CHAPTER 14. The Tour (Part 2)
Katniss walked up to her television and switched it on. The Capitol seal flickered on the screen.
She turned to look at Prim who was already sitting on the couch with Buttercup on her lap. "All set?" Katniss asked.
"Yeah, come sit next to me." Prim patted the empty space next to her on the couch.
Just as Katniss was sitting down, Mrs. Everdeen walked into the room. "Is it on yet?"
"Nope," Prim answered, "it's just about to start."
Mrs. Everdeen sat on her rocking chair, and the three women waited for the transmission to begin.
"Good evening, everyone!" Caesar Flickerman's enthusiastic voice poured through the speakers, filling the small room. "Thank you for joining us on our exclusive coverage of the 74th Victory Tour!"
Katniss rolled her eyes. Caesar's greeting always bothered her. Maybe people in the Capitol watched his show because they wanted to but, out in the districts, they didn't have a choice.
She didn't mind learning about Peeta's Victory Tour, -the honest truth was that she had been waiting for the transmission all day- but she still resented the fact that none of this was voluntary, and that the Capitol controlled everything she saw.
"We've got a wonderful show tonight," Caesar announced. "Our 74th victor, Peeta Mellark, has reached District 6!" In the studio, people cheered and clapped. "So, let's take a look at the footage our dedicated team of reporters has sent all the way from the transportation district. Shall we?"
The image on the screen slowly faded. Caesar's purple hair and blinding smile were replaced by Peeta's image.
"Wow, what a beautiful coat!" Prim exclaimed as soon as Peeta appeared on their screen.
Katniss leaned forward so she could be a bit closer to the TV.
Prim was right, Peeta looked dashing in a charcoal gray peacoat that was elegant yet understated.
His blond waves had been carefully styled, but they weren't overdone. As Katniss took him in, she noticed the golden mockingjay pin was on his lapel once more, happily glimmering under the winter sun.
By Capitol standards, Peeta's outfit was a bit somber, but a burgundy scarf, loosely tied around his neck, brought some contrast to the ensemble and some color to his cheeks.
Over the next few minutes, some random presenter droned on in the background, talking about Peeta's visit to District 6.
The man, who was wearing a lime green suit with pink polka dots, seemed overjoyed to report every detail of Peeta's day, which had included a luncheon with the district's victors and a guided tour to an automotive factory.
A video shot earlier in the day, showed a handful of representatives from District 6 hovering around the young victor; their faces bright and pleased as they smiled and pointed to things they seemed to find fascinating.
From her place on the couch, Katniss blocked the words coming out of the speakers. She didn't care about the victors of District 6 or about the new models of energy-saving trailers or about the dozens of vehicles the factories were producing this year.
All she cared about was Peeta.
Her eyes never left his face. Like a hawk, she followed every raise of his eyebrows, every half smile, every polite nod.
Nothing escaped her notice, and the more she saw, the more she worried.
The boy she knew -the boy she had spent new year's day with- had a smile that was as warm and sweet as a ray of sunshine; eyes that were as bright as a summer sky.
But that boy was nowhere to be seen.
The Peeta Mellark on her screen was pale, and -regardless of what the reporters said- the blue eyes he pointed at the camera every day were tired and dull.
Katniss's chest tightened as she watched him now; standing stiffly next to one of his paintings while he explained why he had chosen pastels instead of watercolors for that particular piece.
Just as she had during Peeta's Game, Katniss closed her eyes for an instant and wished she could reach out to him through the screen. In her mind's eye, she saw herself wrapping her arms around his neck and whispering words of comfort and encouragement in his ear.
The image was so vivid -so strong- that she could almost feel his warmth encasing her, smell the spicy cinnamon of his cologne, hear the soft rumble of laughter vibrating in his chest.
She looked back up -feeling happy and whole- but, as soon as she saw the last few shots of Peeta shaking hands with government officials, she sobered up.
As the presenter from District 6 said goodbye, Katniss grumbled.
Caesar Flickerman's cheerful smile filled the screen once more. "What an interesting day our victor has had!"
Frustrated, Katniss turned to her mother. "Do you think he's eating enough?"
