Chapter Forty-Five
Hours later, Clark sat in the observation car of the train as it sped north towards District 3. The train was quiet, with most people sleeping soundly.
Clark had tried to fall asleep, but after tossing and turning and even trying to find a comfortable floating position, he had given up, put on a soft, voluminous robe that Rosalind had made for him, and gone to sit in the observation car, watching the ocean in the starlight as the train moved up the coast.
He had managed to push away most of his worries about visiting District 3 while in District 4, concentrating instead upon the new people he was meeting and upon making a new friend. Finnick was only the second victor close to Clark’s age that he had met, and the first he had really had a chance to talk to. Though they’d only met that day and were three years apart in age, they’d gotten along well and, as victors who were subject to the wishes of a dangerous dictator, had a lot in common.
Thinking about the people he’d met could only occupy Clark’s mind for so long, though, and soon his thoughts turned back to District 3, especially after a glance at the clock told him that it was after two in the morning and he would have to face the Lanes in just a few hours.
Thoughts of what he might have done differently in the arena tormented Clark. No matter what his motivation had been for freezing Lois and ending her suffering, it had been wrong, and he should have done things differently.
He could have just stayed with Lois as she died, as he had Mayson, and not had her death on his conscience. She would have suffered more, but his hands would have been clean.
Of course, if he’d done that, he never would have been able to forget the agony she had died in, and the fact that he’d done nothing to ease her pain would have haunted him — and delighted the bloodthirsty viewers in the Capitol, many of whom delighted in seeing friendship turn to despair and hatred.
He could have removed the tracker from his own arm and played dead, putting the knife in Lois’s hand before he did so in order to make it look like she’d killed him. Lois would have received the medical care she needed, and he could have escaped after the hovercraft removed him from the arena, flying home to District 9 and explaining to his parents what had happened.
Clark loathed himself more than ever after thinking of how he might have kept Lois alive and allowed her to become victor, and wondered how he could have been so selfish as to allow himself to become victor. That he hadn’t even thought of this method of tricking the Gamemakers until now, six and a half months after the fact, didn’t occur to him, though it did occur to him that the lives of his family and friends would have been forfeit if he’d pulled such a stunt, and Lois and her family might have been punished for what he’d done, too.
The walls of the train seemed to be closing in on him. Clark jumped to his feet, going to the window and putting his head against the cool glass. He wanted to escape, to fly away, and even pushed on the switch to open the window, wondering as he did if he would really go through with running away from the Victory Tour.
The window didn’t budge, and a small red light flashed, indicating that the train was going too fast for the windows to be opened.
Clark backed away. He could have pried the window open, or just broken the glass — even the strongest glass was no match for him — but he didn’t know what it would do to the train if he did so.
What kind of coward was he, anyway? What was he thinking, trying to escape from his responsibilities as a victor? What would Lois have thought of him?
He dreaded meeting the Lanes, but he had to go through with it, had to face them. He’d made his choices in the arena, and now he had to live with them.
Clark walked slowly back to his compartment. It was customary for a victor to say something about a fellow tribute if they’d meant something to them, and he intended to do so. He wanted Lois’s family to know that she had meant something to him, that she hadn’t just been a tool in his path to victory. She had been a true friend — more than a friend — though he wasn’t sure he would say so in his speech. It had taken months for him to acknowledge how he really felt about her, and he wasn’t sure if they would believe him if he made a sudden declaration of love.
As Clark shed his robe and lay down on his bed again, he decided something else. He hadn’t been invited to see any of the tribute cemeteries during his Victory Tour, but he intended to find District 3’s tribute cemetery and visit Lois’s grave. It was the only thing left that he could do for the girl he loved.
*****
A loud banging on the door brought Clark out of a restless sleep. Startled, he jerked his head up, banging it against the ceiling of the compartment hard enough to leave a dent before he landed on the floor with a thud.
Using his X-ray vision, he looked through the door and saw Marcius on the other side. When the man reached for his keys and started to unlock the compartment, Clark scrambled to his feet, quickly putting on his robe and glasses before opening the door.
Marcius pulled his key from the lock, looking in annoyance at Clark’s collection of silverware as it jangled and clanked against the door. “Why do you have that there?” he asked irritably.
“It’s to keep people from sneaking up on me while I’m sleeping.”
“Why would anyone sneak up on you?”
