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Chapter Thirty-Nine

Marcius was scheduled to arrive in District 9 on December first and stay for two days. Clark was grateful that December first was also Parcel Day, since it meant that he would have to spend less time around the irritating Hunger Games escort. In spite of Haver had said about Marcius calling in favors to get Becky’s remains removed from the arena, Clark still couldn’t bring himself to like the man.

When he went to help distribute the parcels, Clark worried about the reception he might get from the Capitol photographer, around whom he had behaved so badly the last time. He was relieved to find that a different photographer was there, as well as slightly disappointed—he would have liked to have had the chance to apologize for behaving so threateningly at the last Parcel Day.

Unbeknownst to Clark, the last photographer’s boss had been upset when she had returned to the Capitol with nothing but rolls of overexposed film — Clark had ruined all of it, even the pictures that didn’t show him in a scandalous light. She’d explained that the new victor had been angry and aggressive, but that still didn’t explain what had happened to the film.

With no evidence to back up her story — no one in District 9 was willing to say anything about Clark to a Capitol reporter — her editor had refused to run the story, and had threatened to fire her if she took it to any other publication or TV station. The Panem Daily was the Capitol’s preeminent newspaper, with its sister publication, the Capitol Weekly magazine, holding almost equal prominence, and neither the editor nor the board of directors would risk the company’s exclusive contract with the Capitol to photograph and interview victors during the off season.

The photographer had been demoted from her position as the victor photographer and put back to work taking pictures of the Capitol’s most vapid celebrities and newsmakers. She had secretly been relieved, though she would never admit it to anyone — Clark had scared her, especially when he’d shaken off a Peacekeeper’s strong grip like it was nothing. Only his mentor, Haver, had been able to get him to back down, and then Clark had turned, pushed his glasses down, and stared at her camera and her bag of film with an intensity that puzzled and frightened her. She wouldn’t have given up the job on her own — it was a highly desired and high status position — but being demoted gave her a way to do something safer without admitting defeat.

This time, distributing the parcels to the distant parts of the district took even longer than usual because of the snow covering the roads, but Clark didn’t mind. He wanted to delay talking Marcius as long as possible.

It was almost midnight when Clark got home on Parcel Day, but much to his dismay, someone had told Marcius that he was on his way home and the man had beaten him there by half an hour. He was sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee and eating pie, when Clark got home.

Martha gave Clark a warning look when he walked in, not wanting him to say something that would get him into trouble. She had set two more places at the table when Marcius had shown up, saying that he’d been told Clark would be home soon, and had gone to heat up the leftovers from dinner. Marcius had already eaten dinner, though he accepted dessert, but Martha knew that Clark would be hungry.

Clark sat down while Martha filled his plate, only then getting a good look at Marcius. He narrowed his eyes for a moment, then asked, “Are you okay?”

Marcius gave him an annoyed look. Martha had asked the same question when he’d arrived, looking at his badly dyed skin and mistaking it for the look of serious illness.

“I’m fine,” he told Clark shortly. “It’s a new look that didn’t work quite as planned.” Looking at Clark’s plain clothing and short haircut, he mumbled, “Not that you or anyone else around here have any idea about fashion.”

Clark frowned, having heard him clearly. It was true that he neither knew nor cared about the latest Capitol fashions, but he had sported some very strange hairstyles before he’d learned to neatly cut his newly invulnerable hair with his heat vision. People had stared at him, some had laughed, and his parents had refused to accept any of the blame for their son’s odd appearance. Clark had claimed that he was trying styles he’d seen the Capitolites wearing on TV, which made people roll their eyes and snicker, but prevented people from asking too many questions about his sudden change in appearance — or the fact that he’d eventually once again adopted the short hairstyle favored by men in District 9.

Still, Clark’s strangest haircut couldn’t hold a candle to what Marcius currently looked like. He’d tried to dye his face green, in accordance with the latest holiday styles, and when it hadn’t come out right, had tried to bleach it, resulting in a sickly greenish shade. After a considerable amount of scrubbing and a week’s time, the color had faded somewhat, but it was still pronounced enough to earn him smirks in the Capitol and even stranger looks in District 9 — and the skin artist he’d gone to had lectured him about trying to dye his own face, then refused to do anything to change the color for fear of damaging Marcius’s skin.

