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Chapter Forty-Six

The sense of relief that Clark felt when he was able to keep the Peacekeepers from punishing Lucy was short-lived. Immediately, Clark heard the door of the Justice Building unlock. He turned and went inside. As soon as he got through the door, Marcius grabbed his arm, looking both angry and fearful.

“What in the hell were you thinking, going off-script?” he demanded. “You were supposed to read the speech I gave you!”

“It didn’t say what I wanted to say!” Clark snapped back, yanking his arm from Marcius’ grasp. “It didn’t acknowledge the tributes!”

“You’ve never had a problem with that before,” Marcius pointed out. “You were content to read the speeches just like I gave them to you.”

“I didn’t know those tributes! Not like I did Lois!”

“You talked about the other one, too!”

“His name was Claude, and it wouldn’t have been fair for me to acknowledge one tribute, but not the other. Besides, what happened to him was wrong, no matter what he’d done.”

“It wasn’t what you said about him that was the problem. It was what you said about Lois!”

“What I said about Lois?! Lots of victors talk about their allies in the Games! I told the truth — which everyone who saw the Games could see!”

“You said she deserved to be victor!”

“She did!”

“You can’t say that!”

Clark took a deep breath, trying to control his temper. “I know that if she were victor, I would be dead.” Or at least I would be pretending to be dead. “She still deserved the honor.”

“You are the victor! Wishing that someone else had won — it makes you sound ungrateful and rebellious! And do you have any idea what that means for me?”

“It has nothing to do with you!”

“As your escort, I’m the one who writes your speeches! Do you have any idea what the consequences will be if President Snow thinks I told you to say that?”

Now Clark understood why Marcius was so upset. “I will take full responsibility for what I said. Besides, I’m sure the cameras filmed me glancing at the speech you gave me, then putting it away. Nobody’s going to blame you.”

“Maybe you hadn’t noticed, but many victors memorize their speeches!”

The door opened. “Is there a problem here?” the mayor, who was accompanied by a Peacekeeper, asked. “I heard shouting.”

Marcius’ face paled. Clark heard his heart rate accelerate as he started edging toward another door.

Trying to look casual, Clark stepped between Marcius and the Peacekeeper. “Nothing’s wrong,” he assured the mayor. “Marcius is just upset that I made up my own speech instead of using his.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the card. Handing it to the Peacekeeper, he added, “It didn’t say what I thought needed to be said.”

The Peacekeeper glanced at the card, then handed it back to Clark. “Whatever arguments you have, please keep them to yourselves,” she said. “The last thing you want to do is get people riled up.”

The mayor looked at Clark and Marcius, then at Haver and Matilda, who were standing tensely nearby. “The theater will be opening for the dance show soon, and your ride should be here shortly. I’ve been told to make sure you’re not late.” Sounding as though he were reciting what he’d been told, he said, “It’s a special privilege, and you won’t want to miss it.”

*****

It took some time after the group left the Justice Building to reach the theater where the dance show was to take place.

The theater was a large building. There was nothing in District 9 that could compare to it. With the population of District 3 being almost two hundred thousand people, they could afford some of the things that the people of District 9 would consider luxuries. In District 9, the few plays that were performed were held outside in the town square. They depended on good weather, couldn’t be held during planting or harvest, and were almost invariably put on by the schools. These plays did tend to attract large audiences — there wasn’t much else to do in Smallville — but people had to stand or sit on the ground or on the few benches in the square, and staging required a fair amount of creativity.

When Clark entered the theater, he was stunned at the proportions of the building. They entered at the back, which was a semi-circle with a banister circling the inside, leaving a space of about twenty feet between it and the doors all around. There were gaps in the banister where aisles separated the rows of seats. Marcius bustled him in and through one of the gaps, Matilda and Haver following.

They started down a slow decline, passing row upon row of seats flanking on both sides. Clark stopped counting when he got to thirty and he was only about halfway down. He noted that there were four more aisles, two on each side with about thirty seats between the aisles at the top and fewer as they approached the stage. In the first row there were only a total of twenty-five seats, five in each section.

Marcius kept a close watch on Clark, who showed little enthusiasm, but he didn’t make his usual snide remarks. Although he’d taken the speech card away from the young victor, fearing that Clark would lose or destroy the best piece of evidence that Marcius hadn’t told him to say that he wished that Lois had been the victor, he also looked at Clark with new respect. He had kept his word and taken responsibility for what he’d said.

As the guests of honor, Clark, Marcius, Matilda, Haver, the four victors from District 3, and a few other dignitaries were taken to seats in the front row center. They didn’t fill the section, but that was by design. When he neared his seat, he glanced back over his shoulder and noted that there was a balcony with additional seats and a large operator’s box in the center with various colored lights and spotlights.

Once Clark was seated, he looked around and thought about what he’d learned about the local victors. The oldest was Sid Baltimori, who had won the seventeenth Hunger Games and was now sixty-seven. Next was Techa Gates, who, though she had won the twenty-fourth Games, maintained that her real claim to fame was that she was descended from someone so famous that, although he had lived long before the founding of Panem, he was still studied by students in District 3 and the Capitol. Clark had never heard of him, but took her word for it.

Next, there was Beetee Latier, who had won the thirty-third Games and was now almost fifty years old. The method he had used stuck out in Clark’s mind because it was so unusual. He had won by electrocuting his opposition wholesale.

The youngest victor was Wiress Marshall, who had won the forty-eighth Games and was now about thirty-six years old. The Games had affected her the most, in large part because she had tried Beetee’s method of defeating her opponents, only to have it turned on her. She had survived being electrocuted — her opponents hadn’t understood electricity as well as she did and hadn’t applied enough to kill her — and had outlasted the others, who had turned on each other, leaving her with only one badly injured Career to fight.

