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Chapter Six

Over the three training days, Clark tried to learn as many skills as possible while helping Becky to learn some survival skills. It wasn’t easy.

Becky was too frail to lift a sword, let alone swing it, and she couldn’t throw a spear more than a few feet. She couldn’t run very far without gasping for breath, and further exertion before she had caught her breath resulted in wracking coughs.

Clark was still determined to protect Becky, but he realized that the odds of keeping her alive were very slim. He would probably have to carry her — not that this posed any difficulty for him — but he also feared that she would be too ill to last long in the harsh environment of the arena. Becky’s breathing was growing increasingly labored, even at rest, and he could hear her coughing incessantly at night, even through the semi-soundproofed wall.

Becky was growing more fearful as the brief time allowed for training passed. There was so little she could do, and she couldn’t help but think of Haver’s words to Clark about her possibly costing him his life. She wanted to do more to help them both survive — and to be able to take care of herself if something happened to Clark.

One thing that Becky was good at was identifying potential sources of food. For a girl who had been hungry all her life, any information that might help her get enough to eat was important. She excelled at the edible plants and insects stations, and did a reasonably good job at setting snares.

For his part, Clark decided to concentrate upon learning to avoid potential attack by the other tributes. Unless there was Kryptonite in the arena, he couldn’t be injured — and it was sure to attract unwanted attention if a spear bounced off of him or if a knife or sword were damaged when someone tried to stab him with it.

He ran the gauntlet repeatedly, learning to avoid being hit without using excessive speed. He watched the other tributes, too, observing how much they could lift, how fast they could move, and how high they could jump so that he could do the same without arousing suspicion. It was all right to be a little stronger, faster, and to be able to jump a little higher than them — but not by too much.

Clark practiced with the weapons, too. He had no trouble lifting a sword, though swinging it was awkward at first because he had never done so before. He had swung scythes to harvest grain, but that was quite a bit different from swinging a sword with the intent of injuring or killing another human being.

Clark practiced with projectile weapons, too — spears, slingshots, even the bow and arrow, though there had never been a bow and arrow in the arena before. He proved fairly accurate with the spear and did well enough with the slingshot, especially with a discreet puff of super breath to send the stone towards its target. He gave up on the bow and arrow after one attempt, though, when he accidentally damaged the string with his fingernails while examining it, then pulled too hard on the string and snapped it. Fearing that another such incident would bring more than snickers from his fellow tributes, he decided not to try again.

Clark didn’t want to kill anyone, but he knew that he might not have a choice. In the first year of the Games, the tributes had tried refusing to fight each other, only to have severed fingers from their loved ones delivered to them in the arena. After that, the bloodletting had gone off without a hitch.

It had originally been Clark’s plan to run from the others and hide, avoiding the fighting as much as possible, but now that he had vowed to protect Becky, that might not be possible. He could go a long time without food, water, and rest, but she couldn’t. Becky couldn’t outrun the other tributes, and she didn’t have the strength or stamina to go on for long.

Even if he could keep Becky alive, the fact was there could only be one winner. That was a fact that nagged at Clark’s mind, try as he might to forget it. Only one person could survive the Hunger Games. Clark didn’t want to die, but he didn’t want anyone else to die, either — especially not at his hands, and definitely not Becky or the feisty brunette girl from District 3.

Under other circumstances, some of the tributes might have been friends, but as it was, in two weeks, perhaps less, twenty-three of them would be dead — and no tribute had ever won without killing another.

*****

The training sessions ended at noon on the third day. In the afternoon, each tribute would have fifteen minutes with the Gamemakers to show them what they could do. The scores awarded to them by the Gamemakers after the private sessions would help determine each tribute’s chances of living or dying.

At lunch that day — the last time all the tributes would eat together — Clark and Becky sat together as usual. Lois sat at the opposite end of their table, ostensibly ignoring them.

Clark watched as Becky picked at her food, obviously worried about what she would show the Gamemakers.

“Just do your best,” Clark told her. “Show them how good you are with knots, and what you know about plants and insects.” He lowered his voice so only she could hear. “If we can find water and a little food, we might be able to hide from the others for quite a while. If we wait them out …”

Becky glanced up at him, then went back to staring at her food. “You don’t have to hide,” she said at last. “You could join the Career pack.”

Clark looked at her skeptically. “I … don’t see that happening.”

“They’d let you in. The District 2 girl likes you.”

“Mayson?”

“Yes. She keeps looking at you … the same way you keep looking at Lois.”

“Becky!” Clark turned red. He glanced at Lois, even more mortified to realize she had heard Becky’s every word.

When Lois saw him looking at her, she tossed her head and looked away. Clark turned to glare at Becky.

“I do not keeping looking at —“

“Yes, you do. You’re just like my oldest brother when he likes a girl — he keeps staring at her.”

“I don’t —“

“You do so.”

“Becky …”

“Clark and Lois sitting in a tree …” Becky sing-songed mischievously.

“Shut up, Becky!” Clark’s voice was harsher than he intended. He didn’t want people laughing about his crush on Lois, a girl who was completely unattainable. Even if they hadn’t been from different districts, they were going into the arena in less than two days. By the time the Games were over, at least one of them would be dead. Besides, he couldn’t forget that Rachel had promised to wait for him if he made it home.