Mrs. Everdeen shrugged. "I don't know, Katniss." Noticing the concern in her daughter's eyes, she asked, "What makes you think he isn't eating?"
"He looks terrible!" Looking at her sister, Katniss asked, "Right, Prim?"
Prim nodded. "Maybe he's got a cold. It is winter, and he keeps changing weathers all the time."
"Maybe," Katniss conceded. "He just seems..."
"A bit off," Prim finished for her, absentmindedly scratching Buttercup's ear. His satisfied purrs filled the room.
Katniss eyes lit up. Maybe she wasn't imagining things after all. "He does, doesn't he?"
"...and remember to tune in for a new report tomorrow night. Next up, District 5!" Caesar's voice boomed. His face disappeared and, a moment later, the Capitol seal came up.
Mrs. Everdeen got up from her rocking chair and went to turn the TV off. "He's probably just tired, girls." Turning around, she faced her two daughters sitting on the sofa. "It must be hard; waking up in a new place every morning, meeting new people every day, answering all their questions. It sounds exhausting!"
"You're right," Katniss agreed. "Older victors are used to the attention, but this is Peeta's first year."
After transferring Buttercup to the couch, Prim stood up and stretched her arms. "And, on that note... I'm off to bed."
Later, as Prim snored softly by her side, Katniss thought about Peeta.
She knew her mother was right, -by all accounts, the Victory Tour had to be a grueling experience- but she couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Peeta's lack of energy than a busy timetable.
In her eyes, he didn't seem exhausted. He looked dispirited... sad.
As the soft hands of sleep gently cradled her, one last thought flashed through her mind. I can't wait for Peeta to come back.
XXXXX
Peeta tossed and turned, unable to escape the thoughts which plagued his mind.
Long, dark shadows danced on his ceiling, gently entwining with furtive beams of light. Their delicate choreography a reflection of the trees and buildings which stood by the side of the road, watching as the train passed them by.
In just a few hours he'd be arriving in District 4, the fishing district.
Known for its quaint coastal towns, small sailboats, and rugged fishermen, the district was also famous for its prodigious swimmers and mighty sea.
It was the first career district on Peeta's tour, and the birthplace of one of the most celebrated victors in Panem, Finnick Odair.
With an annoyed huff, Peeta got rid of the heavy comforter and went for a walk along the train's corridors.
He had been walking for a while when he found Haymitch.
His mentor was lost to the world; slumped on a couch with an empty glass loosely clutched in his hands as his soft, uneven snores kept pace with the train's rhythm.
A wave of sorrow crushed Peeta's chest at the sight making him feel hollow and spent.
For a split second, he remembered meeting his mentor for the first time and dismissing him as nothing more than a drunken fool.
But Haymitch was no fool, and Peeta knew better now. He knew what it was like to be in an arena; lying in wait, knowing each minute might be your last.
Peeta Mellark had learned the hard way what it was like to hold a dying girl in your arms; what it took to watch as the light went out of her eyes.
A lot had happened since Peeta's reaping, and he was finally getting used to unexpected things happening to him, but his Victory Tour was teaching him to see things in a whole new light.
It had only been a few days since Haymitch had shared his story with him, but Peeta had replayed it so many times in his mind that it already felt like it had been ages ago.
In a hushed whisper, the mentor had talked about being reaped, about barely surviving a Quarter Quell, and about hoping to go home to his family and to the girl he loved.
Peeta's curiosity had turned to sorrow as Haymitch described the president's open threats.
"He said that?" Peeta asked in a broken, timid voice.
Haymitch nodded. "He said it, and then he did it. My mother and my younger brother. My girl. They were all dead two weeks after I was crowned victor."
No wonder he's alone, Peeta realized, drinking his days away and never letting anyone near him.
"That's the worst part," Haymitch admitted looking down at the empty glass in his hand. "What happens in the arena… that's something we do to survive. We're all victims there, even the careers. But what I can't erase -what keeps me up most nights- is the knowledge that my arrogance, my pride, killed all the family I had. It took the one girl who loved me."
Looking out into the dark world outside the window, he added, "He did that to me. President Snow. He took them just because he could; because no one was strong enough to stand against him."
Although he was sure he knew the answer, Peeta still asked, "Has he done the same to others?"
