The Execution


We're on the outer rim. Climbing up. "Where are you taking me?"

"All in due time, Petra," Snow responds. "All in due time."

Up above them now. The party trickles on underneath us, bright colors melting into a dizzy display. Pizda. I press tighter against the granite wall. I don't fear heights, but Snow…

…he still needs a Tribute. There's twenty-four of you, durak. He can hurt you. Rape you. But he can't kill you. Not yet. Not yet, my heart beat echoes, not yet, not yet, not yet.

Ahead of me, Snow rounds the last stair, lost. "Come, Petra." I hear him say. I grip the railing. Just in case. Eight more steps. They feel steeper than the rest. At the last, he offers his hand.

I take it.

The wind is whipping, pulls my nightdress against my legs tight as a boy's trousers. But I'm Petra Angelovna of District 6. I have known worse cold. Tears pour, blinded by breeze and smoke alike. I blink. Squint in the blinding torchlight.

"N'yet!" I stumble into him. My feet, my heart have turned to ash.

He rights me. "I told you, Petra Angelovna, Resistance is futile."

"You're burning them!" That smell, that meat—

"Yes, Petra," Snow states. "I am."

"Wh-why?" I stammer.

He remains impassive. "The answer is simple, Petra Angelovna. Because I can. "We walk on. More crosses, more groans and sobs of bloodied men. Nailed by hands and feet to rough wood. I watch as Peacekeepers douse them in petrol. I don't dare be sick. "Tell me, do you recognize them?" Snow asks disinterestedly, eying the squirming men as though a painting.

Twenty-four. He needs twenty-four. Answer him, damnit! "Sh-should I?"

"They're your Resistance," he continues. "Your rescuers. Shouldn't you thank them?"

I'm dizzy. Can't catch my breath. "Why am I here?"

"You are here, my dear Petra, to watch," Snow informs me. "You might be the Butcher, but I am the Executioner. This is how one slaughters a man."

His skin is shiny, slick with petrol. Blood oozes from his hands, his feet, head hung in resignation. Outstretched arm, small flame, then flicks—

A whoosh. A roar. A shriek. I turn my head as fire engulfs him.

Firm grip on my chin, forcing me back. "You will watch this." I raise my eyes.

His flesh melts. The screaming stops. It's just fire, fire and bones. Fire and bones and searing meat. I am Petra Angelovna, the Butcher's daughter, and this is a sack of burning meat, nothing more. It's only meat. It's nothing I haven't seen before.

I swallow, throat dry. "How long do I have to look?"

President Snow chuckles lowly, releasing me in our understanding. "How long?" He whispers. "As long as it amuses me."


It isn't enough. Burning them alive isn't enough. They have to suffer first. One by one he drags their families forward, cringing in front of the rifles of Peacekeepers. One by one they are offered a choice: themselves, or their families. Children scream, women weep, elderly parents sob, arms outstretched. From those crosses they are given a final choice: to burn to death, or watch their family. They all choose the nobler route.

…all but one.

The Peacekeepers wrench the nails from his hands, his feet. He is dragged forward, forced to stand, to crawl on bloodied limbs. "You know what must be done," Snow states. "Do it."

He douses them with petrol, the woman, his son, their squalling baby. She doesn't fight back, only shrieks please, please, please-! His clumsy hands can't flick the torch well, but the air is saturated. His aim doesn't matter. He crawls to Snow, kisses his hands as his family burns behind him flames licking arms flailing, night torn with screeching. I am Petra Stone-heart. I must watch. Snow's words: I will.

…he was right after all. I did need them.

He leaves a blood-smeared trail across the glutted stone. "Your Excellency-" the traitor sobs.

"You have done well," Snow returns coldly. "See to it he receives proper medical care," he instructs the Peacekeepers. Wordlessly, they obey.

He's gone, but there's a small bundle of blackened flesh and rags still smoking. I feel the heat sear my skin, sweat pouring. I don't dare move. Don't dare be noticed. I'm Petra Angelovna. I want to live.

But I am not Xavier Malcovitch. I am not invisible. "Do you understand?" President Snow asks me. "Do you understand what just happened here, Petra?"

I shake my head. "He's a coward," I whisper. "A traitor. Why let him live?"

"I can't kill all my enemies," he chuckles. "Soon there would be no one left. Besides, his actions are admirable. Self-preservation before aught else…the State can use a man like him."