Wiress was often very distracted, but Clark could still sense an intelligent and perceptive mind, even though she seemed to have trouble communicating her thoughts. Her comments were very abstract and required a lot of interpretation.

There had been one other victor, who would have been in his mid-fifties, but he was presumed to be deceased. His name had been Samuel Lester and he had won the twenty-eighth Games. He had been last seen walking into the Sierra Nevada mountains near one of District 3’s small mining towns seven years previously. A search had been made, but no trace had ever been found.

As Clark looked in the direction of the District 3 victors, he focused on the empty fifth seat in their section and suddenly found himself blinking back tears. Lois should be here, he thought. She deserved to live. She didn’t kill anyone, and she should have been victor.

Clark knew that Snow would probably have forced Lois into prostitution or something equally unsavory, but he still thought that it was better than being dead. If it had occurred to him to fake his own death at the end of the Games, leaving Lois the victor, he might have been able to help her, to protect her. He could have taken his family and friends somewhere safe — maybe even District 13, if it really still existed — and kept an eye on Lois. The two of them might have even been able to come up with a way for Lois to escape Snow’s influence without harm coming to her or her family — they had made a good team.

Instead, Clark, stupid with sleep deprivation, hadn’t been able to come up with any better solution than to turn his best friend, the girl he loved, into a human icicle.

Lucy was right. He was a hypocrite.

Determinedly, Clark pulled his gaze from the empty seat. This wasn’t the time or the place for such thoughts. He had to keep control of himself and put on the face the public expected to see. He could mourn later, in private.

The theater was filling up. For security purposes, the first ten rows were cordoned off and guarded by Peacekeepers, who didn’t allow anyone except the victors, Marcius, and the handful of District 3 dignitaries into that section.

Belatedly, Clark realized why he hadn’t been jostled as he progressed down the aisle. They were the only ones allowed in it. All of the other aisles were crammed with people, and the theater was rapidly filling up. Turning to look towards the back of the theater, he saw that people were being herded in by Peacekeepers. The show wasn’t a voluntary event for the people of District 3 anymore than it was for him.

Looking at the row closest to the cordoned off section, Clark saw the families of the two tributes. Claude’s parents sat at one end of the row, while the Lanes sat at the other. Although both families had lost children to the Games, the bad blood between the young tributes also divided their parents.

Each set of parents sat alone. Claude had had no siblings, which was why his mother had presented the plaque and the gift to Clark, and Lucy was nowhere to be seen. Clark was surprised at this, but didn’t have time to think about it for long. The house lights dimmed, turning everyone’s attention toward the stage.

There was some movement on the stage and a spotlight picked up an individual entering from the side in front of the curtain. When he reached the center, Clark recognized him as the mayor of District 3. When he was in the center, a microphone descended from the ceiling. He grabbed it and said, “District 3 welcomes the victor of the latest Hunger Game and the other victors from District 9. Some of our young folk will be putting on a demonstration of dance for you. We take pride in our dancing and we do award prizes for accomplishments.

“We lost our most recent gold prize winner, Lois Lane, in the last Game. Now, without further ado, let me introduce our dancers.”

With a flourish, he bowed and started to move away as the microphone ascended back to the ceiling. The spotlight cut off and he hastened to the side of the stage and into the wings. The termination of the spotlight just emphasized the darkness of the theater that much more.


After a few seconds of silence, the curtain started to rise. The stage was backlit so that all the audience could see was silhouettes. Slowly, starting with the feet and legs, the dancers came into view. It was a large troupe, consisting of five boys and five girls.

Each dancer had sticks in their hands that looked much like what Lois had improvised in the arena, but these had colorful streamers attached to the far ends, dangling down and making piles of various sizes on the stage.

Once the curtain had risen, music started and the dancers began to move. They started off by simply bringing their arms up and out to the sides, which didn’t completely remove the streamers from the floor of the stage. Once they started spinning the sticks around in tight circles, the streamers started making intricate patterns in the air.

Clark looked closely and noted that the streamers were of various lengths. He remembered that Lois had told him that her streamers had been the longest of all.

The streamers followed the movements of the tips of the rods, forming spinning spirals and pinwheels in the air. When they started moving them like old-fashioned buggy whips, the streamers created wavelike zigzag figures in the air. They would move both rods in the same direction, then change one to the opposite direction, all without allowing the streamers to touch the stage.

The dancers were backlit, and the light to this point had only been sufficient to see the movement. Suddenly, a spotlight came on and highlighted the young girl in the center of the group on the stage. Clark’s eyes widened when he realized that it was Lucy Lane.

The performers started to go through a series of movements, shifting from the circles to figure eights to crossing patterns and back to circles again. From the renewed circles, they began sweeping side to side in front of themselves as they began to turn in a circle. At one point, the movement shifted, with it becoming apparent that Lucy was the leader and that the other dancers were following her lead. She stopped turning and went back to the figure eights, but these were broader and the rods crisscrossed in front of their bodies.

They began to dance more rapidly, spinning and hopping across the stage while keeping the rods and streamers moving — but Lucy had a mishap. As she was changing the direction of movement of one of her rods, she lost concentration and got the streamer of the other rod tangled in it.

With his superhearing, Clark could hear her muffled sob of frustration when this happened, but she quickly untangled her streamers and returned to the dance.