"The same, and worse." At Peeta's confused look, he added, "He took everything from me, but then he left me alone. He hasn't been so generous with some."
Peeta sighed. Growing up, he hadn't given much thought to the Hunger Games, —other than hoping his name wouldn't get picked, his mind had done a great job of avoiding the subject— but he had always imagined that surviving the arena was the hardest part.
He could almost slap himself for having been so gullible.
Peeta shook his head. It might have taken him a few months to understand what was happening, but he was done being naïve. "And, you really think things are different now?"
"They are." Conviction shone in Haymitch's eyes. "Snow wouldn't have gone to Twelve otherwise -he would have just talked to you when he saw you in the Capitol. But he needed to make sure you played by his rules. He's still in power, but he's old and he feels it slipping away. Looks like our work is finally paying off."
And there it was again, the unequivocal implication of Haymitch's involvement in whatever was happening.
Before he could second-guess himself, Peeta reached for his mentor's arm. Tightening his hold on it, he whispered, "I want to be a part of it too, Haymitch. I don't want to be a puppet anymore. I'm done being a piece in his games."
Haymitch nodded. His smile was sad, but something that looked a lot like pride shone in his gray eyes. "Very well, Kid, I'll let the others know. In the meantime, stick to what we discussed, OK?"
The sound of a door opening at the end of the corridor snapped Peeta from his thoughts and brought him back to the present -to Haymitch's sleeping form and the stench of whiskey coming out of his pores.
He was about to go into the room to wake his mentor up when a train attendant materialized by his side.
"Can I bring you anything, Sir?" the short man in a navy blue uniform asked.
Startled by the man's sudden arrival, Peeta stuttered, "Uh, yeah. That… That would be nice…"
"Some warm milk, perhaps?" the man suggested when Peeta didn't elaborate any further.
"Yes! That sounds good." Glancing in Haymitch's general direction, he added, "Please, take it to my compartment. I need to take care of something first."
The man followed Peeta's gaze. His next words were soft, gentle. "Will you need any help, Sir?"
Peeta shook his head. "No, I can take care of this on my own." He looked at the attendant. The man was just a few years older than him, but he looked tired, sad. With a small smile, he added, "Thank you."
"My pleasure, Sir." The attendant dipped his head and walked away, quickly disappearing from view.
With a tired sigh, Peeta looked back at the drunken man on the couch. "Right," he said to himself. "Now, how am I going to get this stubborn mule back into his room?"
XXXXX
Peeta reached the living room of his apartment in the Tribute Center and found Caesar Flickerman sitting on a couch.
Glancing around, he noticed that the coffee table had been replaced by a free-standing camera. Beside it, a woman with a shaved head tattooed with green vines, and a slim man with several sets of earrings talked in hushed tones as they discussed the images on a small flat screen the woman held in her hand.
"Peeta! How nice to see you!" Caesar Flickerman said as soon as he saw the victor standing by the foyer. Standing up, he went to greet him. "It's been such a long time! How have you been?"
With a smile, Peeta shook the hand Caesar offered. "I've been fine, Caesar. And you?"
"Oh, I'm just doing fabulous!" Letting go of Peeta's hand, Caesar turned to the man and woman. "Let me introduce you to my crew. This lovely creature here is Cressida Jones."
At the sound of Caesar's voice, the woman looked up. She was pretty, with delicate features and pouty lips. Peeta noticed her green eyes matched the tone of her tattoos.
"She's our director," Caesar explained, "and this is Messalla, her assistant."
Peeta closed the distance between them and shook both their hands. "A pleasure to meet you both."
"The pleasure is ours," Messalla said.
Peeta smiled, pleasantly surprised by how low and smooth his voice was. It's like with Cinna and Portia, they almost don't sound like they come from the Capitol.
Caesar turned to Cressida. "Are we all set?"
"Yes. Our cameraman just left, he had some personal business he needed to take care of, but we can do this without him." With a wave of her long fingers, Cressida motioned to the couch where Caesar had just been sitting. "Please, take a seat."
Once they were settled on the couch, Caesar patted the victor's arm. "So, Peeta, let me explain how this is going to go. Most of our interviews are shot in my studio and aired live, but the final interview of the Victory Tour is always an exception. We like to keep it until Sunday when we add it to the special transmission for the recap of the Tour."