Hearing a sniffle, Clark looked up to see Becky rubbing her eyes, trying to hide the fact that she was crying.

“I’m sorry, Becky. I didn’t mean to yell. Just … please don’t embarrass me like that.”

Becky ducked her head and shrugged. “It’s okay. You can yell if you want.”

Clark sighed, realizing what she was doing. “You’re trying to drive me away, aren’t you?”

Becky looked up at him, her eyes red. “I know I don’t have a chance. I don’t want you to die because you’re trying to help me.”

“I promised I would do everything I could to help you, and I will. I wouldn’t join the Career pack if they begged me. I won’t join any alliance that won’t allow you.” Clark tipped Becky’s chin up until she was looking him in the eyes. “You’re like the little sister I never had, and I won’t abandon you. All but one of us is going to die in the arena — but if I’m one of those killed, at least I’ll go out with a clear conscience, knowing I did everything I could for you.”

Becky gulped, then threw her arms around Clark, her body shaking with sobs. He heard the Careers snickering, but ignored them.

Clark looked up when he heard a crash and two shrieks of outrage. Lois was standing between the District 9 tributes and the Careers, effectively blocking the Careers’ view of them. She had also apparently dropped a glass of something cold and wet over two of the girls, though whether accidentally or on purpose was impossible to say. Mayson and the District 1 girl, Platinum, were brushing ice off and staring at Lois furiously.

As a Peacekeeper rushed over to prevent an altercation and an Avox came over to clean up the mess, Clark took advantage of the distraction to get Becky out of the room and away from all the staring tributes.

*****

It was four hours after lunch before the District 9 tributes were called in for their private sessions. The tributes were called in order of district number, first boys, then girls, with the other tributes waiting in the dining room for their turns. By the time Clark entered the training room, the Gamemakers had grown bored and had largely lost interest in what the tributes could do.

Despite the Gamemakers' obvious boredom, Clark did his best to show that he was a contender. He lifted the hundred-pound training balls and threw them a few feet — just enough to show that he was strong, but not enough to raise suspicion. The balls felt feather-light to him, but he took care not to show how easy they were for him to lift; instead, he pretended that it took some effort for him to pick them up and toss them — about as much effort as any healthy young man accustomed to lifting sacks of grain would use.

Clark also ran the gauntlet, and then threw a few spears at the dummies. When he was finished, the few Gamemakers who were still paying attention nodded politely and then dismissed him.

Not sure what else to do, Clark went back to the District 9 floor of the Training Center. He waited there for Becky, hoping that things had gone well for her, but when she finally joined him, her face was pale and her shirt was speckled with blood.

“Becky!” Clark exclaimed. “What happened? How did things go?”

Becky shook her head, coughing painfully. “I … it was … okay.” She wobbled on her feet slightly. Clark reached to steady her. “I … I think I just need to lay down.”

“Let me help you …”

“No,” Becky told him, straightening and walking as steadily as she could towards her room. “I’m … okay. I’ll see … you at … dinner.”

Clark let her get a few yards ahead of him, then followed her quietly, making sure she made it to her room. When she was almost there, he glanced around quickly, then lowered his glasses a little and looked through Becky’s back at her lungs.

What he saw troubled him. Clark was no expert, but he’d helped butcher enough animals to know the difference between healthy lungs and unhealthy ones — and Becky’s were beyond unhealthy. Years of grain dust exposure and an increasingly fast-moving tuberculosis infection — sadly common amongst the factory workers of District 9 — had left the girl’s lungs badly damaged. There was fluid in her lungs, too, something that did not surprise Clark, as he had heard slight crackling sounds when she breathed over the past couple of days.

Deep inside, Clark knew that Becky was right — she didn’t stand a chance. If another tribute didn’t kill her, the rigors of the arena would. Still, he could protect her from the others, and perhaps the end would be a little easier if he was there to take care of her.

*****

That evening, the tributes, victors, and Marcius gathered in the District 9 sitting room to see the tribute scores announced on television. Clark wondered what his score would be, but worried about Becky’s — he knew that her session with the Gamemakers hadn’t gone well, but she refused to tell him what had happened.

The tributes were scored on a scale of one to twelve, with one being so low that a tribute was considered to have no chance and twelve being so high that no one had ever attained it. Even eleven was high enough to be considered unattainable, so most tributes and viewers considered ten to be as close to a perfect score as it was possible to achieve.

As was usually the case, the Careers had all scored in the eight to ten range. The years they spent training for the Games — and the fact that their meetings with the Gamemakers were within the first two hours of the private sessions, before their audience had a chance to grow bored and drunk — usually assured them of high scores and plentiful sponsors. The other tributes averaged a five, with boys usually scoring higher than girls, though there were exceptions.

Lois had scored an eight, while her district partner, Claude, had only scored a six. The girl from District 6 had scored a seven. The boy from District 11, whose mother had tried so hard to protect him, had scored a three.

It was the District 9 scores that most interested Clark, Becky, and their mentors and escort, though, and it was those scores that had Marcius beaming in approval at Clark and looking at Becky in consternation.

Clark had scored a ten, while Becky had scored a one.