Lois had needed to improvise her sticks. She had used rabbit hide thongs to form wrist straps, which she had intertwined to connect the rods, but these professionally made rods had some kind of clasp at the base that they used to attach the sticks together. Each of the dancers detached one of the streamers and, using the now articulated rods, began spinning them in even more intricate patterns.

Unclipping the straps to separate the rods again, the dancers reattached their streamers and, turning to face one another, they raised the rods again. This time, once the rods were in motion, they started trying to capture the streamers of their opponents while keeping theirs intact.

Lucy performed a spinning move that distracted her opponent and allowed her to close in and tear away her opponent's right streamer. Once this was accomplished, they stopped and bowed to one another.

When she accomplished this, a cheer went up from the crowd. It was apparent that most if not all in attendance knew that this was Lois’s sister, and as a result of being the sister of one of their fallen tributes, she was a favorite.

Once there had been a winner in each pair, the dancers allowed their streamer sticks to come to rest at their sides. They bowed to the audience and then moved off the stage.

Next came three pairs of dancers, two male couples and a female couple. Again, music started to play and they approached each other. Clark had seen something called ballroom dancing on television, and that was what this looked like to him. The couples came together and placed their hands on each other’s shoulders or chests and started to shuffle around.

Suddenly, one of the girls spun in place and squatted somewhat. Her right arm, which had been on her companion’s left shoulder, went around the back of her neck. As she squatted and spun, she used the arm behind her neck to pull her companion over her hip, dropping her to the floor on her back. For the first time, Clark looked closely enough to see that the entire stage was covered in some sort of spongy material.

Clark gasped in surprise as the move was executed.

One male pair had been shuffling around, each looking for an opening. Suddenly, one closed with the other, grabbed his opponents’ right arm with his left, and pulled. As he did, he stepped in and, hooking his right arm under his opponents’ left armpit, twisted his body, pulling his opponent across his right hip. The move was so swift that all most people saw was a blur of motion, but Clark’s supersenses enabled him to see the whole thing.

The other couple was maintaining contact the way that the girls had. Suddenly, in a move similar to what one of the girls had performed, one of the guys spun and dipped, sliding his arm around behind his opponent’s neck and pulling. He added a left with his right leg, throwing his opponent higher into the air.

In both cases, the person performing the throw kept the neck circled and prevented their opponent from being seriously injured by keeping their head from hitting the floor of the stage. That was something that Lois hadn’t done in the arena, where trying to keep one’s opponent from being severely injured was a sure way to be killed.

Each pair returned to their starting position and repeated the exercise, this time with the other person performing the throw.

Once each pair had completed a second throw, they were replaced by new pairs.

The final pair was Lucy and another girl.

They shuffled around for a while, obviously looking for an opening. Suddenly, in a flurry of movement, Lucy started to backpedal, pulling her opponent along with her. Clark recognized this as the move that Lois had performed on him so effectively that first night in the arena. Things didn’t work out quite so well for Lucy, though. She missed on the foot placement and, instead of rolling on her back and flipping her opponent over her head, the other girl landed on top of Lucy, pinning her to the floor.

Clark could hear Lucy crying softly, clearly frustrated that her performance had not been as good as she’d hoped. She continued to lay there after her opponent had gotten up.

Lucy’s opponent held out a hand to help her up. Lucy finally stirred and accepted the assistance. Her opponent then used a shoulder throw on Lucy, completing the demonstration and showing Clark what would have happened if he hadn’t been too heavy for Lois to throw.

When the rest of the dancers came out on stage, Lucy stood with them as they all took a bow. Then the others stepped aside, leaving Lucy alone in the spotlight.

The mayor came forward, unwrapping a single muttation rose from the plastic it had been sealed in. He handed it to Lucy, whose tear-streaked face was bright red with humiliation at her failed performance.

Turning to the audience and taking the microphone that had once again descended, the mayor said, “We hope that you have enjoyed this presentation. I would like to thank our talented dancers for today’s show, and especially Lucy Lane, who has decided to follow in her sister’s footsteps and become a dancer. Depending upon who our future tributes are, we may demonstrate it again in the arena.”

Lucy had been holding the strong-smelling flower at arm’s length. At the mayor’s statement, she gasped, dropped the rose, and bolted from the stage, leaving the remaining dancers staring after her.

*****

Two hours later, Clark arrived at District 3’s main community center for the wine-tasting party and the dinner. He was still shaken by the dance show and the presence of one of Snow’s muttation roses, which, judging by the color and scent, was of the same variety as the white rose Snow always wore in his lapel.

Marcius escorted Clark through the double doors and down the hall to the room where the wine-tasting would take place. He was still being unusually polite to Clark and his mentors, having realized for the first time how much power they held over him.

Marcius was used to looking down upon them for their District 9 ways and assuming himself to be superior because he was from the Capitol and was a part of the Hunger Games elite, but now he was realizing just how precarious his position was. Clark, along with Haver and Matilda, were victors, an honor they had earned that could not be taken away from them, but Marcius was just a Hunger Games escort, a job that could be taken from him on a whim, and if he angered the wrong people, he could be made into an Avox or even forfeit his life.

Clark, too, was being quieter than usual, not asking questions or arguing with Marcius and his mentors. His mind was on other things — like his plan to sneak away and visit Lois’s grave, though he didn’t know where District 3’s tribute cemetery was.

At least I won’t have to face the Lanes again, Clark thought. I did it. I got through it. They may hate me, but I least I won’t have to see them again.

Clark’s illusions about never seeing the Lanes again were shattered when he stepped through the door of the wine-tasting room. Lois’s parents and sister were seated at a table at the far end of the room. The elder Lanes each had nine empty wine glasses and a plate of crackers in front of them and Lucy had a large glass of soda and some cookies.