Martha had seen someone with a similar skin tone before — Clark, after he’d been lying unconscious next to a piece of Kryptonite in the field for two hours. He’d been close to death then, and his parents had been immensely relieved when his natural color had started to come back after his father had taken him back to the house.

Marcius showed no sign of illness besides his odd skin color, but that alone was enough to make the Kents stare at him in concern. He stared back at them, his face reddening with embarrassment, making him look even stranger.

He hated the feeling that they were judging him, despite being outer district barbarians who had no appreciation for the finer things in life. In spite of Clark’s winnings, which made him wealthy enough that many Capitolites envied him, they wore plain clothing with no jewelry, makeup, or wigs. The furnishings and appliances in the kitchen were the same ones that had been there when Clark had been shown through his new house, and the tablecloth, which was not one of the items the Capitol had provided, looked like it had been around for years. The Kents — or at least Clark — could afford so much, but they showed no interest in the things the people in the Capitol regarded as the basic necessities of life.

To be sure, the house was kept up better than the homes of the other two victors, and it certainly smelled considerably better than Haver’s house. In addition, Martha Kent’s cooking was good — even Marcius would admit to that, though it wasn’t fancy and the highly paid Capitol chefs would laugh at it. There was nothing exotic about it, nor was it fancy, and he wondered why they didn’t employ a cook rather than do the work themselves.

Clark and Martha were still eyeing Marcius’ odd skin tone, which clashed badly with his gold wig, though Martha was trying not to be obvious about it. Clark was feeling hostile towards the District 9 escort, so he was staring more openly.

“Stop staring at me!” Marcius finally snapped, mostly at Clark.

Martha gave Clark another warning look when it appeared that he was about to say something, setting his plate in front of him and turning to wash the dishes. Clark finally looked away from Marcius and turned his attention to his dinner.

“I don’t understand why you weren’t back earlier,” Marcius told Clark. “You knew I was arriving in District 9 today.”

“It’s Parcel Day,” Clark reminded him. “I was helping distribute the food, just like I do every month. It took longer today than before because of all the snow on the ground — we had a big snowstorm three days ago.”

“You should have left it to your fellow victors,” Marcius said. “You had other things to do, and you shouldn’t be required to take the food parcels out into the hinterlands. If the parcels are that important to people, they can come to town to get them.”

“Most of the people in the outer parts of the district can’t make it here for Parcel Day. It’s too far and the roads have too much snow on them at this time of year. The only things that get cleared are the tracks, and the people aren’t allowed to ride the trains. The grain and oil are too heavy for most people to carry all the way back to their farms, and some people aren’t strong enough even to make it into the villages. The food has to be taken to them. Besides, it’s that way in all the districts. The heavy things are delivered to people’s homes, and the rest of the parcels are distributed to all the towns and villages. I’ve seen it on TV every year.”

“That doesn’t mean that you have to take it around — not when you have more important things to do.”

“Nothing is more important than making sure people have enough to eat.”

“Your fellow victors can do it in your place.”

“Haver has a bad back, and Matilda is sick. Besides, I can lift more than either of them. I did grow up on a farm, after all.”

“Matilda is probably hung over,” Marcius mumbled under his breath, drawing an annoyed look from Clark — even though it was true.

The evening before, Matilda had quarreled with Sid over the fact that he had confiscated her morphling again, then stomped out. Though he’d tried to block it out, Clark had heard every word of their argument and had looked outside just in time to see Matilda slam the gate and stalk off in the direction of town and the bar.

Three hours later, the bar’s owner had called Sid, telling him to come get his wife before he called the Peacekeepers. Sid’s healing ankle still wasn’t quite up to a long walk through the snow, especially since it was likely he’d have to carry Matilda at least part of the mile between the bar and Victor’s Village, so Clark had gone to get her.