When Clark first saw his score, he was worried. Had he appeared too strong? Had he moved too fast? Had the Gamemakers, in spite of their lack of attention, noticed something unusual about him? To be sure, the boys from Districts 1 and 4 had also scored tens, but they were Careers, and such scores were to be expected. Tributes from the outer districts seldom scored so high, though it wasn’t unheard of.

When Becky’s score was announced, though, Clark forgot his worries for himself and turned to look at her stricken face.

A score of one was almost a death sentence, and Becky knew it as well as Clark did. Scores weren’t the only thing that got sponsors to send life-saving gifts to tributes, but they were important, and someone who scored so low had little chance of making an impression in the arena.

When the broadcast was over, Marcius paced back and forth in front of the television. “A ten is excellent,” he told Clark. “You’re almost guaranteed sponsors.” Marcius looked at Becky, who had drawn her knees up and buried her face in her arms. “A one is … more problematic,” he said, “but not impossible, depending upon how we spin it. You could be hiding your talents to make the other tributes overlook you — the high-scoring ones are the ones who need to be eliminated first. Get away from the others and … you may have a chance.”

Becky gave Marcius a disbelieving look, then buried her face in her arms again. “It’s true,” Marcius persisted. “Matilda scored a three, and yet here she is.”

Matilda looked at Marcius with contempt. “What worked for me won’t work for her, and if it did … well, there are worse things than being dead.”

“Matilda!” Haver warned. “Don’t start with that —“

“What did you do?” Becky interrupted, looking at Matilda hopefully.

“Nothing that would work for you — and if it did, you’d wish you were dead.”

“That’s enough!” Haver snapped. “Do you want our tributes dead?”

“It’s not like being alive has done anything for either of us — or your long-departed mentor, who was so glad to have someone else escorting the kids to their executions that he stepped in front of an angry bull.”

“Get out!” Haver shouted. “Just get out!” He glanced over at Clark and Becky, who were huddled together on the sofa, Clark’s arm around Becky protectively. The tributes were staring at their mentors with wide eyes.

Matilda stalked over to a side table laden with bottles of liquor. Grabbing a nearly full one, she mumbled, “I wish I could,” so low that only Clark heard her, and stalked from the room.

Everyone was silent for a moment. Finally, Marcius spoke. “The only real way to spin a score of one is to try to convince the potential sponsors that you were trying to hide your talents from the other tributes. It’s been done on occasion, and it worked. Of course, none of them had quite so low a score, but … I’ll see what I can do.”

With that, Marcius left the room, his mind already looking for a way he could make Becky’s terribly low score into something sponsors would be willing to spend money on.

After Marcius was gone, Clark asked in a soft tone, “Becky, what happened in there?”

Becky shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Becky —“ Clark started, but was interrupted by Haver.

“If he’s going to try to protect you, you need to tell him why you got such a low score. Were you trying for a low score?”

Becky cringed. “No,” she whispered. “I wanted to do good.”

“Then what happened?” Haver asked. “For Clark’s sake, you need to tell him,” he added firmly.

Becky was silent for a moment. Finally, she looked up at Clark. In a very quiet voice, she told him, “I tried to show them what I could do with knots and what I learned about plants and bugs, but then I started coughing and I couldn’t stop. I got blood on the ropes I was trying to tie knots in, and then I just felt so awful I had to lay down. The Gamemakers had to get an Avox to help me out of the room, and one of them said … said … he said I was a sick child no one in their right mind would sponsor, and he didn’t see why they had to waste their time on me.”

Both Clark and Haver looked at her sadly. “Well,” Haver finally said, “there’s still the interviews with Caesar Flickerman. If you can make the audience like you, there may be one or two willing to take a chance on you. I’ve seen the outfit Belarius is making for you, and while I can’t give you details about it, I think it may help you appear to the audience as a likable, innocent young girl that they might want to protect. Matilda will be working with you on the way you present yourself at the interview, and as bad as she can be, there are few victors better at putting on any face the public wants to see. Had she been born in the Capitol, she probably would have become a star in movies or television. As it is …” He sighed. “I want you to listen to her. No matter what kind of awful things she says, she knows what she’s doing. She may be able to help you.”

“But you want me to die,” Becky said quietly.

Haver shook his head. “I don’t want either of you to die. I’ve never wanted any of the tributes I’ve mentored to die. But since it’s inevitable that at least one of you will die, I have to do my best to decide which tribute is more likely to survive — and in this case, it’s Clark. But since he’s determined to protect you as best he can, I will do my best to help both of you stay alive as long as you can.”

“And don’t even think about trying to push me away,” Clark added. “It won’t work.”

“Now,” Haver said, “it’s getting late, and both of you have a long day tomorrow. It won’t be as rigorous as the past few days, but you’ll still be getting ready for your interviews and devising your final strategies for the Games. I suggest both of you go to your rooms and get some sleep — you probably won’t be getting much of it from here on out.”

*****

Clark and Becky spent the next day working with their mentors and stylists, preparing for the interviews and devising their final strategies for the Games. Clark already knew what he planned to do in order to escape the bloodbath — get Becky and run. Haver reminded him that Becky might not have the strength to run, but Clark only responded that he would carry her if that were the case.

