The Gift


Gamemasters Senecca and Sibyline Crane were enough to frighten me.

…Senator Sapeans is just fucking insulting. The man Snow leaves me with is only waist-high, cavorting around on wooden stilts to be tall enough to pass for normal. His brow is too big, his face shrunken and misshapen. And his legs…they're short and bowed. Disproportionate, Marcus Raelius called me, but now I feel almost beautiful in comparison. But Sapeans' height isn't the worst part. He's also chosen to alter himself like one of those hairy muttations on the Games, with shaggy dark fur lining the ends of his sleeves. His hands are large, hard, and leathery, his face flat and broad with flaring nostrils.

What were those muttations called? It's been Games ago, but Claudius Templesmith's announcements come back to me: Japes. The Gamemakers' pet name: gigantic apes.

"Here, darling!" He totters over on those stilts, and kisses my hands with flourish. "Senator Roma Sapeans. If I might-?" He flicks his hairy wrist, and a waiting Avox opens an ice-lined chest. "I thought, for you, for the occasion-"

A frosted, steaming ice bottle is laid in a silk towel then placed gently in my hands. Gorzalka, I realize. Ch'yort.

Gorzalka. It's an ice-distilled vodka reserved only for the wealthiest in District 6, drunk in saunas overlying the hot-springs. You have to drink it fast—even in 6 the bottle will melt. But it's not just difficult to distill, it's fucking strong. Every old man tells stories of a boasting young mudillo who's died drinking too much too fast because they didn't know better or wanted to impress their friends. There's also a roaring counterfeit market, tainted to smell and look right, but you have to be careful—it can blind. True Gorzalka is a rarity, and a favorite among men like the Mayor and his visiting Capitol guests. In all my life, I've only ever seen it once.

It was the Victory Tour when I was thirteen, when Fame won. Another District 1 male Victor, eating our countryside raw after murdering our children. Part of the entourage stayed. 'Tourism', the Mayor called it, although none of us understood why the Capitol citizens would want to stay in 6. 'The Family' as we called them rented out a hut in the Victor's Village. Only two of the twelve mansions were ever occupied. The Maneater had one, and the other were the Silence. Married for years, marred by morphling, they hadn't been seen since before I was born. Berezoski took The Family fishing, and they caught a sturgeon so large it took a cart piled with ice and four oxen to drag it back to Selo. It was spawning season, and she was still pregnant.

The Family sent word for the best butcher in the District to retrieve the ikrak, and the people chose my father. My father sent me. "An opportunity, my Petra," was all he said, then bundled me off with the Peacekeepers for a ride into Selo. The servants scrubbed me and laced me, but when I was presented to the wife she ordered me out of her sight. Not fifteen minutes later, the husband introduced me as my own twin brother, Petyr, and she gladly accepted. I was told to stay out of sight, out of mind, but they were so happy with their cuttings they kept me on for a week butchering the same damn fish. I slept in the servants' quarters, with a room to my own larger than my house. It was terrifying, but magical, the first time I'd been in a house with electricity and not just a medic's clinic. For six days I sat music lessons and tutoring with their children, practiced my reading with their many books. And on the last night, when the Mayor with Vladmir and Dmitri and even the Maneater came to farewell them, he opened not one but two bottles of Gorzalka, one for his guests, and one for the staff. I was the youngest, the newest, and all it amounted to was the tiniest of sips but it tasted so sweet on my tongue. When it came time to leave, I begged him to take me with them. "I would, Petyr," the husband always called me Petyr, "but the law doesn't look kindly on such things."

I cried when they left, cried for weeks after I walked home. I had been content before, now I just felt wretched. "Why did you send me?" I accused my father.

"Why did you stay?" My father wanted me to see that life could be better. More. "When you marry, my Petra," he told me, "marry so your children can enjoy such things."

I hold the steaming bottle up to the light, and the prism breaks it into a myriad of dancing colors. Marriage. Children. I was an ugly, uneducated girl from the mountain villages. One whose mother couldn't find a match no matter how drunk, amputated or old she tried. There would be no escape for me that way. But maybe, maybe, I think as I savor that swallow, there is here.