Peeta nodded. "Got it."
"Remember, tonight is not about the sponsors. You're just here, among friends, talking about your life as a victor, and about your recent experiences traveling across Panem. Just, relax, be your usual charming self, and don't worry about a thing. Got any questions?"
"How long will the interview be?"
"We usually shoot about 30 minutes of conversation, but then we edit it. The final interview probably won't last more than 10 minutes."
"Alright." Peeta angled his body so that he was facing both Caesar and the camera. "Is this ok?"
"Perfect!" Cressida said. "Are you ready to start?"
Peeta and Caesar nodded, and -on her countdown- the interview began.
After introducing Peeta to the non-existent audience, Caesar asked a few questions about Peeta's life as a victor in District 12.
Peeta smiled at the camera and kept his answers friendly, but short. He talked about his beautiful house in Victors' Village, and about his new-found passion for painting and art; but he steered clear of the darker subjects –like the loneliness which ate at him during the night or the fear that his recent actions might have painted a target on his loved ones' backs.
Pointing at Peeta's lapel, Caesar exclaimed, "I see you're wearing your district token!"
Out of habit, Peeta reached out and touched the golden bird. "I am. My stylist says it's become quite fashionable."
"Indeed, it has!" Caesar turned his blinding smile to the camera. "This beautiful rendition of a mockingjay is probably one of the most popular tokens in the history of the Hunger Games. Everyone in the Capitol has one." As if to share a juicy bit of gossip, Caesar leaned into Peeta's side and winked. "Even some of our Gamemakers are wearing them now."
Peeta raised his eyebrows looking pleased. Before he could comment further on the subject, Caesar went on, "Now tell me, Peeta, how excited are you about your first round as mentor?"
Without missing a step, Peeta repeated the answer he had prepared. "Oh, I'm very excited."
"As you should be! It's an anniversary year, you know? Everything will be different, from the reaping to the training center; and the arena, of course! It'll be grander than any we've seen so far."
Peeta nodded. He hadn't been alive to watch any of the previous Quells, but he knew enough to be terrified of them. Remembering some of the topics Effie had reviewed with him, he asked, "Someone mentioned there will be two Head Gamemakers this year, is that right, Caesar?"
"Yes, it is!" Templesmith's small eyes twinkled with glee. "Seneca Crane will be joining forces with Plutarch Heavensbee, one of our most renowned arena designers. Together, they'll bring excitement and flare to the Quarter Quell."
Peeta plastered a smile on his face and hoped it didn't look like a grimace. "Can't wait."
It was almost time to wrap up the interview when Caesar introduced his last topic. "So, your tour has almost come to an end, what's left in the agenda?"
"Not much. There's just a party at the President's Mansion tonight, followed by a private hearing with President Snow himself."
"That's quite an honor, you know?" Caesar said looking serious. "President Snow only has a handful of private reunions every year, but he always saves one for the end of the Victory Tour. A beautiful tradition, don't you think?"
"Yes, it is," Peeta answered, hoping he had managed to keep the dread he felt from seeping into his voice.
XXXXX
President Snow's office was at the end of a long corridor flanked by a dozen bronze busts of the Capitol's most loyal generals. From golden pedestals, their vacant eyes passed judgment on the rest of the world.
Looking straight ahead, Peeta tried to ignore the sound of his resounding steps and the way they echoed the anxious beat of his heart.
By the time he reached the ornate mahogany door, his hands were clammy. His mouth had gone dry.
Closing his eyes for an instant, Peeta wished he could just turn and walk away. But he knew it was pointless. If President Snow wanted to see him, there was nothing the victor could do but comply.
Closing his hand into a tight fist, Peeta knocked on the door and, at the president's command, pushed it open. He stepped into the room and froze, stunned by the opulence in the president's private quarters.
Even after visiting the most luxurious buildings in the country, he was still taken aback by the decadent furnishings which glowed golden under the dim light of dusk. The rugs and armchairs scattered throughout the room screamed of comfort and luxury; but the evocative paintings of ancient cities which covered the walls conveyed a message of grandeur and self-importance that sent a chill down his spine.