Clark didn’t think he would need to slow down and make it appear that Becky’s weight was a burden, either — she couldn’t weigh more than sixty pounds, certainly little enough that a male tribute who had scored a ten should have little trouble carrying her. For Clark, who could pick up a tractor with one hand and carry it to where it was needed in order to save fuel, his district partner’s weight was nothing.

Clark was curious about what Matilda had done to survive in the arena. He had been five years old during her Games, too young to comprehend much of what was going on. When he was very young, his parents had found ways to distract him from what was happening in the Games, despite viewing being mandatory for everyone. They had devised games, stories, and explanations for what he saw on television that downplayed the Games’ horrors. Despite their efforts, the Games had given him nightmares — as they had done to many children — and it wasn’t until he was nearly Reaping age himself that he stopped crawling into his parents’ bed for comfort during the annual display of violence.

Whatever Matilda had done, he didn’t remember it. It was obviously something she didn’t want to talk about, but that only served to make Clark that much more curious. After making it clear to Haver that he had already devised his survival strategy, he asked about the other victor. “What did Matilda do to get sponsors?” Clark asked.

Haver hesitated. “You were how old during her Games?”

“Five, but I don’t remember —“

“Your parents probably did their best to make sure you didn’t see much of it.”

“Yes, but — what did she do?”

“I’m not sure I should reveal this to a child.”

“I’m eighteen years old and I’m going into the arena tomorrow. I’m not a child.”

Haver shook his head, but relented. “No, I suppose you aren’t. No one is really a child after entering the Games, and by law, you’re old enough to marry … I suppose I can tell you, but don’t repeat it to Matilda.”

“I won’t.”

“Matilda performed a striptease for the cameras, among other things which I won’t go into. She was an attractive young woman, and her … performance … got her numerous sponsors, including one who sent her the scythe that she used to cut down her last opponents. She used her body to survive — and she’s regretted it ever since.”

Clark nodded. Such behavior was looked down upon in District 9. Many would have shunned her after she came home.

Haver continued, “It would be a mistake for Becky to try Matilda’s strategy. She’s too young, too childish-looking. The only people who would be impressed by it are the ones who won’t give sponsorship money to a child who tried such a thing for fear of having their perversions found out. Even in the Capitol, some things are frowned upon and, more importantly, illegal.

“Now,” Haver continued, “I’ve probably told you more than I should have. We need to discuss your interview, and how you’re going to handle it.”

Clark had seen the tribute interviews every year of his life, so he answered, “Shouldn’t I just answer Caesar’s questions?”

“That’s only half of it. What you say, and your attitude, will go a long way toward giving the audience a favorable impression of you. I don’t think you’ll have much problem — you’re naturally friendly, and audiences respond to that. Still, we need to go over the questions you might be asked, just to make sure that there’s nothing that might hit a sore spot and get an answer from you that the audience won’t like.” When Clark frowned, Haver added, “A wrong answer could get you killed — and also Becky.”

Clark still frowned, not liking the need to strategize and pretend, but he knew that Haver was right. “All right.”

“The first thing to remember,” Haver began, “is that not all Capitolites are comfortable with the Games. Some do realize what it means for the kids involved and for their families. They also don’t like being reminded of this, so the thing to do is make them feel like you’ve enjoyed your time in the Capitol. Say good things about the people, the food, the clothing — anything that you might have enjoyed in the slightest. They love their victors, so make them feel like they want you to be one of them. In fact …” Haver dug into his pocket. “… I have a list here of the most commonly asked questions. I’ll go over them with you and make sure you have appropriate answers. When we’re done, I’ll turn you over to Rosaline and your prep team. Appearance is important, so be sure you cooperate and do what they tell you.”

*****

That evening, the twenty-four tributes lined up in order of district to walk onto the stage that had been set up in front of the Training Center. Thousands of Capitolites lined the City Circle, with the wealthiest and most influential once again having the best seats. Most of the nearby balconies were taken up by television crews, broadcasting the interviews to all of Panem.

Clark tugged nervously at his tie as he stood behind Becky. He had never worn a suit before, so it felt strange, but the tie was the strangest part. It was bright, with a pattern of stalks of grain in colors never found in nature, but that wasn’t what he found so odd about it. Clark didn’t see why anyone would want to wear a garment that, if loose, could catch in a piece of machinery and pull a person to their death. Then again, not much about Capitol fashion made any sense to him, and he doubted that most Capitolites had ever even seen a piece of farm equipment, let alone knew how dangerous some of their fashions could be around such machines.

“Stop that!” Rosaline hissed at him, batting his hands away from the tie and straightening it for him. She’d already had to mend it once when he had torn a seam while trying to tie it, leading to her remarking under her breath that his father had done him a disservice by never teaching him how to put on a tie. Clark hadn’t commented, though he’d heard her clearly. The only person in District 9 who ever wore a tie was the mayor. For everyone else, they were pointless, expensive, and potentially dangerous.

Clark jammed his hands into his pockets and looked at Becky, who was standing in front of him. He hadn’t been the only one to notice how angelic she looked the night of the tribute parade. Belarius and Becky’s prep team had dressed her in a white chiffon dress with a cloak that looked like wings when she spread her arms. A golden circlet on her head, gold sandals, and light gold makeup completed the look.

He frowned when he heard her cough. “Becky? Are you okay?”