He pours me a shot, and I accept. Throw back my head. Gulp.

"You find it adequate?" The Senator asks with concern. "I had my men research, and this-"

"It's wonderful," I interrupt. "The best I've had. Try some."

He tuts, waving his hairy hands. "My dear, one hardly takes back a gift-"

"Really." I right another shot glass of sculpted ice. "It's the best of 6. You ought to have it."

"I-"

"Have it before you have me. I insist," I push the glass his way. "It's my District's best."

Hesitantly he pours, then sips it daintily like one would wine.

He chokes. I smile.

"My dear girl, I do apologize," he coughs earnestly. "I was led to believe this was a fine drink-"

"It is," I smirk, then take the bottle from his hands. My fingers nearly burn from the cold. "Let me show you." I pour a shot, and down it in a single gulp, the alcohol boiling and chilling all at once, my eyes watering and nose beginning to tingle. My lips are coated in frost.

"That's barbaric," Sapeans intones with disapproval. "Really, my dear, it's hardly appropriate-"

"If you don't believe me, ask my Mentor," I shrug. "He's around here somewhere."

He looks doubtful. "It's a tradition? Among your District?"

I pour another shot, and push it his way. "You try."

"My dear girl, I don't think I should-" he begins, but I interrupt.

"What else did your men tell you about 6?"

"The climate, the topography, the agriculture and labor camps-"

"Did they tell you that in 6 a man's strength isn't judged by his size?" Now I have his attention. Marcus Raelius said they culled boys like Malcovitch before they were born, so I'm assuming being born a dwarf isn't a popular choice in the Capitol either. No matter how rich, powerful, or altered Senator Sapeans becomes, there's two things he'll never have: respect, and a woman's true admiration. What the hell. I'll offer both. "It's by how much vodka he can hold. They're always having competitions, and women claw each other's eyes out to fuck the winners." I throw back the shot I poured for him.

Blyad, it burns. I pour him another. He sputters, but swallows it whole.

"We better drink it quickly," I tell him as a bead of chilled, icy water runs down my arm. "It's such a wonderful gift it'd be a shame to waste."


I toast the Senator. I toast his health. I toast his re-election, his campaign, his wife, his Party, the Capitol, District 6, the Hunger Games, even President Snow-

"Really," Sapeans protests feebly, swaying in his seat. "I think that's enough-"

"But it's a special vodka," I say. "For a special occasion. And tonight is special, don't you think?" Then I toast every damn thing I know about the Capitol until there's not a drop left, and the Senator can't even stand.

"So what do you say I strip your clothes off and fuck you right here, right now?" I ask, undoing his belt.

"I would like that," he giggles feebly. " very much!"

"I don't think that's going to work."

His bleary eyes seem genuinely baffled. "Why not?"

"Because you're short," I snap. "You're hairy, you're goddamned ugly…and I've deboned fishless limp."

One of his Peacekeepers lets out a snort, then excuses himself. Outside the pavilion, peals of grotesque laughter ring. "How dare you-!" Senator Roma Sapeans croaks and flushes a blotchy puce, trying to stand. He takes half a swaying step on his stilts, totters, then falls face-forward onto the tile, unmoving.

"Sir?" His private Peacekeepers rush over instantly. "Sir—!"

"You poisoned him!" one accuses me, rolling him over. He's vomited all over, and pissed his pants. His fingernails have turned a shocking shade of blue. "Call for a medic!"

"He did this to himself," I retort. "You all saw. All I did was pour."


I exit the pavilion while Sapean's Peacekeepers try to revive him. One's run for a medic, and with all the distraction maybe my disappearance will go unnoticed.

But my plans are dashed. No sooner do I leave then run headlong into something large, bearded, and reeking of alcohol. "MOYA PET'RENKA!" Familiar bear-like arms choke me in a strangle-hold. He lifts me bodily and rumples my hair with his bony knuckles before setting me down, breathless, while a gaggle of giddy women giggle. "Is that the man?" He roars in approval, opening the tent-flap to get a better look.