Clark froze, his eyes darting around the room as he looked for Claude’s parents. The families of the deceased tributes hadn’t been invited to any of the dinners he’d been to, but perhaps things were different with a wine-tasting. There was no equivalent custom in his district or any of the districts he’d visited, so he couldn’t be sure.

There was no sign of Claude’s parents, though the room was filled with District 3’s victors and elite. Clark wondered why the Lanes were there for a moment before he remembered something had Caesar Flickerman had said during Lois’s interview.

“Now, Lois, your father is one of the most high-profile men from your district …”

Clark realized now that the Lanes were among District 3’s elite. That was why they had been invited to the wine-tasting — and had probably not been given a choice in the matter of attending. They would most likely be at the dinner, too — an awkward situation, since he doubted they wanted to be anywhere near him.

“Keep going!” Marcius whispered. “We’re already late because you tore your jacket. The wine-tasting can’t start without you. You’re the guest of honor.”

Clark stepped forward, allowing Marcius to escort him to a table in the center of the gathering. People watched as he sat down, most looking glad to get started. Ellen and Lucy Lane, however, stared at him unhappily, while Sam Lane watched him expressionlessly. Clark was glad when Lucy got up and moved to the other side of her table, resolutely turning her back on him and also partially blocking her parents’ view of him.

Uniformed servers — not Avoxes — started serving the wine. A small amount of wine was poured into a glass in front of each person, and the manager of the winery at which each wine had been made described what grapes it had been made from, the process by which it had been made, and how it had been aged. The guests were encouraged to first sniff the wine, and then taste it.

Clark didn’t understand half of what was said or how one was supposed to go about evaluating wine. He watched Haver, who listened closely to what was said about each wine, then smelled and tasted them knowledgeably.

Clark followed Haver’s example, though he had no idea what the difference was between wine that was several years old and newer wine, nor did he understand why the type of wood in the cask mattered, so long as it wasn’t poisonous.

He had helped his parents make dandelion wine in their cellar some years, but they had always made it in a glass container and put it in bottles until it was ready. It had never lasted several years, either — mostly it was shared amongst their neighbors and consumed at the end of the harvest, with only a little remaining for cold winter nights or medicine. A few people who had access to wild grapes made wine from them, but it wasn’t entirely legal unless, like Haver, they had a special license to make it — and few people could afford the license.

After a while, Clark noticed that some people were tasting the wine and then spitting it into plastic cups, though no one at his table was doing so. Haver and Matilda were drinking each sample — and sometimes asking for more — and even Marcius, who often prided himself on his abstemiousness where alcohol was concerned, was enjoying the fine wines.

When the last of the wine samples had been served, some people left to get ready for the dinner, while others accepted a glass or two of their favorite wine and wandered around the room socializing. Clark accepted a glass of a sweet red wine and then looked around the room.

“Just one glass, okay?” Haver told him. “There’ll be wine with dinner, too.”

Clark nodded, taking a sip, as Haver got up and went to talk to the vintners. Matilda was talking to some of the other victors, while Marcius was talking to the mayor, complimenting him on the dance performance and the wine-tasting party.

Most people seemed to be relaxed and enjoying themselves, the wine having taken the edge off the inevitable tension of the victory tour. Clark took another sip of his wine, wishing it affected him like it did everyone else.

Clark looked around, his gaze landing on a group of people who did not seem to be relaxed and enjoying themselves — the Lanes. Lucy was resting her chin in her palm with her elbow propped on the table, staring sullenly at her empty soda glass. Ellen was finishing off a glass of wine and signaling drunkenly for another. Only Sam, who had taken only a sip of each wine sample and had not accepted a glass after the tasting, was looking around. His eyes met Clark’s, his expression unreadable.

Suddenly, Clark was absolutely certain that Sam Lane knew what he’d done to his daughter. Quickly, he drained his glass of wine, remembering at the last second not to set the glass down too hard, and got to his feet, rushing in the direction of the door.

Marcius saw him and moved to intercept him. “Where are you going?” he asked. “It’s still half an hour until the dinner starts.”

“I … ah …” Clark was desperate to get out of the room. “Where’s the … the restroom?”

“Down the hall, go through the first door on your left, go down the hall, and you can’t miss it,” the mayor, who had followed Marcius to the door, told him.

“Thanks.” Clark gave Marcius an apologetic look and hurried out, hearing the man release a sigh of aggravation.

“I told him not to drink so much wine,” Marcius told the mayor, “but did he listen? No! I just hope he’s able to get through the dinner without making a fool of himself.”

“Well, these are some of our best wines,” the mayor defended Clark.

Clark shut out the sounds coming from the party as he hurried down the hall. He met a couple of people, to whom he nodded politely, but he didn’t speak to anyone. When he reached the men’s room, he rushed inside so quickly the door banged against the wall.

To his relief, he was alone. The District 3 visit was too much, and he felt ready to snap, to break down.

There was no way to lock the restroom door, so he went to the farthest stall and locked himself inside, pressing himself into the corner.

This was too hard. He couldn’t take it. He wanted to break through the wall, disappear out of the building, and never return.

He almost made good on his thoughts. A tile broke from the wall as he pressed against it, ready to smash through it. The tile fell to the floor and cracked in two.

The sound of the breaking tile startled Clark from his panicked thoughts somewhat. He couldn’t leave, and he knew it. If he fled the victory tour, people would suffer, possibly including the Lanes. He couldn’t do that to them. He’d already caused them enough grief and misery by robbing them of their daughter and sister.