Matilda had cried, mumbled incoherently, and fallen in the snow twice before Clark had overruled her protests, picked her up, and carried her back to Victor’s Village. On the way there, Matilda had thrown up on both of them, then passed out, snoring loudly enough to bother Clark’s sensitive ears and making him wish he’d let the Peacekeepers take care of her — a night in jail wouldn’t hurt her any, though refusing to help her would have made him persona non grata in Victor’s Village. Though he hadn’t quite used his superspeed after Matilda passed out, Clark had moved faster than was wise under the slippery conditions, using his powers to stay upright as he hurried to get her back to her house and turn her over to Sid.

As disgusted as Clark had been with Matilda, though, he still wasn’t going to badmouth her to Marcius, so he just said, “I’m strong enough to carry the sacks of grain, and without my help, it would take a lot longer to distribute the food.”

“I’m sure there are other people here who are as strong as you who can help distribute the parcels.”

Clark gritted his teeth and glared at Marcius, strongly tempted to pick the man up with one hand and fly him to the roof — then leave him there until the look of smug superiority was gone from his face. It might almost be worth the trouble he’d get into.

As though reading his mind, Martha whispered, “Don’t even think about it. Talk to him about your talent. The sooner you do that, the sooner he’ll leave.”

“You’re not a farm kid anymore,” Marcius told him, oblivious both to Clark’s irritation and Martha’s words. “You can leave the heavy lifting to them. You should have been home when I got here.” Before Clark could argue with him further, he put up a hand to stop him, saying, “Now, I know it’s late for you, but I’m here to discuss your talent.” He beckoned to Martha. “A victor’s parents can be instrumental in helping them to select something appropriate, so I’d like you to join us.” As Martha dried her hands and sat down at the table, Marcius looked at Clark and added, “I’d like your father to join us, too. Where is he?”

Clark and Martha both gaped at him, Clark bristling with hostility. Martha put a comforting hand on Clark’s arm.

“Is something wrong?” Marcius looked at them in confusion.

“Clark’s father passed away in October,” Martha told Marcius. “I thought you would have heard.”

Marcius looked at them in shock. “I … no, I hadn’t heard. There’s been very little news out of District 9 since Clark came home, except harvest reports and some photos of him helping with Parcel Day. I’m sorry to hear about Mr. Kent’s death — he seemed like a good man.”

“He was,” Martha said. “He was a good husband and father, and well-respected in District 9.”

Clark looked away, not wanting to discuss his father’s death with Marcius. He was surprised that the man hadn’t heard about Jonathan Kent’s death — the Capitolites were fascinated with the lives of the victors. That could explain why the Capitol photographer had been insensitive to his desire to keep wearing the black armband in November — if she didn’t know why he was wearing it, she might have seen it as just as accessory.

Still, he’d been neither quiet nor polite in explaining what the armband was for, and he was surprised that she hadn’t taken the story back to the Capitol. Maybe with her pictures ruined, the photographer had had no way to back her story up — or maybe someone had suppressed the story. Clark shuddered inwardly as he contemplated that idea, hoping no harm had come to the woman because of his display of temper and destruction of her film.

“I … ah …” Marcius looked between Martha and Clark, feeling awkward. He hadn’t meant to bring up a sensitive subject — he’d honestly had no idea that Jonathan Kent had died, and had assumed he was in another room, or out at the farm. “I’m sorry for your loss …” Seizing upon an idea, he looked at Clark and said, “Perhaps you can dedicate your talent to your father’s memory.”

Clark looked at him coldly, saying nothing. Martha sighed and got up to get a cup of coffee, turning her back on the two men.

“Don’t do this,” Martha whispered. “He didn’t know, and he’s trying.”

Clark frowned at his mother’s words, then set his fork down. He had chosen a talent, though he still didn’t want to share it with Marcius.

“Maybe I will,” he finally told Marcius. The smug look was gone from the man’s face, though that didn’t make Clark feel any better.

Marcius nodded. “So … what is your talent?”

“Writing.” Clark had finally decided that since he seemed to be reasonably good at writing and enjoyed it, he might as well make it his talent. He didn’t want to share anything with the Capitolites, but he had no choice in the matter.

“Writing?” Marcius raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you don’t want to do something that will put you more in the spotlight?”