Becky wiped her mouth, turning to look at Clark. Her face was pale, except for the makeup and two bright pink spots on her cheeks. She was burning up with fever.

“I’m okay,” she told Clark quickly.

Belarius came up to her, wiping the lipstick and blood from her hand and applying a fresh coat of pale pink to her mouth. “Don’t wipe your mouth,” he told Becky. “You’ll smear your lipstick.”

When Belarius was gone, Clark whispered to Becky, “You don’t look fine.”

“I get fevers sometimes,” Becky assured him. “I’ll feel better in the morning.”

“In the morning we’re going into the arena.”

Becky looked down. “I know. If there’s any willow trees there, I can make some tea. That always helps me feel better.”

Clark nodded, keeping his expression neutral. He knew about using willow bark tea for pain and fever — his parents used it, and they’d given it to him for his headaches following exposure to Kryptonite — but he didn’t think it would help Becky much. It might ease her fever, but it would do nothing to help the underlying lung disease.

Becky’s breathing was labored, something that Clark didn’t need his superhearing to pick up on. The District 8 boy standing ahead of Becky turned and looked at her, then inched away, fearing that he might catch whatever she had.

The crowd cheered when the tributes were finally escorted onstage. The tributes’ stylists had pulled out all the stops, and the audience, already worked up by Caesar Flickerman, was thrilled at the spectacle.

Caesar welcomed the tributes and told a few jokes, then got down to the business of interviewing them, his purple-dyed hair glistening under the lights as he laughed, commiserated, and put on the appropriate expression for each moment.

Some of the interviews got more reaction from the audience than others. When the District 2 boy swaggered up to the interview chair, a number of girls and women squealed and cheered. He flexed his arms and sat down, accepting the attention as his due.

“Lysander!” Caesar greeted him. “Are you ready for the Games?”

“Of course,” the young man replied. “I’ve been waiting my whole life for this.”

“Haven’t we all?” Caesar asked. The crowd roared in reply. “Now, Lysander, I understand that you’re unusual for a tribute. Not only is your mother a victor —“

“Not so unusual, Caesar,” Lysander interrupted. “So was my grandfather and my great-grandmother — in fact, she won the first Hunger Games. Our family has a legacy of winning.”

“True, true,” Caesar answered, “but your father is a Capitolite — and a powerful one, at that. Now, very few Capitolites have the honor of having their children compete in the Hunger Games, so … what brings you to this moment?”

Lysander looked briefly uncomfortable, but quickly hid it. “I have a legacy to uphold, Caesar, and I couldn’t do that from the Capitol. After I’m victor, I’ll be joining my father here.”

“And who is your father, Lysander?”

“I’ll tell you that, Caesar — when I’m victor.”

The crowd went wild, while most of Lysander’s fellow tributes looked at him in sympathy, realizing what the crowd did not — that his father in the Capitol could have given him a life of ease and safety, but instead had chosen to leave him where he could be pulled into the annual killing spree that the Capitol found so entertaining.

Lois was next. She strode into the spotlight confidently, ignoring the snickers from people in the audience when they saw the skimpy, feathered outfit that her inexperienced stylist had dressed her in. It was covered with blinking lights that were supposed to evoke her home district, but a number of the lights had already gone out and the outfit was shedding feathers.

Lois shook Caesar’s hand and sat down, pressing her knees together to keep the dress from revealing anymore than it already did. She gave the crowd a smile that didn’t reach her eyes and turned her attention to Caesar.

Instead of speaking to Lois, Caesar first addressed the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, this young lady is another tribute of note. Her father, Dr. Sam Lane, has designed some of the most high-tech prosthetics in use today. If his daughter is anything like him, I’m sure we can expect great things from her!” The audience cheered.

“Now, Lois,” Caesar continued, “your father is one of the most high-profile men from your district … aside from District 3’s victors, of course. Are you planning on following in his footsteps if you win?”

“If I win, Caesar? Of course I’m going to win!” Lois tossed her head, sending more feathers fluttering to the stage floor. “I’m going to make my father proud.”

“Any father would be proud to have a victor for a daughter, and if she follows in his footsteps and continues his life’s work, so much the better!”

“I might follow him … or I might make Lois Lane a name to be remembered in its own right!”

By the time Lois’s three minutes were up, the crowd was applauding instead of snickering, even as her dress shed the last of its feathers as she went back to her seat.

As the interviews went on, more and more of the tributes turned concerned or calculating eyes to Becky. Her cough had started up again, though she tried to suppress it, and flecks of blood stained the sleeves of her dress. By the time her turn came, she wobbled into the spotlight, sitting heavily in the interview chair and looking at the audience with unfocused eyes.

Caesar looked concerned, but forged ahead with the interview. “Becky,” he began, “you’re one of our younger tributes. Are you planning upon breaking the record set last year by Finnick Odair and becoming our youngest victor?”

“I …” Becky coughed and tried again. “I …”

She started coughing uncontrollably, deep, wracking coughs that spattered blood across her white dress. Her eyes widened in alarm, but she still couldn’t stop coughing.

Caesar gave her a worried look. He could handle tributes who were frightened, who were sullen or hostile, but a sick tribute was another matter entirely. There was nothing his interview skills could do about this.