Slowly, Clark picked up the tile, and in frustration crushed it to dust. He couldn’t run away. Too many people’s lives were at stake. He had to make it through the dinner, no matter how much he wanted to get away.

He thought about pleading illness, but realized that Marcius would probably not allow him to escape the dinner, no matter how he felt — and would, in fact, probably blame it on the wine, subjecting Clark to another lecture that he didn’t think he could handle right now.

The victory tour was hard for most victors and for most families of the dead tributes, tearing open any healing their wounds had done, but Clark knew that this particular segment was meant to punish him. Haver and Matilda had been confused and uneasy about the dance performance — neither of them had been permitted to view any of the local entertainment on their victory tours, and they had recognized the dances as those that had been done in the arena. Even Marcius had looked at Clark a bit pityingly after seeing the show, realizing on some level that Clark was being punished, but not knowing why.

Clark felt the panic begin to rise again. What else would he have to endure tonight? Would he have to sit with the Lanes at dinner, watching them struggle to tolerate him? Would he have to discuss the “love story” with them, perhaps making their grief worse?

Did they know what he had done? Logic told Clark that they didn’t, that there was no way for them to know. Only Clark and his mother, and perhaps Snow, knew for sure what had happened. His actions hadn’t been caught on camera, and he didn’t think Snow would have told anyone about Clark’s powers — not when he wanted to use them for himself. Letting others in on the secret would dilute its power.

Yet Clark was sure that Sam Lane knew something — why else would he have looked at him like that? He might not know that Clark had frozen Lois — there was no logical reason for him to have guessed — but he knew something. The man was a doctor — perhaps he had examined Lois’s body after it was returned and found that there was something unnatural about the way she’d died.

The cold in the arena had been increasing even as Clark had brought the bandages to Lois after Mayson’s death, the ice rapidly thickening and covering more of the lake. Mayson’s face had shown signs of beginning to freeze as he’d left, and the mountain lion had been frozen when he’d run past her.

Still, what if he’d miscalculated when he’d frozen Lois? What if she had been too frozen for someone sheltered inside a cave with a fire? She might have thawed out some in the hovercraft, especially if it was still as warm as it had been on the way to the arena, but what if there had been some sign of what he’d done?

The Lanes had every right to hate him. There was more than himself at stake, though. If Sam had caught on to what he could do, he and his family might be destroyed to keep the secret. Clark couldn’t allow that to happen. He had to find out what, if anything, the man knew, and protect him and his family from Snow’s wrath.

Someone else came in. Clark stayed silent, still pressed into the corner, until they left. He was running out of time. The dinner would start soon, and he had to be there. He had no doubt that Marcius would drag him from the restroom if he had to, no matter what state Clark was in.

Quietly, Clark left the stall. He stood in front of the mirror, grimacing at his red eyes and flushed face. He couldn’t go out like this.

Clark turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on his face. It didn’t seem to help much, but as he took deep, slow breaths, trying to calm himself, the redness slowly disappeared, leaving no hint of his breakdown.

Relieved, Clark splashed more water on his hair, combing it with his fingers until it looked presentable again, then slowly dried his hands and headed for the door. He could do this. It was only a couple more hours, and then he would return to the train. Perhaps he could plead exhaustion and go straight to his compartment, then escape through the window before the train picked up enough speed that it locked automatically.

He would go back to District 3, find the tribute cemetery, and visit Lois’s grave. Only then would he allow himself to break down, away from prying eyes and ears, and apologize to Lois for what he’d done and how stupid he’d been.

*****

Lucy had been aware of when Clark left the room, and had slipped out after him, grief and fury lending speed to her steps. She headed in the direction of the restrooms, guessing that that was where he was going, and had caught sight of him just as he’d disappeared into the men’s room. Knowing better than to go inside to confront him, she had waited in the hallway — and waited, and waited.

She had no idea what was taking so long, but she was getting odd looks from people coming to use the restrooms and from staff slipping out the back door of the building, so finally she went into the women’s restroom and stood at the door, keeping it open a crack so she could see when the door to the men’s room finally opened.

When Clark finally stepped out of the men’s room, looking like he didn’t know which way to go, Lucy was ready for him. Throwing open the door of the ladies’ room, she stormed out.

“You!” she shouted, startling the young victor. “You son of a bitch! You killed my sister!”

Clark looked at her in alarm. Enraged, Lucy launched herself at him, her hand flying to slap his face.

To her surprise, he grabbed her hand with what seemed to be lightning speed, holding it so firmly that she couldn’t get loose. Furious, she went after him with the other hand, trying to scratch his face, but he grabbed that hand, too. Frustrated, she tried to knee him in the groin, but he twisted out of the way and her knee hit the wall instead.

Lucy yelped in pain. Clark immediately let go of her hands. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Get away from me!” she snarled. “I’m not going to let you trick me like you did my sister.

“You’re not in the arena now!” she went on. “If you kill me like you did Lois, you’ll be in front of a firing squad by midnight!”

“Lucy, no. I … I didn’t … I won’t hurt you …”

“Sure you won’t!” she snarled. “Maybe you didn’t kill her outright, but she’s still dead because of you. You tricked her, making her believe you loved her. She trusted you.” Lucy spoke the word trusted as though it were an obscenity. “Do you have any idea how hard it was for her to trust men, after what Claude did to her and after Daddy told her he wished she’d been born a boy? She told me I should never trust men, because they’d use you and hurt you. Then you tricked her into trusting you, and let her die. She was right — she should never have trusted you. She should have let that girl kill you. Maybe — maybe she would be alive if she’d left you alone.”