Clark stared at him. Marcius rolled his eyes and said, “You’re being paranoid.” Before Clark could say a word, he went on, “And what was with all that noise when I knocked on the door?”
“What noise?” Clark asked, hoping that Marcius wouldn’t look at the ceiling.
“That banging and thumping.”
“I fell out of bed,” Clark said quickly.
“Again?” Marcius shook his head. “You really need to relax. Now, you’ve overslept — I don’t usually have to wake you up. Everyone else is up, and you need to hurry if we’re going to keep on schedule today —“
“What time is it?” Clark interrupted.
“It’s 7:30. We’ve been in District 3 for an hour and a half. I would have thought you’d have been more eager to see this district,” Marcius added.
Clark wasn’t surprised that he’d overslept, considering that he hadn’t fallen asleep until five o’clock that morning and hadn’t slept well in several days. He wasn’t looking forward to the coming day, either, and sleep was a way to try to delay the inevitable.
“Well, you have a very busy day ahead of you,” Marcius said. “You’re going to meet the District 3 victors, tour an electronics factory, make your victory speech — I’ll bet you’re looking forward to that, since you’ll get to see Lois Lane’s family — and have dinner with the victors and other important people of this district, which begins with a wine-tasting party. You’ll get to sample the finest wines District 3 produces. Oh, and there’s one other thing — I have been informed that there will be a special performance for our tour group!”
“Performance?” Clark asked, frowning.
“Yes. A dance performance, showcasing the best dancers in District 3. You saw a sampling of these dances in the arena, but now you’ll get to see it from the comfort of District 3’s theater. You’re lucky, you know — most victors don’t get the privilege of seeing such things. President Snow thought you would enjoy such a show — in fact, he told me about it before this tour began, but asked me to keep it for a surprise.”
“It’s a surprise, all right,” Clark replied, trying to mask his true feelings. Snow hadn’t arranged the performance for Clark’s enjoyment — he’d done it to torture him, and Clark was almost certain Snow had asked Marcius to keep it a secret to keep Clark from running away.
“Personally, I would rather have seen a performance by the Salt Lake Singers of District 5,” Marcius said, “but, of course, it isn’t about me. It’s about you, Panem’s latest victor. You must have made a great impression on President Snow for him to arrange such a thing for you.”
“I — I suppose so,” Clark stammered. “I … ah … well, since it’s such a busy day, I need to hurry and get ready. I — I’ll be out shortly.”
“Hurry,” Marcius told him. “You’re meeting the District 3 victors at 8:30, and that doesn’t give you much time, especially if you want to have breakfast first.”
Marcius left the compartment, already consulting his clipboard to be sure everything was on schedule.
Clark quickly closed and locked the door behind him, clenching his fists and whispering his mantra to himself. When he’d calmed a little, he walked into the bathroom and started the shower.
Snow evidently wanted to make this day as painful as possible for Clark, but he had no intention of giving the man the satisfaction of seeing just how hard this was for him.
It was just one day. All Clark had to do was get through it, and then it would be behind him and he could get on with the tour and with his life.
Still, as Clark lifted his face and let the warm water wash over it, it seemed like an impossibly difficult task.
*****
Hours later, Clark stood inside the District 3 Justice Building, waiting to step outside and make his speech. It was cool and overcast, but still the town square was crowded with people.
Clark kept his back turned on the door and his glasses firmly in place, not wanting to risk looking outside and seeing the families of the dead tributes. He would have to see them soon, but he wanted to delay that moment as long as possible.
He had met with the four living victors of District 3, but the whole time, he had been unable to concentrate upon anything but the knowledge that Lois had almost been one of them, had almost lived to take her place in that elite group.
When he had toured the electronics factory, listening to the guide chattering on inanely about the wonderful products they made for the Capitol, Clark had looked at the worn, dangerous machines and wondered if this was factory Lois had told him about in the arena.
Outside, the national anthem began to play. Clark turned towards the front door, clenching and unclenching his hands nervously. Marcius looked him over, making sure he was presentable, before pushing him towards the door.
“Smile!” Marcius hissed.
The mayor of District 3 was introducing Clark when he stepped through the door. Clark blinked for a moment — despite the sky being overcast, it was brighter outside than it had been in the Justice Building — then walked toward the microphone.
A chilly gust of wind ruffled Clark’s hair and made the gathered crowd shiver. It moved the huge banners hanging at the back of the square displaying pictures of the faces of the deceased tributes, making them appear almost lifelike for a moment.