Clark stared at Becky, watching as her dress turned red. The audience was staring at the stage uncomfortably, the low murmur from the crowd slowly growing louder as Becky continued to cough. As popular as the Hunger Games were with the Capitol, few people wanted to see the tributes suffer before the Games began.

Nonetheless, no one was doing anything. Unable to watch any longer, Clark stood and strode into the spotlight. He gently picked Becky up, ignoring the gasps from the audience and the other tributes. No one had ever interrupted another tribute’s interview before, but he didn’t care. Becky needed help.

Clark was about to carry Becky off the stage when Marcius came up the steps, blocking his path. “Put her down,” he told Clark. “Then go back to your seat. It’s your turn to be interviewed.”

Clark shook his head, looking at Becky. Her coughing was growing quieter, but she still struggled to breathe. “She needs help.”

“And she’ll get it … but not until the interviews are over. The longer you delay, the longer it will take.” When Clark still hesitated, Marcius continued, “There is a doctor for the tributes. The Capitol doesn’t want anyone dying before they get to the arena.”

“Why didn’t someone get the doctor before?”

“He provides enough care to keep a tribute alive. No more. If she’s victor, she’ll have the full range of Capitol medicine available. If not, it really doesn’t matter. But,” Marcius added, “if you walk away with her, she’ll get no care at all. Now, put her back in her seat and get out on the stage!”

Glaring at Marcius, Clark brought Becky back to her seat, then walked back into the spotlight. The crowd was dead silent.

Caesar was at a loss for words for a moment. This was an unprecedented situation. Finally, he smiled, gesturing to Clark to sit down.

“District loyalty!” Caesar announced. “It’s not something you see very often, at least not outside the Career districts. Now, tell me something, Clark. Is this part of your plan to win? After all, if either you or Becky goes home, your whole district will enjoy the glory.”

Clark doubted there would be much celebrating in District 9 even if one of them made it home, but he knew better than to say so. Instead, he answered, “Alliances are important, Caesar, and you’re right — whichever one of us wins, everyone in District 9 will benefit. Besides, Becky’s like a sister to me — and the Kents always take care of their own.”

“And that’s something all of us can understand,” Caesar responded. “Why, I got my own sister out of a dozen scrapes when we were children!”

By the time Clark’s interview was over, he had warmed to Caesar somewhat. The television host was good at getting the audience to respond favorably to a tribute — even one who had done something as shocking as Clark had. He could only hope his actions wouldn’t bring retribution in the arena … or anywhere else.

*****

“What in the hell were you thinking!?” Haver shouted at Clark the moment they reached the District 9 floor after the interviews. “Interrupting … Becky’s … interview!”

“Some interview!” Clark shouted back. “She was sitting there coughing and bleeding all over herself, and no one was doing anything!”

“Someone would have brought her back to her seat when her three minutes were up!”

“How was I supposed to know that?! You never said anything about it!”

“I never thought I’d have to!” Haver took a deep breath, turning back toward the elevator. “Come on.” After a few steps, he turned to see that Clark hadn’t moved, but was instead standing in the hallway staring at him mutinously. “There are better places to discuss this than the middle of the hallway where anyone can come along.” Haver nodded his head in the direction of a microphone half-hidden in a light fixture.

Reluctantly, Clark followed him. They stepped back into the elevator, taking it to the roof. Once there, Haver led Clark toward a display of wind chimes.

“The wind chimes have a nice sound, don’t they?” Haver asked.

Clark gave him a strange look before realizing what he was trying to say — as long as the chimes were ringing, their conversation couldn’t be overheard.

“Clark,” Haver began, “I know you want to protect Becky, but doing things like disrupting the tribute interviews is almost guaranteed to bring retaliation. You’re damned lucky that Caesar managed to turn the crowd in your favor. The Gamemakers aren’t entirely immune to public opinion — if they like you and Becky enough, you might be spared the arena’s nastier traps. No guarantees, but after the stunt you pulled tonight, that’s about the best you can hope for.”

“I couldn’t leave her there like that. She’s sick …”

“Yes, she is, and you’d better hope the doctor can fix her up enough that she makes it into the arena.”

“Why is the arena so important? What could possibly be entertaining about watching a sick little girl cough her lungs out?”

“It’s not about the entertainment, Clark. It’s about the power the Capitol has over the districts. If Becky dies before she’s in the arena, the Capitol won’t cancel the Games or allow just twenty-three tributes. The Gamemakers will delay the Games a few hours while they bring another female tribute from District 9. She’ll have no time to eat and build up reserves, no time to train, no training score to attract sponsors, no time to build alliances — in short, no chance. The Capitol won’t select a random tribute, either — they’ll take one of Becky’s sisters. The Rasen family will lose two daughters instead of one, and District 9 may lose three children.”

Clark gaped at him in shock. “Has that … ever actually happened?”

“Yes, it has,” Haver replied dejectedly. “Two years after I won, one of the male tributes jumped to his death from this rooftop the night before the Games began. The Capitol delayed the Games for a few hours and brought in his younger brother to take his place. The younger boy was not, technically, eligible to be Reaped — he had only turned twelve the day his brother died and had missed the actual Reaping by a few days. It didn’t matter, though — the Games needed a twenty-fourth tribute, so he was brought to the arena. He was the first one killed after the gong sounded.”

