, jingling with every step. I glance at his feet—normal. If belled and belted leather thongs rising from foot to mid-thigh could be considered normal. But I don't see a trace of their enhancements or alterations. Wonder what his dick looks like, Luccan's words come back to me. I shudder inwardly. Let's hope that's normal, too.
"Heavensby, Plutarch Heavensby," he introduces himself with a kiss to both of my raw hands. "How are you this evening?"
"I'm going to the Hunger Games in two days," I face him bitterly. "How do you think I feel?"
"Ah," He pats my palms sadly. "I wouldn't presume to know."
"So how does this work?" I demand, sick of pleasantries. I might have to fuck him, but no one can make me be civil. "Do you fuck me here or do we go someplace?"
"Good Games!" He chokes, spewing wine. "My, but you are forward! No, dear girl. I personally prefer…shall we say, other vintages," his eyes sparkle amusedly. "And alas, no. I haven't the salary to pay for a pearl of such great price. I merely wished to see for myself before placing my bets. I am so sorry to have, ah, intruded."
"You're not here for me?" I ask, suspicious.
"My darling girl, no." He intones encouragingly. "Merely to see you. I'm a man of small fortune, but have a penchant for gambling. And the Games, well, you can imagine are a sore temptation for a man such as myself," he smiles humbly. "One can rise high, or lose all, when playing the Hunger Games."
"So you're a Sponsor?" I ask, beginning to hope.
"Sponsor?" He laughs good-naturedly while sitting beside me. "No, my dear girl. The Games would never allow it, given my position. Merely an investor." He's not here for me. Not even to Sponsor me. Just to see. I've always been a freak. Baba yaga Angelovna. Now all of Panem's showed up to watch.
"You seem to know a lot about money for someone who claims not to have much," I say coldly.
He nibbles a pasty daintily. "Ah, superb!" He relates with relish. "My dear, you must try a fig cake. No, really, I insist-" He forces a pastry and an ornate cloth napkin into my hand. "Money? Yes, I suppose I know about money," he washes down the dry cakes with more wine. "It's a blasted business, having to spend it, having to find more of it, then having to spend it over again. Money will ruin a man, but, what is a man to do?" he shrugs helplessly. "But what I pride myself on is my knowledge of people, Miss Petra. That and sweets…" he pats his belly ruefully. "My truest weakness!"
"How much?" I'm overtaken by a dark curiosity.
"How much-?" His expression is pleasantly puzzled.
"How much do we go for?" What does the virginity of a Tribute cost?
"Well, that I would hardly know, dear girl. It would certainly depend on the Tribute, or Victor, in question. But a conservative estimate?" He frowns, thinking. "I would place such a luxury item in the range of several million yen."
"Yen?"
"Oh, forgive me, my dear. Our monetary system. Doubtless it's different where you're from. Let's see…District 6, was it?"
I nod.
"Barter, then, no standard currency. Hm, well. Yes, with your topography and climate it's not hard to guess why. Can you imagine the seasonal inflation? Disastrous!" He laughs to himself. "So, speaking in terms of a fixed quantity you would understand…say, oh, at least ten hundred thousand tessarae."
"Ten hundred thousand-?" I ask weakly. If I'd known I was walking around with that up my skirts, I might have sold it ages ago. Avoided the tessarae my father traded to pay my mother's and dead sisters' medic bills. Avoided the Games. But the idea is absurd. In 6 I wouldn't have fetched the price of a back alley whore. I'm ugly. Awkward. Strong. My only value, the only attraction, comes from my Reaping.
"At a conservative estimate," he nods. "You've made quite the impression, Miss Petra. Doubtless the bidding will rise higher."
He turns to me for answer, but I find I have nothing more to say. Not to him. Not to any of them. "My poor, dear girl," Heavensby mumbles sadly around a fig cake, again patting my hand. "Don't lose heart—there's always a Victor. I see no reason it shouldn't be you."
He stands, and bows stiffly in farewell. "Here's my card," It's thick parchment, with a strange, beautiful golden bird that catches the light, but only from a certain angle. When I lift it closer to my eyes, it vanishes.
"It was wonderful to meet you, darling." Heavensby kisses me chastely on both cheeks in parting. "Do you know, I think you've quite convinced me. Do feel free to call Fulvia if you need anything during your stay." And with that, Plutarch Heavensby jingles away.
"Oh, and I must say, darling, your ah, charming Mentor told the most amusing story regarding Avitus firing you," he hails me yet again from the door. "I imagine the outcome has garnered, shall we say, unwanted attention? Still, I suppose it was all for the best…"
…that's not what happened, I blink stupidly. Then—
A rush of elation. Klerkov's here! My heart races desperately. Klerkov knows! I turn that card over and over, trying to find the hidden message, but all I find is:
PLUTARCH HEAVENSBY, ASSISTANT GAMEMAKER
FULVIA MARTIN, secretary
But no matter how many times I move that card in the light, that beautiful golden bird is gone. Did I imagine it? Had it only been a trick of the light?
I was waiting for a heartless rapist, and met Plutarch Heavensby instead. A flabby, jovial, harmless investor with no interest in women, a business card, the casual mention of Klerkov and Avitus…it's all so benign it could just be coincidence. Could be. But I know Victor Ivan Klerkov better than that. President Snow might think himself a better liar, but my Mentor has played this Game at least as long as he has.
…and better.
Plots. Spies. Accidents, I think with a smile as I crumple that card between my fingers. It's evidence. It's hope. I know my Mentor is trying to tell me something, but what?