“You gave me a list of potential talents, and I chose writing.”

“It just seems kind of … obscure.”

“I like writing!”

“The most popular victors — those who receive the most admiration and respect — keep themselves in the public eye.”

“No.” Clark crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Marcius. “I want to write.”

Martha sat down with her coffee. Trying to diffuse the tension, she said, “Clark, why don’t you go get the essays you wrote? I’m sure Marcius would like to see them.”

Clark sighed, getting up slowly and reluctantly. He didn’t want to show Marcius his work, but his mother was right — the sooner he went over his talent with Marcius, the sooner the man would leave.

Clark had gone over a number of subjects before selecting two essays as examples of what he could do. He couldn’t write about his powers, or about the things he’d seen while using them. He wouldn’t write about the Games, except for in his journal — and he had no intention of showing that to anyone.

He’d tried writing about conditions in the District 9 factories, but had stopped and burned the pages after recalling what Lois had said about factory conditions in District 3. The people in the Capitol did not want to know about the work conditions of the people who manufactured all the things they enjoyed, and to write about it might bring retaliation.

He had written one essay about Vena Solros and the way she survived by growing flowers that undercut the prices charged by the Capitol, but had put the essay away after Martha had read it and pointed out that the Capitolites who sold the more expensive flowers might not like the competition and might shut Vena down, or worse, if they knew what she was doing.

Finally, Clark and Martha had selected two pieces that they felt best showcased his writing ability while avoiding dangerous subjects. When Clark returned to the kitchen with them, he handed them to Marcius, then sat down, looking at him a bit defiantly.

Marcius looked at the two hand-written essays. “You couldn’t have typed these?”

“I don’t have a typewriter,” Clark told him.

“What about a computer?”

“I’ve never even seen one, except on television.”

“You can afford one.”

“I don’t know how to use either one. That’s not something we learn in school here.”

Marcius rolled his eyes. “You wouldn’t appreciate it anyway,” he mumbled.

Clark slammed his hands down on the table, remembering at the last second not to hit it too hard. “Stop talking about us like that!” he snapped.

“Excuse me?” Marcius looked at Clark, startled and affronted.

“Clark, be quiet!” Martha hissed, looking at Marcius in dread.

Clark didn’t listen. “You do it all the time — you call us barbarians, say we’re unappreciative, insult people — and I’m sick of it!”

“I’ve done no such thing!”

“Yes, you have … you’re louder than you think.”

“You don’t understand the simplest concepts — like how to use a shower. You prefer sleeping on the floor to sleeping in a bed. You look at the beauty of the Capitol and can’t talk about anything except … here. Neither you nor anyone else appreciates all the Capitol does for you.”

“All the Capitol does for us?! People here —“

“Clark!” Martha jumped out of her seat and grabbed Clark’s arm, pulling him in the direction of the door. “Excuse us a moment,” she said apologetically to Marcius.

“What is wrong with you?!” Martha whispered to Clark. “Are you trying to get us killed?”

Clark stepped close to Martha, lowering his voice so Marcius wouldn’t hear him. “He keeps insulting us, saying that we’re stupid, unappreciative barbarians! He —“

“Talking back to him is stupid. If he gets angry enough, he’ll report you, and the Capitol will retaliate. Do you want something to happen to me, or your other relatives, or your friends? Do you want the food rations cut in this district so no one can get enough to eat, no matter how much money they have? They could cancel the remaining Parcel Days and take the tesserae away from the eighteen-year-olds who are past their final Reaping. The kids still eligible for the Games will have to take more tesserae to make up the difference — giving them a much greater chance of being put into the Games.”

“No, I don’t want that — but Marcius makes me so mad …”

“It doesn’t matter how angry he makes you. Keep your mouth shut. It’s the only way to deal with people like him.”

Clark looked down, his face sullen. “Fine. I don’t like it, though.”

“You don’t have to like it. You just have to do it.” Martha turned back toward the kitchen. “Now, you’re going to go in there and apologize to him —“

“Mom!”

“— and hope he isn’t too angry. I mean it, Clark. You don’t talk back to Capitolites, especially not Hunger Games escorts.”