Clark froze, staring at Lois’s banner. He stepped back, wanting nothing more than to flee.
From inside the Justice Building, he heard Haver swear. Seconds later, the door to the Justice Building locked so he couldn’t go back inside until his speech was over.
Taking a deep breath, Clark stepped back to the microphone. His heart was pounding so hard he was sure the microphone would pick it up. Quickly, he put his hands in his coat pockets, wiping the sweat away before pulling out the speech card Marcius didn’t trust him to go onstage without.
Clark waited quietly for a few minutes while the mayor made his speech. When it was his turn to speak, he looked at the card for a moment, then put it back in his pocket. From inside the Justice Building, he heard Marcius swearing this time.
“The tributes of District 3 were … were brave and fought hard in the arena. I didn’t know Claude — I don’t think I ever spoke to him — but he had the courage to join the Career pack, something very few tributes from outside their districts ever does.”
“The arrogance, you mean,” a girl in the crowd muttered. There were a few titters from around her.
Clark pretended he hadn’t heard. “The Careers turned on him, which was unfair and unsporting. No one should pretend to be friends with someone so that they can use them.”
“Hypocrite!” a girl standing beneath Lois’s banner shouted. A man standing beside her grabbed her and clapped a hand over her mouth, looking nervously at the Peacekeepers whose attention she had caught.
Clark was at a loss for words for a moment. Recovering slightly, he stammered, “L-Lois saved my life that first day in the arena. Platinum would have killed me if not for her. She was a brave ally — the best ally a person could have in the arena — and a good friend. I — I wish … I wish she were here now, with you. She fought hard, she fought fair, and … she deserved to be victor.”
There were uneasy murmurs from inside the Justice Building, audible only to Clark. He knew that he wasn’t supposed to wish another tribute had survived — but it was how he felt. He hadn’t wanted to die, but if he had, Lois would have had a chance to go home. If only both of them could have made it out of the arena — but the rules were harsh, set in stone, and after she’d been bitten by the rats, there had been no chance for her.
Clark looked at Lois’s family, at her sobbing mother, at her father, still trying to control his enraged younger daughter, at her grim-faced aunt and uncle and cousins. “Thank you for Lois,” he told them. “She was a special person, and I — I wish could have known her longer.” It was the closest he could come to saying how he really felt.
The crowd parted as representatives of the two tributes’ families came forward with gifts for Clark. A middle-aged woman, Claude’s mother, came up the steps of the Justice Building with a plaque and small, battery-operated device that showed District 3’s seal overlaid by the Capitol seal when switched on.
Tears ran down her face as she whispered, “Thank you for being kind. I didn’t know what he’d done to Lois. He could be very charming when he wanted to be. With how you felt about her, you had every right to be angry with him, too, but —“
“— but what happened to him wasn’t right,” Clark finished for her when she hesitated. “Lois didn’t think so, either.”
The woman shook her head. “Yes, she did.” She turned and walked away.
Clark stared after her, remembering Lois’s words.
“Public humiliation would have been good enough!” Had that been edited out of the original broadcast, too?
His attention was caught by the sight of the girl who had shouted angrily at him coming towards him, a bouquet of flowers clenched in her hands as though she imagined it was Clark’s neck.
Lucy Lane, Clark realized, remembering her face now from a picture in the magazine he had looked into while the girls were talking about him outside the Training Center. He’d had access to other magazines about the Games in District 9, but hadn’t looked at them, finding it too painful.
Her face was red with anger, her eyes full of tears as she stomped towards him, crushing some of the flowers in her rage. When she reached him, she moved as though to hit him with the bouquet.
Clark moved quickly, knocking the flowers from her hands. The wire holding the bouquet together slipped off, scattering the blossoms across the ground. He couldn’t have been hurt by the flowers — no one could — but the way the Peacekeepers were watching told him that Lucy would have been in serious trouble had she succeeded in hitting him.
“Sorry!” he said, far more loudly than necessary, so that his voice carried to the Peacekeepers. Crouching down, he started collecting the flowers. “I can be so clumsy sometimes …”
Lucy stared at him, not sure what to make of his apology. She knew he’d knocked them from her hand deliberately, but now he was apologizing, making it seem as though it had been an accident.
Then she looked at the tense Peacekeepers and the uneasy crowd. Turning on her heel, she fled back to the safety of her family.
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