I shudder. "He valued his life more than his own family."

"And you wouldn't do the same?" He chides me gently, taking my hands. "The man is a coward, not a patriot. But so long as loyalty to his country continues his existence he will obey unswervingly, unfailingly. I have a man now who will not falter to execute women, children if necessary; a man willing to complete whatever unsavory task I require, and yet not psychotic, not bloodthirsty, not a threat. The co-existence of such qualities is rare, Petra Angelovna," he smiles sickeningly. "Even amongst Victors. Rare, and useful."

Abruptly he turns away. "Execute them."

Rifles fire. Their families fall. The last thing their eyes will see before burning is the corpses of their loved ones.

I've killed Capitol citizens. Made Snow look like a fool. I was away in the Capitol. A Tribute for the Hunger Games. They're so far away now, so long ago, I'd forgotten about my family. Snow delights in power and I was foolish enough to think that Victor Ivan Klerkov could thwart him. Now Coriolanus Snow is after me. After my family…and my dead sisters will be the lucky ones.

He senses my thoughts. "Have no fear, Petra Anglovna. Your parents are safe. For now."

"If you mean to kill them, do it before the Games," I tell him dully. "Not after." Don't let them see me become like you.

"Kill them?" His face reveals nothing. "Your family is all you have left, Petra Angelovna. The final option. Killing them would free you from any obligations to obey. They are not to be harmed…yet," he emphasizes. "That is a lesson Miss Mason has taught me well. And it may be I have some other use for them."

Useful. Rare and useful. Even amongst Victors. He used Annie Cresta to control Finnick, and he'll use my mother and father to control me. Snow is not Senator Aquilla. Not trying to impress me with his riches and political sway. President Snow has power, true and absolute power, and I cannot lie to him.

"Why are you doing this?" I finally ask, nodding to the crosses, the corpses, the still smoking children. "Why show me this? It's like you're trying to instigate a rebellion."

His face remains calm. "The answer, Petra Angelovna, is because I can. Why the Hunger Games when we could simply execute the Tributes? Because people need something to hope for, to believe in. They hope for their own children not to be chosen, yet they hope for the Victor to return to their District with riches and glory because they believe in the Hunger Games. Believe in Victors. Believe that desiring for one child to live by killing others somehow doesn't make them as bad as the Capitol they so despise," he continues gravely. "I could quash the Resistance in one fell swoop if I so desired…but what would that accomplish? I would appear totalitarian. Instead, I offer the illusion of liberty, and it fools the less fanatic into complacency. So yes, Petra Angelovna, it is in my power to quash the Rebellion completely, this very night. But I prefer to let them play. Let the idiots play, and see how far they get. Every so often they surprise me. When one controls the world, there are few rarer pleasures than that of the unknown."

"You're sick." I finally choke.

"No, Petra Angelovna," he corrects me. "Do my words sound like those of a madman?"

My throat grows hot and raw. "You're still sick."

"I assure you I am sane," he counters sternly. "Every execution I order is calculated. I take no joy in wasting life."

"You just killed a baby," I argue. "Killed all those people-"

"The families of traitors. I executed fathers, husbands, sons. If their families had been allowed to live their devotion to the Rebellion would have only grown stronger. They would have considered their loved ones martyrs. Ammunition the Rebels cannot be afforded. Instead I have sent a message, and those wavering in their loyalties to me will no longer question," he explains terribly. Just like my father butchering lambs. Butchering Lilly. I blanch.

"So ask me not to," Snow shrugs, looking up at the remaining men awaiting immolation. "Beg me to spare their lives."

My throat is so swollen, it takes me nearly a minute to answer. "No."

"Pardon?"

"No." I repeat.

"Not for anyone?" he asks, amused.

"Not for you."

He gives the order. The flames are brought. But the crucified men raise their heads at my reply, and they stare. Not in anger. Not with blame…but Gratitude.

I didn't ask you to save me, I tell the Peacekeepers and Game Enforcers who tried to liberate me only hours ago. I didn't want you to save me, I didn't ask you to die for meit'snotmyfault, it'snotmyfault, please, please, it's not my fault I just wanted to live…

I hold their gaze until the end. Don't let tears flow or guilt show. Snow is right: they had to die. I gave them the dignity to die as men.