Looking at Martha angrily, Clark walked past her and back into the kitchen, putting on a neutral expression as he did so. He couldn’t quite bring himself to look apologetic.

“Marcius,” he began, “I’m sorry I talked to you like that. It’s been a long, tiring day, and sometimes I speak without thinking when I’m tired.”

Clark thought his words sounded as insincere as they were. Marcius, however, seemed to accept them at face value.

“That’s something you really need to work on,” he told Clark. “I understand about such things, of course, but some people don’t. You could get into real trouble if you talk that way to President Snow. When you go on the Victory Tour, you’ll be seeing him and many other prominent Capitolites, and you’ll want to remember your manners.”

Clark gritted his teeth, but said, “Thank you for understanding. I spent a lot of time slogging through the snow today and was hoping to talk to you tomorrow instead, after a good night’s rest.”

“I told you that you shouldn’t be out delivering those parcels. If you’d stayed here, we could have talked hours ago, and you wouldn’t have spent the day exhausting yourself to bring parcels to people who can’t be bothered to pick them up themselves.”

Clark almost said something else, but a quelling look from Martha made him change his mind. Instead, he sat down at the table across from Marcius, avoiding looking straight at him for fear the desire to use his heat vision would be too strong.

“You could have so much,” Marcius said, shaking his head. “If you’re so set on doing things for others, you could buy your mother the latest kitchen appliances, or fashionable clothes or jewelry. In fact, you could have jewelry designed to her specifications very easily right now — a lot of people are selling their jewelry that was damaged when the Kryptonite was removed from it, and the artisans in District 1 are melting it down and redesigning it.”

Clark looked at Marcius, startled. “Why did they remove the Kryptonite from their jewelry?”

Marcius frowned, looking annoyed. “It seems that Kryptonite causes cancer. President Snow announced that everyone who owned it had to bring it to special centers in the Capitol or District 1 for disposal. At first, people were paid for it, but if they didn’t bring it in and got caught, it was simply confiscated. I never wore Kryptonite jewelry myself — too gaudy — but my mother was very fond of it and was angry when she had to sell it.”

Clark and Martha looked at each other, then back at Marcius. “When was it banned?” Martha asked casually. She wasn’t sorry she’d put it where it couldn’t harm her son, but if it might cause her health problems in the future, she wanted to be prepared.

“A week after Clark returned home,” Marcius said. “Half of the news that afternoon was about him, while the other half was about the Kryptonite recall. It was terrible timing, taking away from the glory of your son’s victory.”

Martha shook her head. “I didn’t see anything about it on the news.” She glanced at Clark, who shook his head. He hadn’t heard about it, either — and it would certainly have caught his attention if it had been mentioned.

“They wouldn’t have broadcast it out here — only in places where Kryptonite was likely to be found. It’s a luxury item, so no one here would appreciate … er … be able to afford it except the victors.” He glanced at Clark, a bit surprised that he hadn’t reacted to his comment. Instead, Clark appeared to be deep in thought.

Clark wasn’t so sure that Kryptonite had been banned because it could cause cancer — Snow hadn’t hesitated to keep the Kryptonite watch open while Clark was being flogged, and had shown no concern for himself. Instead, he had apparently taken great pleasure in seeing Clark suffering from the effects of Kryptonite poisoning — at least until Clark had gotten sick on his shoes.

The timing of the Kryptonite ban was very suspicious. Snow had had all the evidence he needed that Clark had powers outside the ordinary, and had almost certainly made the connection between Kryptonite and Clark’s illness in the arena by that time. By confiscating the Kryptonite, he had ensured that Clark wouldn’t accidentally be exposed to it, while giving himself easy access.

“What happened to the Kryptonite?” he asked Marcius.

“I don’t know — supposedly it’s radioactive, so my best guess is that it’s been isolated and locked away. If you were hoping to buy Kryptonite jewelry, you won’t be able to — it’s now illegal to own it, and I doubt they’ll make exceptions for a victor.”

“I have no interest in Kryptonite jewelry,” Clark said. “I’d rather not risk my life.” Before Marcius could pursue the subject farther, he asked, “Have you taken a look at my writing yet?”