Clark stared at Lucy, her angry words running through his mind. It wasn’t true; he hadn’t tricked Lois — but he hadn’t saved her, either. He’d wanted her to live, but in the end, she had died at his hands, and all his good intentions had meant nothing.

Lucy had started to cry. “Don’t look at me!” she snapped. “You’re a victor. You have everything — and I don’t even have a sister anymore! She watched out for me, made sure I had everything I needed when our parents were too busy for us. She told me I’d never have to go into the arena because she’d volunteer if my name was called — and now you’ve taken her from me! She was a good person, and now she’s gone, and you don’t even care!” Lucy’s words ended on a wail.

“Lucy, no … no … I …” Clark reached out to her, but she batted his hand away. “I did love her. I still do. I wanted her to live. I would have given my life for her if I could have, but … but …”

Clark wiped at the tears that had begun slipping down his face. “Sh-she should be here with you, living in a mansion in Victor’s Village. I meant what I said this morning. She should have been victor. If — if I could bring her back, I would. She was my ally, my best friend, the girl I loved. I’d give anything to have her here now.” His voice broke. “I-I know you don’t believe me, b-but it’s the truth.”

Lucy looked at him, her expression softening slightly at the sight of his tears. “I-I didn’t even get to see her before the funeral. Beetee brought back her token, and Daddy gave it to me. I wanted to put the token in her casket with her, but Daddy wouldn’t let me. He said her body was so badly deteriorated that it couldn’t be viewed, and it was best if I remembered her as she was before, not like what she looked like after the Games.”

“I’m … I’m so sorry, Lucy. I wish you’d been able to see her one last time — to be able to say good-bye.”

“I have pictures of her — but it’s not the same. She’s not here. She’ll never be here.” Lucy reached into a pocket and pulled out a gold-plated pen. “Th-this was her token. I take it with me everywhere. It’s like having a p-piece of her with me. Daddy wanted her to be a doctor, but she liked writing better than anything else, except maybe dancing. If she’d won — she could have done as much as she wanted of both.

“When I talked to her before she left for the Games, she told me to keep an eye on Mother, because she drinks too much sometimes, and if sh-she didn’t come back, I’d have to be strong a-and take care of myself, because there were dangerous things in the world.”

Neither of them were sure when Lucy’s anger had turned into abject grief, but when Clark reached out to Lucy again, she didn’t push him away, but instead took his hand, then wrapped her arms around him.

“Why couldn’t you both have won?” she sobbed. “Why can’t the Capitol leave people alone and let them be happy? It’s been a long time since the Dark Days — why did my sister have to die for something that was before she was born?”

“I-I don’t know, Lucy. I guess President Snow likes it that way.”

“I miss her.” Lucy’s voice was plaintive.

“I do, too.” Clark hugged Lucy gently. “If only —“

“They would have killed your family if you’d killed yourself in the arena, wouldn’t they?” Lucy asked.

“Yes, and my friends, too.”

“Lois wouldn’t have wanted that,” Lucy said. “She wouldn’t have wanted you to kill yourself for her, either. If — if those rats hadn’t bitten her, she might have been able to beat you in a fight, but she couldn’t have, could she, when she was hurt so bad.”

“No … she couldn’t even walk back to the cave, and even cauterizing the wounds didn’t help. That’s when I knew that she didn’t have a chance. If I could have treated her wounds and given her a chance, I would have.”

“I know,” Lucy whispered. “I — I’m sorry I tried to hit you.”

“You were upset. I don’t blame you at all.”

Lucy was about to say something else when the door at the end of the hallway burst open. Startled, she looked up as Marcius, Haver, and Sam came toward them.

Clark had heard their voices from outside the hall, but had ignored them. When the three men came hurrying down the hallway, he let go of Lucy and stepped protectively in front of her. He didn’t think her father or Haver would harm her, but he wasn’t so sure about Marcius, who was obviously angry.

“Where have you been?!” Marcius demanded.

“In the restroom,” Clark told him.

“For almost half an hour?! And then I find you here with this girl. Did she threaten you?” he demanded. “It’s absolutely forbidden for the family members of deceased tributes to act in a threatening manner towards a victor.”

“No,” Clark lied. “She didn’t threaten me. She just wanted to talk to me. She misses her sister, and I was the last one to see Lois alive.”

“And so you were crying all over each other? You should have more dignity than that. You’re a victor. You have every reason to be happy.”

“Lois is dead! Just because you’ve never cared about anyone in your life, you think that no one else should —“

“Clark, that’s enough.” Haver’s tone brooked no argument. “Go wash your face. Dinner is about to start and you can’t attend looking like this.” When Clark gave him a sullen look, he added, “Now. We can discuss this later.”

Marcius dug into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of eye drops. “Use these to get the red out of your eyes.”

Angrily, Clark took the bottle, tempted to throw it back in Marcius’ face. “I loved Lois. I still do. If I could bring her back, I would. I don’t care about being victor. I don’t care about the wealth, the parties … any of it. I’d trade everything for Lois’s life.”

As Clark turned and stalked into the restroom, he didn’t see Sam watching him, or the thoughtful expression on the man’s face.

*****

An hour and a half later, the dinner was beginning to wind down. Clark had wound up sitting with Lucy, asking her questions about what Lois had been like growing up and comforting her when she grew teary-eyed. Lucy had answered his questions, asking a few of her own about what the Games hadn’t shown.

Clark had been dismayed — but not surprised — to learn that Lois’s angry rant about Claude the first morning in the arena had been dubbed over her words about how she wasn’t glad he was dead a few mornings later. He’d known that some of what she’d said could have been viewed as rebellion, but hadn’t realized that the Gamemakers had been intent upon making her seem like she was obsessed with her old boyfriend’s betrayal.