"See, my darlings?" He calls, grandiose. "The man cannot stand after their love-making! And she was a virgin, no less!" He thumps his chest and shakes me with glee. "It is true, then, what Victor Ivan Klerkov has told you. You may fantasize about 4, but it is we from 6 who truly know how to fuck!"

They fawn over him, preening and primping. "Victor here has just told us the most amusing story," one titters, running her hands over his muscled arms.

"Really, Victor," another pouts, tugging his beard as to make him turn to her. "I can't believe Avitus would fire her over such a little misunderstanding."

"You're an animal," another purrs, raking her fingers through the hair on his sagging man's breasts. "Do it here. For me."

"Here?" Klerkov asks, feigning alarm. "Now? In public? Victor Ivan Klerkov might be an animal in the bedroom, but he is hardly rude!" Then unexpectedly he belches once, just for them, sending them into a chorus of giggles and getting cold stares for his impudence. Bodily functions, it would seem, are so horrifically unpopular with the Capitol elite as to be taboo.

…as to how that makes them sexually appealing, I won't even begin to ponder.

Your charming Mentor told me the most amusing story about Avitus firing you. Heavensby's words. He might have told me the story, I reflect bitterly. They call him free-spirited. Barbaric. Savage. Animal. Relic. One even goes so far as to call him Vicky. "You're such a man," she moans coarsely. "I want you. I need you. Here. Now." She insists.

"As you will," Klerkov shrugs, pulling her close with one enormous arm. "But Victor Ivan Klerkov has two arms!" He roars, embracing me. "Join us!" But this isn't drunken, sodden, 'entertain me' Klerkov, it's a man hiding his schemes behind his reputation, and with that I decide this isn't a rescue. The story, that hint, is all the help he can give me. I disentangle from his grasp around my waist clumsily as he pinches my breasts and calls me "Feisty!" This might be him helping me, but I'll still slap him in the morning, I decide. Right now I probably have bruises with his thumbprints…and they're probably bigger than my actual breasts.

"My apologies, Klerkov," I hear President Snow's voice ring without a trace of humor. "Your Tribute has a previous engagement."

"Engagement?" My Mentor seems shocked. "Moya Pet'renka, just because you fuck them doesn't mean you must marry!" And with a gale of laughter he leaves me, three women dangling slavish under each arm.

My face is flushed, my hair thoroughly rumpled, and now my gown askew. I tug it back in place, and turn reluctantly. "I tire of your impudence," Snow informs me coldly.

"I did everything you asked," I return, nursing my suddenly pounding head. "It's hardly my fault he wasn't up for it. I hope you give him a refund." That's it, durak. Cinna was right: you couldn't hold your tongue to save your life.

"You think yourself clever?" He returns coldly. "Let us test your theory, Petra. Think your way out of this."

…I will. I must. Snow warned me to be on my best behavior. I can't fight them off. Can't fool them all. But I can convince them they'd rather not. I had a bottle of wine in bed. Now half a bottle of Gorzalka

If I were to suddenly become violently ill, it wouldn't seem all that far-fetched. In fact, I realize as my stomach begins to twinge and the room starts to spin, I might not even have to fake it.


Snow leaves me with a pack of foppish, altered fools, each vying for my attention. Some want to dance, others converse, one offers roses, another wine, and one offers food. It's just some sweet Capitol pastry, but I accept. With as much as I've drank, I need it. Badly.

I devour an entire platter-full, to the Ox's chagrin. The others swarm around us like flies as he leads me to a banquet. I have him load my plate with potatoes and hot meat dripping with fat until it's overflowing, and my stomach and his not-so-furtive glances become queasier and queasier. I eat. With manners, but I eat. And eat. And eat. I've heard before that Capitol people will eat at feasts until they vomit, then they come back and eat more. But from the looks cast my way, it's either not true, or not feminine.

"The food is…to your liking?" The Ox-man asks me hesitantly.

I nod. Shove another forkful. "Yeah. I mean, yes."

"Perhaps you would like to try the linguini?" He offers the dish on a hoofed arm with poise.