“But Becky’s sick. If she dies, it won’t be suicide.”

“It won’t matter. In spite of their propaganda, the Capitol is not known for compassion.”

“I know,” Clark replied sullenly, thrusting his hands into his pockets and thinking about what Haver had said. Finally, he looked up at his mentor. “Marcius said that if Becky is victor, she’ll have access to all the medicine the Capitol has to offer.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Haver said sternly.

“What?” Clark gave him a confused look.

“On the very slim chance that you and Becky are the last two in the arena, don’t even consider killing yourself so that she can win. Not unless you want your parents and friends in the cemetery with you.”

“I’m not —“

“And even if Becky were to win, I doubt she’d have much time to enjoy it. She’s dying, Clark, and there are some things even the best medical care can’t fix.”

“How would you know?” Clark demanded. “You’re not a doctor!”

“I’m from a factory family,” Haver told him. “Illnesses like this are very common in the factories. Grain dust, vermin, poor ventilation, malnutrition, blistering heat in the summer and bone-chilling cold in the winter — most factory people aren’t too healthy. Add a tuberculosis infection and leave it untreated — a lot of factory workers die from it. By the time someone is struggling for breath and coughing up blood the way Becky is — especially as quickly as she’s deteriorating — there’s nothing anyone can do except try to keep the sick person comfortable.”

Clark couldn’t deny that Becky was very sick — not after looking at her lungs — but he wasn’t ready to accept that it was hopeless. “But factory workers don’t have access to Capitol medicine. Victors do.”

“Clark …” Haver sighed, looking at the stubborn young man. “I know you want to help her, to keep her alive. I don’t think you’ll be able to, but whatever you do, protect your family and hers. It won’t help anyone if they die with you.”

“Yes, but —“

“Don’t argue with me, Clark. After thirty-five years as a mentor, I know what I’m talking about. Now, it’s getting late. The Games begin tomorrow, so you need to try to get some rest.”

Reluctantly, Clark followed Haver back to the elevator. When they reached the District 9 floor, the doctor was just leaving Becky’s room.

Haver hurried up to him, with Clark following close behind.

“How is she doing?” Haver asked.

The doctor shrugged. “She should make it through the night. Beyond that, it’s hard to say. There wasn’t much I could do for her — oxygen and an injection to make her sleep. If these outer district parents would bother taking care of their children, they wouldn’t have problems like this.”

Clark glared angrily at the doctor. “People do the best they can for their children! It isn’t their fault that they’re starving or that only people in the Capitol get life-saving medicine!”

“Stop. Just stop. Don’t say another word,” Haver warned Clark. “You may have had an exhausting few days, and it goes without saying that you’re probably worried about tomorrow. That doesn’t excuse such a rude outburst.” He smiled apologetically at the doctor. “Kids … who can tell where they come up with these things?”

The doctor nodded knowingly. “I have two teenagers at home. I can never predict what strange thing they’re going to do next.”

“Then how can you —“ Clark’s words were quickly cut off.

“Clark, that’s enough!” Haver’s tone brooked no argument. “You’ve had a long week, and I think the best thing for you now is to get some rest.” He pointed down the corridor toward Clark’s bedroom.

Clark crossed him arms over his chest, glaring at the two men and refusing to budge. He knew that Haver was trying to help him, to keep him from making things any worse than he already had, but at the moment he was too angry to care.

It wasn’t until Clark felt the heat reflecting off his glasses that he realized what he was doing. He closed his eyes quickly, shutting off the beams of heat.

Clark turned on his heel and walked down the hall toward his room. It had been years since he’d lost control of his heat vision, but now he’d come close to setting both his mentor and the tribute doctor on fire.

Calm down, he told himself. You can’t afford to lose your temper. Too many lives are at stake.

When Clark reached his bedroom, though, he realized how far from calm he was. The doorknob came off in his hand. Clark looked at it in consternation.

“Um … sorry,” he told Haver. “It’s been loose since we got here a few days ago …”

“I’ll get someone to fix it,” Haver replied. “You go get some rest.”

Clark nodded, going inside the room and remembering to close the door gently. He paced restlessly for a few minutes. Haver’s advice to rest was sound, but Clark knew that he wouldn’t be able to settle down anytime soon.

Moving quickly, Clark changed out of his interview suit and into a pair of comfortable jeans and a shirt. Then he took off his glasses and looked through the wall between his room and Becky’s, wanting to assure himself that she was all right.

Becky was sleeping soundly, an oxygen mask covering her mouth and nose. Her breathing was still labored, but not as bad as it had been earlier.

After watching her for a couple of minutes, Clark put his glasses back on and went to listen at the door. Haver and the doctor were gone, but someone was on the other side of the door, fixing the doorknob. Clark used his X-ray vision to peek through the door, seeing a tired-looking Avox on the other side. He immediately felt guilty about giving the overworked servants more to do.

Carefully, Clark pulled the door open. The servant looked up in surprise, dropping the screwdriver he was using. Clark picked it up and held out his hand for the remaining screws. Fixing doorknobs was something he’d done a lot of when he was learning to control his strength.