Across from him, three long couches, upholstered in soft green velvet, faced a stately desk. Peeta remembered it from some of the president's televised messages to the nation. He also recognized the golden armchair behind it –Grampa Mellark had called it a throne when he was little. The old baker was long gone, but the mysterious word had stuck with his grandson through the years.
President Snow was standing a few steps behind the desk with his back to the door. His head was tilted to the side as he considered the floral arrangement in front of him.
Not wanting to interrupt, Peeta kept quiet and watched, mesmerized, as the aging president played with a bunch of long-stemmed white roses. With delicate hands, the most powerful man in Panem pushed and pulled at the thorny stalks to create a beautiful bouquet.
While his host worked, Peeta let his eyes linger around the room, slowly taking in the works of art and priceless antiques which surrounded him.
Where do they come from, he wondered, how did they survive the destruction of the cataclysms, the violence of the dark days?
Apparently satisfied with his work, the president moved away from the flowers and turned towards the door. A cordial smile curved his lips at the sight of his newest victor. "Welcome, my boy! Sorry to keep you waiting, my gardener is not as good as he once was." With silent steps, he circled the desk and went to sit on one of velvet couches. "Please, take a seat," he instructed.
With a nod, Peeta did as he was told, sitting directly across from his host. The sickly-sweet perfume of the president's roses enveloped him, sticking to his throat as soon as he sat down.
Relaxing into the plush cushions, like a grandfather who's entertaining one of his grandchildren, the president asked, "So, tell me, how did you enjoy your tour? Did you have a good time?"
Peeta smiled politely. "I did. Everyone was kind. My hosts were very generous."
"Yes." The president fixed his cold eyes on Peeta's. "I heard you were very grateful, very… liberal with your praise."
Peeta froze. His stony expression gave nothing away, but his mind raced frantically ahead. This is it. This is when he accuses me of breaking my word, when he tells me he knows what I'm up to; that he's been watching, following my every move.
President Snow's amused chuckle broke through Peeta's thoughts. "I have to admit I was a bit surprised by your approach, but I've decided to be lenient." Twisting his puffy lips into a grotesque pout, he added, "Those cards Miss Trinket wrote were… Well, let's just call them dry, shall we?"
Peeta swallowed thickly, he didn't' want to cause trouble for his escort, but the president was giving him an out and he couldn't afford to waste it. "Effie has many talents, Sir. Perhaps writing isn't one of them."
"Yes, indeed." Seemingly done with that particular topic, President Snow turned his attention to the left side of the room.
Following his gaze, Peeta discovered a tall bookcase. Its wooden shelves, laden with leather-bound volumes, intrigued him, and he found himself looking longingly at them -wondering what secrets lay hidden between their pages.
The president's voice broke through Peeta's thoughts. "Do you like to read?"
Embarrassed at being caught staring, Peeta turned back to his host. "I've never had the opportunity to read much, Sir, but yes. I do."
The pleased smirk on the president's puffy lips made Peeta's stomach turn. "My advisors are satisfied with your performance, Peeta. They think you came across as approachable and friendly, someone relatable. Trustworthy."
Peeta forced on a smile and nodded.
President Snow's voice dropped to a menacing whisper. "They're a bunch of fools, you know? They think they know what's best for our country, these advisors of mine. But they know nothing about power, about control, about fear. They believe that a charming spokesperson will be enough to defeat our enemies." His eyes hardened. "But I know they're wrong."
Every hair on the back of Peeta's neck stood to attention. His skin broke out in a cold sweat. He felt as exposed as a cornered animal trapped in a cage; defenseless, scared.
He hated being so powerless —being at the mercy of this cruel man who derived so much pleasure out of toying with other people's lives. But, as anxious as he was, every second in President Snow's presence only strengthened Peeta's resolve to bring him down.
After weeks of travelling through the country –of witnessing the excess and inequality of life in the various districts- a new thought solidified in his mind. It was as terrifying as the man sitting across from him.
I hate this man.
Unaware of his guest's thoughts, President Snow waved a hand in front of his face as if to swat an inconsequential thought. "Well, that's really not of your concern. I just wanted to let you know that you played your part well. Congratulations."
Too rattled by the president's alternating mood swings to say anything witty, Peeta answered, "Thank you, Sir."