As Clark was picking at his rich chocolate dessert and Lucy was hungrily devouring her portion, she told him, “Lois loved chocolate. Double Fudge Crunch Bars were her favorite. She always bought some with her allowance and kept them in a drawer in her room. After Claude stole her paper and spread rumors about her around their school, she ate an entire box of them and made herself sick. After that, she swore she wanted nothing to do with chocolate or men ever again.”

“She ate a lot of chocolate before the Games started,” Clark said. “No Double Fudge Crunch Bars, at least not at lunch, but she tried every other chocolate dish there was.”

“I guess she wasn’t done with men, either,” Lucy said quietly.

They fell into an awkward silence after that, Lucy scraping at the remains of the dessert on her plate until Clark pushed his plate over to her. He wasn’t hungry anyway.

“I should have taken her place!” Lucy blurted out suddenly. “Lois said that she’d volunteer for me if my name was called, but when her name was called, I was too scared to say anything.”

“Lucy, how old were you at the last Reaping?”

“I was thirteen.”

Clark shook his head. “No thirteen-year-old has ever survived the Games. You wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

“I apologized to Lois for not taking her place, and she told me the same thing. When I turned twelve, she made me promise to never volunteer if her name was called — but I should have.”

“Your sister loved you, Lucy. She wouldn’t have wanted to see you in the Games.”

Lucy took a bite of Clark’s dessert and wiped her eyes. “She said that if I’d volunteered for her, she would have sneaked onto the train in my place.”

Clark couldn’t help but smile a little at the thought. “I’m sure she would have.” He doubted she would have succeeded, but he could definitely see her trying.

“Lucy.” Sam walked up to his daughter, handing her a set of keys. “When you’re done eating, please take your mother home. I have an emergency to attend to, and I don’t want her driving.”

Lucy perked up a little at the unexpected privilege. “Sure, Daddy.”

Sam nodded and slipped toward the door.

Clark turned and watched him go. He hadn’t had a chance to try to find out what the man knew — not with so many people around. Now might be his chance.

“It’s getting late,” he told Lucy. “I want to say good-bye to the other victors before it’s time to catch the train.”

“Okay.” Lucy stood up when he did. “Clark … I wish my sister was here, but since she can’t be … I’m glad you’re the victor, and not Claude, or Lysander, or someone like that. You’re … you’re not mean, like they were.”

“I never wanted to hurt anyone, Lucy.”

“At least Lois chose someone nice this time.”

Clark gave Lucy a quick hug and they went their separate ways.

Inside, Clark was filled with self-loathing. The nice victor. The decent victor. Yes, that was the face he showed the public, but it was fake. He was a murderer, and even if he spent his entire life trying to help others, trying to be the nice, decent person people thought he was, he would never be able to make up for what he’d done.

He couldn’t dwell on that now, though. He had to find Sam Lane, find out what he knew, and try to warn him of the danger of Snow finding out. Clark would not let Lois’s family suffer for his actions.

Using his superhearing, Clark tried to determine which way the man had gone, and was surprised to hear his voice, as well as that of one of the District 3 victors, coming from the hallway.

“One of you needs to go get him,” Sam was saying. “You have an excuse to talk to him. I don’t.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Beetee asked. “If this ever gets out …”

“He needs to know,” Sam replied, “and I think we can trust him. He’s been a victor long enough to know to keep secrets.”

They were talking about him. Clark looked around, making sure that neither his mentors nor Marcius were watching him, and headed casually for the door.

He was about to open the door to the hallway when it opened. Wiress was looking at him in surprise.

“Clark! We were … were …”

“… just coming to look for you,” Beetee finished. “We wanted to talk to you about something.”

Clark glanced down the hall and saw Sam watching them. “About what?”

“Follow us.” Beetee held the door for Clark and Wiress, and the three of them made their way down the hall.

Sam looked around nervously. “Not here,” he said in a hushed voice. “Even with you jamming the listening devices, there’s too much chance of being overheard.”

Beetee nodded. “I can jam signals and erase tapes — which I did of Lucy’s … ah … breakdown here earlier, but if someone overhears …”

“Cemetery,” Wiress whispered. “No …”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Beetee agreed. “Clark, there’s something we need to talk to you about, and we can’t do it here. Will you come with us?”

“I … um …” Clark looked at them warily, trying to figure out what was going on. Was it something to do with whatever it was Sam knew? Did the others know, too?

They couldn’t harm him, if that was what they had in mind. Snow had confiscated all the Kryptonite, so they couldn’t expose him to it — assuming they even knew what it did to him. Clark was sure they knew something, but he didn’t think that was it.

Looking up and down the hall to be sure they weren’t being watched, he nodded, then followed the others toward the back door.

“This back door looks just like the door to the other end of the hall, doesn’t it?” Beetee remarked casually to Clark once they were outside. “The problem is, it locks from the inside and there is no keyhole on the outside, so once you’re through it, you can’t get back in without going around the block.”

“Okay …” Clark wondered why Beetee was telling him this.

His mental question was quickly answered.

“That’s your alibi, if you’re missed. You went out the wrong door and …” Beetee paused at a gate, pulled a small device from his pocket, and pushed a button. The gate slowly opened.

“Someone left the gate to the storage area open, and you wandered in there, trying to find an open door, and got turned around.”

Wiress nodded. “Labyrinth,” she said. “Crates and …”

Clark nodded, understanding now.

“The tribute cemetery is only two blocks away,” Sam said. “District 3 was one of the first districts to rebel during the Dark Days, so the tribute cemetery was placed in the middle of busiest part of the city, to make sure we’d never forget.”