The Avox gave them to him, watching as the young tribute quickly repaired the doorknob. When Clark was done, he handed the screwdriver back to the servant, looking at him a bit sheepishly.

“Sorry,” Clark told him quietly. “I … guess I should have mentioned that it was loose a few days ago.”

The servant nodded, picking up his tool kit. He hurried down the hall. Clark watched him go, then turned in the direction of the elevator.

A few minutes later, Clark stepped onto the roof of the Training Center. He could clearly hear the sound of the Capitolites on the street thirteen stories below, celebrating the fact that the Hunger Games would begin tomorrow.

Clark did his best to tune them out. He didn’t want to think about the safe, privileged people of the Capitol merrily anticipating the slaughter of children that would begin in the morning.

Clark tilted his head back, looking up at the sky. The stars were harder to see amidst the glittering lights of the Capitol than in the nighttime darkness of District 9, but with his telescopic vision, Clark could still make them out.

They seemed to beckon to him.

It would be easy to simply launch himself into the air, disappearing before anyone knew what had happened. He could fly away from the Capitol, free and safe from the horrors of the Games. He couldn’t return to District 9, but much of Panem was wilderness. He could go there and be safe.

It was Haver’s words from earlier that stopped him. Although no one would know how Clark had disappeared, the Capitol would still retaliate. The Games needed twenty-four tributes, and although Clark had no brothers who could be forced into the arena, he did have friends, and he had a strong suspicion that if he disappeared, Pete Ross would find himself in the arena tomorrow.

Pete had felt guilty about not volunteering to take Clark’s place in the Hunger Games, but Clark knew that Pete had also been relieved not to be chosen. He was safe from the Reaping now, looking forward to a future with Lana — so long as Clark did the right thing and faced the arena.

Clark also could not forget that if he fled, there would be no one to protect Becky — or, if the worst happened and she didn’t live long enough to make it into the arena — her sister. Whatever happened, Clark felt that he had an obligation to try to protect his district partner, and he would, no matter how tempting it was to simply save himself.

He walked slowly towards the short wall on the edge of the roof. On the street below, revelers moved past the building, their voices far clearer to Clark than to anyone else, though their excitement would have been noticeable anyway.

Clark turned at the sound of footsteps behind him. He smiled a little when he saw Lois’s slender form coming across the rooftop.

Lois didn’t come too close, but she also didn’t flee when she saw him looking at her. She walked up to the wall, staying a few yards away from Clark, and looked down at the party-goers, her eyes narrowing at the sight.

They stood in silence for a few minutes before a cool breeze set the wind chimes to jingling. With the sound of their voices covered, Clark finally risked speaking to her.

“It’s awful, isn’t it? All those people celebrating the fact that tomorrow we’ll be tearing each other apart.”

Lois glanced up at him. “Speak for yourself. No one’s going to tear me apart.”

In spite of her words, there was a hint of uncertainty in her voice. Clark heard it and looked at her, an idea coming to him.

“Do you have any allies?” he asked. He thought of the way she had blocked the Careers’ view of Becky the day before. Lois might make a valuable ally in the arena.

“No,” Lois replied, “and I don’t need any, either.” She leaned forward over the wall, looking at the people below. “I can take care of myself.”

Clark looked down at the Capitolites in the street, trying to think of a way to convince Lois to join Becky and him in an alliance. Before he could come up with an argument, though, he heard a sudden buzzing sound, followed by Lois’s yelp of surprise. She was rubbing her hand when he looked at her.

“There’s a force field down there,” he told her unnecessarily. “It’s to keep tributes from jumping.”

Clark had been aware of the force field for a while. Two weeks before the Reaping, he had flown over the Capitol in the wee hours of the morning. His curiosity had gotten the better of him, and since no one was on the street or on the rooftop of the Training Center, he had flown down for a closer look — at which point he had run into the force field and bounced quite a distance back into the sky. His encounter with the force field had also set off an alarm, bringing Peacekeepers rushing to the roof to see what had happened. Clark had watched from inside a cloud as they milled around in confusion, unable to figure out what had set the alarm off. He’d laughed a little at their puzzlement, but after that he had stayed away from the Capitol.

He’d been confused at the presence of the force field then, but now, after Haver’s story about the boy who had jumped from the roof, he understood why it was there. It was about eighteen inches below the top of the wall — just far enough down that any tribute desperate enough to jump would hit it and be bounced back into the roof, possibly injuring themselves in the process.

Clark tensed, waiting for the alarm to go off, but apparently Lois’s brief brush against the force field hadn’t been enough to set it off. He couldn’t see it — it was invisible even to him — but he could hear the very faint buzz it made if he listened closely.

“Nice of them to worry about us,” Lois said sarcastically, glaring down at the people below.

Clark was silent for a moment. Finally, he said, “Lois, what I said about allies —“

“Is that part of your survival strategy, Farmboy? Find allies and wait for their guard to be down before you kill them?”

“No. I don’t plan to kill anyone … not if I can avoid it.”

Lois looked at Clark disbelievingly. “In the Hunger Games, you do whatever you have to do to survive. I’m not going to join any alliance. I know what I’m going to do to stay alive, and it doesn’t include letting anyone get close enough to stab me in the back.”

With that, Lois turned on her heel and stalked back towards the elevator, leaving Clark staring after her.

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