My stomach heaves. "Are those worms?" I cry in disgust. Our flock is aghast.

"Good Games, no," he croaks. "It's a pasta."

"What's a pasta?" I prod the stringy dish suspiciously. It's layered with heavy cream, peas and some sort of fish—far too old, from the smell of it. "It looks like worms to me."

"You…you don't know?" He bobs his horned head bewilderedly.

I shake my head. Crinkle my nose. "We don't eat that in 6."

"What do you barbarians eat?" another mutters. "Besides meat and snow."

"We grow things," I inform them. "You know, like cabbage, oats, barley, carrots, potatoes-"

"Nothing grows in 6," a would-be-wolf scoffs. "It's far too cold. Everyone knows produce is from District 11."

I try not to gape at his stupidity. "We also eat fish-"

"Fish come from District 4." Another informs me as though I were a small child.

"We grow food and we fish, too." I explain. "At least in my District."

"I hear you drink a lot, as well," the Stag at the end of the table grins darkly.

He knows about Sapeans, I realize. What I did. I swallow. "We do."

"The rest of your District?" He inquires, dipping his antlered head in mock-politeness. "Or just you?" He'll be the hardest to get rid of, I decide.

"Everyone," I emphasize.

"And is that all the time…or only on special occasions?" the Stag presses.

I turn to the Ox-man, who's been desperately trying to get my attention with more pastries. "You want to dance?" I ask him, then drag him away by the hoof. He seems the least intelligent, least talkative, and least of a threat. We're followed. Even out onto the floor five or six of them dog our every movement. And at the end of the song, the Wolf butts in only to be interrupted by yet another. It's all done with a mind-numbing amount of manners and tact, but I can feel their tempers rising.

I've seen bulls clash until both are bloody. Can I pit them against each other? I wonder. Start a fight-?

But I won't need to. Klerkov's plan—and all that alcohol with rich, Capitol food on an empty, nervous stomach—is beginning to work. I burp. Just a short croak, but my partner seems mortified. "Excuse me," I apologize. Then I burp again. The song goes on, and they keep interrupting each other, but when I cycle through them again, the Wolf is gone.

One, I think with relief. This time I burp louder, beg their pardon with all the humiliation I can muster. "Must be the food," I explain.

"Yes," the Stag drawls, cutting in. "You seemed to enjoy it, didn't you?"

Ch'yort. He asks me for a dance, and I have no choice but accept.

"Do you take us all for fools, Petra Angelovna?"

Only some of you. "Why would you ask that?" I try to make my face startled.

"Because you must. It's the only explanation I can offer as to why you would try such simple, childish tricks."

Or perhaps I just don't want to get raped. There's a thought, mudillo. "Childish tricks?"

"Threatening a Senator? Drinking another under the table? Come now, you're not a child, you're a woman," he emphasizes with a downward glance. "An ugly woman to be sure, Petra Angelovna, yet now men vie for the pleasure of a simple dance. This is an opportunity to have any man of your choosing. If I were you, I wouldn't waste it."

Not any man, just one of them. The man I'd choose isn't here. "And you think I should choose you." I return. "Why?"

"I'm not a juvenile fool, nor a drunk, neither cruel nor inexperienced when it comes to a woman's wants. Forgive my boast but I am intelligent, and possess a rudimentary if not second-hand knowledge of your District at least."

I smile. "If you think those things are all a woman wants, you're either not as intelligent or not experienced as you think."

"And what would you have?" The Stag scoffs, spinning me. "A handsome young prince on a white stallion? Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps you're only a foolish girl after all." It was a motorbike, not a stallion. And that's not what I wanted, it was just what everyone else wanted. To a young village girl, it felt the same.

I burp again, this time on accident…and I taste acid. "I think I'm going to hurl-"

"Don't be naïve, Petra Angelovna," the Stag says. "Your games won't work with me."

The next time it comes, I can feel it rising in my throat…and a writhing in my bowels. "No, really," I gasp as my face turns pale and my hands all sweaty. "I'm about to be sick."