“How could anyone forget?” Clark asked.

Wiress shook her head. “Can’t.”

“We’ll stick to the shadows and the alleys as much as we can, but we still need to keep a low profile. Turn up your jacket collar and hunch down. Luckily, it’s chilly tonight,” Sam told Clark.

Recognizing the wisdom of Sam’s words, Clark did as he was told. The four of them walked quietly through the alleyways, going out onto the streets only when absolutely necessary. Clark could hear the faint click of Beetee pressing buttons on the device in his pocket, turning the lights off or dimming them so that their faces were very hard to see.

Finally, they arrived at the tribute cemetery. Beetee took a key from his pocket and unlocked the gate. “This gate isn’t electronic,” he explained to Clark, “and only the caretaker and the victors have keys to it. If family members of deceased tributes want to go inside, they have to get the caretaker or one of the victors to let them in.”

Clark gave him a shocked look. In District 9, the gate to the tribute cemetery didn’t even have a lock, and no one was prevented from going inside unless it appeared that they really didn’t belong there.

“We always let them in,” Wiress assured him. It was the longest sentence Clark had heard her speak.

Beetee carefully closed to gate behind him and looked around, taking the device from his pocket and scanning the cemetery. “You can never be too careful,” he said when he was finished.

They walked along a path through the not-yet-occupied part of the cemetery, heading in the direction of the tribute graves. Clark moved more slowly with each step, falling behind the others. He’d wanted to visit Lois’s grave, but alone.

At least now it’ll be easier to find when I come back, he thought, forcing himself to move faster and catch up with the others. He took a deep breath, trying to prepare himself for the sight.

When he saw the grave, though, he froze. This was the place his actions had brought Lois to — this cold grave next to that of the boy who had won her heart and then betrayed her. It should have been him who had died, and Lois who had visited his grave in District 9.

There were several bouquets of flowers on the grave, all recently placed. Behind them, there was a simple grave marker, identical to the others in the cemetery except for the name and dates on it.

Lois Lane
October 16, 49 - August 26, 66

Lois had only been sixteen when she’d died — even younger than Clark had thought. Blinking back tears and gritting his teeth — he’d made a public fool of himself enough for one day — he knelt down, reaching to touch the headstone.

“Lois,” he whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You should be here now. Not me.”

“Clark.” Sam touched his shoulder gently. “This is what we wanted to talk to you about.” He looked at Clark seriously. “This visit, and everything we tell you here, has to be kept absolutely secret.”

“Th-thank you for — for showing me her grave,” Clark stammered. “I know most victors don’t get to visit the tribute cemeteries.”

“Not here,” Wiress said. Clark looked at her in confusion. “Lois …” She clenched her fists in frustration as she tried to find the words. “Not …”

“Lois isn’t buried here, Clark,” Beetee said.

“What?!” Clark looked at him, stunned. “But … but …” He stood up, pointing to the grave marker, his face showing his confusion.

“After the bodies were returned to their districts the day after the Games, I went to the cemetery to see Lois’s body,” Sam said. “The caretaker let me in.”

“We would never have allowed him to go in by himself,” Beetee added.

“I opened the casket, and — it wasn’t Lois inside,” Sam continued. “I had planned to put her token in the casket with her, but then — it wasn’t her.”

Shocked, Clark asked, “Who was it?” His eyes were wide with dread. What had happened to Lois’s body? Had it been taken for experimentation, perhaps to make muttations? Had it been dumped in the wilderness for animals to devour?

“Clover Mildsmith, the girl from District 12,” Beetee said.

“Lucy said she wasn’t allowed to put Lois’s token in her casket because her body was too badly deteriorated,” Clark said, realizing something. “But she’d only been dead for one day, not long enough to break down that much …”

“Clover’s body was deteriorated,” Beetee said. “Even with refrigerator units, she’d been dead for almost two weeks, and the electricity on those units went out frequently this year, because no one had serviced the hovercraft before sending it to the arena.”

“But why was Clover’s body sent here?” Clark asked. “What about her family in District 12?”

“Tribute funerals are rarely open casket in District 12,” Beetee told Clark. “Their tributes are killed early in the Games so often that it wouldn’t be a good idea. We knew there was little chance that her family would try to see her, and Haymitch agreed.”

“But why was she sent here?” Clark asked again. “Wouldn’t her family have been upset if they had opened the casket and found a strange girl inside?” He remembered Clover. Aside from being close in height, the skinny, blonde-haired girl had looked nothing like Lois. There would have been no mistaking the fact that the wrong body had been sent. “And why did Haymitch agree to it? Is this some kind of sick joke?!”

“I asked that myself,” Sam said, “when I went to Victor’s Village to find out what had happened. All of the mentors are supposed to sign off on the caskets to make sure the correct bodies are sent back to their districts. With four mentors, there should have been no mistake. And yet, somehow, the wrong body had been shipped to District 3.

“I was angry when I reached Victor’s Village, but after the four victors and I met in Beetee’s house — the only one we could be sure had no bugs — and they explained what had happened, I understood.”

“And you were okay with that?” Clark demanded. “Okay with the fact that your daughter is buried in District 12, far away from everyone who cared for her? Okay with the fact that your living daughter thinks she’s buried here?”

“She’s not buried …” Wiress started.

“Not buried?! What happened to her, then? Where is her body?!” Clark clenched his fists angrily. Nothing made sense, and no one was giving him a straight answer.

Sam’s next words changed everything. “Lois isn’t buried in District 12, or anywhere else.” He put up a hand to stop Clark’s angry response. “Clark, Lois is alive.”

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