“Not yet.” Marcius took a pair of reading glasses out of his pocket and slipped them on quickly, looking slightly embarrassed to need them. He picked up the first essay and looked at it. “Mating Rituals of the Mockingjay?”

“They’re very elaborate,” Clark told him. “The male memorizes as many tunes as he can and repeats them for the female, who repeats them back while they hop from branch to branch and then take off flying …”

“Um … it sounds very … uh … interesting.” Marcius scanned the essay, then put it down. Picking up the second essay, he started reading it without comment.

When Marcius started laughing, Clark frowned, not sure what to think. Martha had thought the essay was funny. It was an exaggerated, fictionalized account of the time Clark and his friends had found the nest of rattlesnakes in the old house on the edge of the Ross farm, taking what had been a frightening but fascinating experience and finding the humor in it.

“Well, perhaps you were right to choose writing as your talent,” Marcius finally said, setting the papers down. “I’m not so sure about the mockingjay essay, though I suppose it will appeal to someone, but this …” He held up the rattlesnake story. “… this is excellent. I’m sure both the Panem Daily and the Capitol Star will be eager to publish it. As to the other … there is a publication dedicated to … what’s the word … ornithology. They may be interested in it.” Looking at Clark and Martha, he explained, “Ornithology is the study of birds.”

“I know,” Clark said. “We learn it as part of the study of agriculture. Some birds will eat everything you grow, while others eat insects or rodents.”

“Well … I wouldn’t have thought you would learn things like that here.”

“We’re not as dumb as —“

“Clark!” Martha shook her head sharply at him.

“I will take these back to the Capitol with me,” Marcius said. “You aren’t allowed to have newspapers here, but I’ll let you know when it’s published. I might be able to get you a copy of the article itself. You’ll probably be allowed to have a copy of Birder if they take your mockingjay essay.”

Marcius looked at his watch. “It’s almost one o’clock. I’m leaving on the train at noon tomorrow, but I’d like to see you before then to discuss ideas for what you’ll write next. I’d like you to have four or five more papers ready by the Victory Tour.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to use your phone to call the mayor for a ride back to the hotel.”

Clark doubted the mayor would appreciate the call, since the man kept the same hours as most people in District 9, but didn’t say anything. After Marcius got off the phone, Clark said, “Are you going to come here, or should I come to the hotel?”

“I will be here at nine. You need to have some ideas ready for us to discuss, and I may suggest a few things, too.”

That sounded a lot like homework to Clark, who had assumed that he had finished with that when he’d finished school, but he just nodded. “I’ll see you then.”

As a car pulled up in front of Clark’s house, driven by the sleepy, rumpled-looking mayor, Clark said, “Marcius … Haver told me what you did for Becky. You know … to make sure her body was removed from the arena.”

Marcius looked uncomfortable. He’d never thought that Clark would find out about the sacrifice he’d made — in fact, he’d hoped that Clark’s death would be less messy than Becky’s because he wouldn’t be able to get a second destroyed body removed from the arena. Then Clark had won, but it had never occurred to him that Haver would tell him what Marcius had done.

“It would have been dishonorable to leave her there. Her body was difficult to remove, but not impossible … and it would have made a mockery of her sacrifice to leave her to rot.”

“Her sacrifice? She died of tuberculosis while standing on her launch plate.”

“Well, yes, but she was still a participant in the Games, and she deserved a proper burial. And after all, she was in my care, so I had a duty to have her body removed.”

“You could have left her there.”

“That would have been wrong, whatever Claudius Templesmith thought.”

“Thank you for getting her out. Her family was grateful to be able to bury her.”

“I’d rather this not get out … I can’t do that for everyone.”

“I won’t tell anyone … but it was still a kind thing to do.”

“I’ll bet that’s the first time you thought me capable of kindness.”

It had been, but Clark didn’t say so. Instead, he opened the door for Marcius and watched as the District 9 escort carefully make his way down the icy steps and along the icy sidewalk. He wasn’t looking forward to going over ideas for his writing with him, but perhaps he could tolerate him. He had, after all, defied the Gamemakers to send Becky’s body home.

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