Apparently satisfied, the president sighed, emptying his lungs and relaxing into the couch even further.
Peeta pressed his lips together and held his breath. He had no doubt that the faint smell of blood that lingered in the air –mingling with the persistent scent from the roses and creating a nauseating stench- was coming from the man across from him, and he was too repulsed to breathe in any more than he already had.
Clasping his hands over his lap, the president spoke again. "Unfortunately, the problems I mentioned on our last meeting haven't disappeared. There are things which have been set in motion, things that can no longer be stopped." Shaking his head, he went on, "But I won't bore you with unnecessary details. Too many pieces are still in the air. It's too early to figure out where everything fits."
Leaning closer to Peeta, he added, "I still don't know what will happen in the next few months, but I have a feeling I will be relying on you at some point moving forward. You will receive more detailed information when the time comes, but know that I will need you to be your usual charming self, down to earth and approachable; the winning baker's son who always has a kind word and a smile. Do you think you can do that?"
Peeta's jaw tightened and he offered a curt nod to hide the panic he felt. The president had phrased his words as a question, but this wasn't a request. It was an order.
Peeta could already taste the bile creeping up his throat when he answered, "Of course, you can always count on me, Sir."
XXXXX
Peeta woke up the next morning to the sound of his prep team knocking on his door.
"Rise and shine, Peeta dear," Adriana chirped as she walked towards the window to pull the curtains open.
Peeta groaned, he wasn't ready to face the day –especially when the first order of business was to have Adriana's lavender-tinted fingers poking and prodding at him to make him presentable.
Didius stepped into the room, his powder blue curls bounced with every step. "We don't have much time, darling. Effie's only given us one hour to get you ready!"
Peeta pushed himself to a sitting position. He wanted to argue -to tell them he didn't need a whole hour to get ready—but he knew it was pointless. These colorful beings weren't very smart, and they were extremely shallow, but he had never met anyone who took their job as seriously as they did.
With a resigned huff, Peeta got out of bed and headed straight for the shower.
"Very well, dear, now close your eyes and let us work our magic," Adriana instructed a few minutes later.
Relaxing in his make-up chair, Peeta complied. In the temporary darkness, he could hear them moving around him, opening cases and drawers as they looked for the tools they needed to make him camera-ready.
As his prep team worked and fretted, Peeta's mind wandered back to the people he'd met on the tour.
He still didn't know what to make of them, these victors who had looked straight into his eyes as they shook his hand. These men and women who lived surrounded by luxury, trapped in golden cages while some of them secretly rebelled and plotted to break free.
He wished he'd had more time to sit with them, to ask about their stories, about their lives; about the burden of living directly under President Snow's thumb.
But, even though he hadn't had time to get to know them better, he understood.
He was one of them now.
His hands were stained, his purity was gone. His freedom was nothing but an illusion.
A part of him wanted to yell at Haymitch for keeping him in the dark so long; for letting him spend six months worrying about small, petty things, like whether his friends and family showed up for tea or not.
But he didn't. It didn't take much to understand his mentor's actions. With his silence, Haymitch had given him a few more months of innocence and hope.
Sadly, the days of hiding behind his ignorance were gone. The tour was over and Peeta was determined to get some answers.
Haymitch wouldn't be able to hide from him anymore.
As if sensing his stormy thoughts, Adriana began to hum. It was a simple tune, almost childish in its simplicity, but it broke through Peeta's inner agitation and soothed him.
Gradually, as if following the train tracks, his mind took him to District 12. To the town where he grew up, and the bakery where he learned his trade. To the busy streets and dense forests, to the snow-covered pine trees.
The closer he got, the easier it was to see, too feel, to smell. The freshly-baked bread coming out of his oven, the long green stems of a tomato bush growing in the greenhouse, the melodic timbre of Katniss's voice when she laughed.
Even if the world was falling apart, even if chaos was right around the corner, these things were waiting for him now.
For the first time in days, Peeta smiled. Truly smiled.
The 74th victor was coming home.
AN: I want to thank the lovely AlwaysEverlark for the beautiful banner she made for this story.
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The Hunger Games Trilogy is the property of Suzanne Collins. No money was made off of the creation of this fanwork.