Chapter Fifteen
Clark climbed onto the ladder and felt the electric current that was supposed to freeze him in place. It had no effect on him, but he made no effort to break away as the ladder was quickly retracted back into the hovercraft, carrying him with it.
The tribute doctor, two nurses, an Avox, and two Peacekeepers met him as he stepped off the ladder. Ignoring all of them, Clark went to the window of the hovercraft and looked out. With the Games over, he didn’t need to remain ignorant of the arena’s location, but that wasn’t what interested him.
The hovercraft that had originally brought the tributes to the arena was nearby. He watched as it extended a claw into the cave, gently picking up Lois’s body, bringing it out of the cave, and lifting it into the hovercraft.
“Clark, you need to come with us to the examining room,” one of the nurses told him, trying to push him in the direction of a room with the windows darkened for privacy.
Clark ignored her, setting his feet and refusing to move. No one could make him move if he didn’t want to — that was something he had discovered long ago.
When the other hovercraft flew away in the direction of the Capitol, Clark finally turned away from the window. “I’m fine,” he told the nurse, pulling his arm from her grasp. “I’m fine,” he repeated, trying to convince himself. He knew that he was fine physically, but mentally — the memories of the arena and the knowledge of what he had done to Lois would be burned into his mind forever.
“That may be,” the doctor told him, “but I’ve heard that before from victors who were far more seriously injured than they thought. Now, come —“
“No,” Clark told him coldly. He had no patience with this man, who had spoken so callously of Becky.
The doctor wasn’t perturbed in the least by Clark’s attitude. This was the fourteenth time he’d served as the doctor for the tributes and the victor, and he’d grown inured to the attitudes of victors just out of the arena. They were frequently angry, scared, and not at all convinced that they were now safe. Indeed, the first victor he’d ever taken care of — District 9’s last victor, Matilda — had had to be disarmed by the Peacekeepers and sedated before he had been able to give her lifesaving medical care.
Clark sidestepped the Peacekeepers as they came towards him. “Leave me alone,” he warned them, eyeing the stun guns they wielded warily. After all he’d been through, he wasn’t about to let them zap him and reveal his secret.
“I know you’ve had a rough eleven days,” the doctor told Clark, “but you’re safe now. I’ll admit that you look okay on the outside — though you also look exhausted — but you could have internal injuries or infections that aren’t immediately apparent and could kill you.”
“I don’t need your help!” Clark shouted.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” the doctor told him firmly. “Now, either you can go into the examining room under your own steam, or we can sedate you. The choice is yours.”
Clark looked at the syringe the second nurse was bringing in his direction. He knew that he might be able to fake being stunned by the Peacekeepers, but if the nurse attempted to inject him with the sedative, the needle would bend, revealing to everyone that he was not what he appeared to be.
Abruptly, he turned and walked into the examining room. So long as no one tried to stick him with a needle or cut into him with a scalpel, it was unlikely that his differences would be discovered — he hoped. He had hidden his strange abilities for years, and no one had ever noticed a difference in him. Even his parents hadn’t thought him any different from anyone else until he developed his extraordinary talents.
The darkened windows of the examination room acted as mirrors. Clark recoiled at the sight of the dirty, scruffy young man with a feral, hunted look in his eyes. His clothes were tattered and stained with blood — very little of it his. He had eleven days’ worth of beard growth — all of it grimy. His hair was filthy and matted, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his face was drawn with exhaustion. No wonder Mayson had been afraid of him. He barely recognized himself.
One of the nurses came into the room, a robe in her hands. “Since you don’t seem to be in immediate danger, we’re going to give you about twenty minutes to clean up. There’s a shower in the bathroom. When you’re done, change into this and put your clothes into that bin over there,” she instructed Clark. “Be sure to keep your token if you still have it. Your tribute uniform is ready for the garbage.”
Clark couldn’t disagree with her. Even by District 9 standards, where clothing was mended and repurposed until it fell apart, his clothes were beyond use.
“Thank you for not making me sedate you,” the nurse added. “I’ve never felt quite right about having to hold someone down to drug them after they’ve survived the Hunger Games. You’ve been through enough without adding that to your ordeal.”
You couldn’t have either held me down or sedated me, Clark thought, but he only nodded, pulling the picture of his family from his pocket and looking at it.
“Dr. Wellwood and I will be back shortly to examine you. If you need anything before we return, push this button and someone will come to help you.” The nurse stepped out of the room and pulled the door shut, locking it behind her.
Clark looked around the small room. All the medical instruments and medicines were in locked cabinets, presumably to keep victors from either attacking anyone with them or attempting to kill themselves. A closer look revealed that there were no cameras in the room, so he stripped off his filthy clothing at superspeed and stepped into the bathroom to shower. Ten minutes later, he put on the voluminous, all-encompassing robe. There were no shaving supplies, so he didn’t use his heat vision to remove his beard. He wouldn’t be able to explain how he had done it. Then he sat in a chair in a corner of the examination room and looked at his token.
His parents certainly knew by now that he had survived. Even if they hadn’t been watching when his victory was announced, the news would be all over District 9 by now. The reporters who had come to District 9 to interview his family and friends when he was in the final eight would still be there — they didn’t leave until a tribute either died or was declared the victor. They would be interviewing his parents now, or be on their way to do so. In Districts 1, 2, and 3, reporters would be interviewing the families of the tributes who had died that morning, accompanied by Peacekeepers in order to keep the angry, grieving families from attacking the reporters, many of whom were selected for the job because of their penchant for asking insensitive questions. Fights between angry families and obnoxious reporters made for exciting television.
Clark knew that his parents and friends would be relieved that he was alive — but what they would think of him when he came home was hard to say. Would they welcome him home, or would his actions in the arena change what they thought of him? Would the Rasens be glad that he had come home, or would his presence remind them painfully of their own lost child? What about Rachel? She had promised to wait for him if he survived, but she had to have seen him with Lois. In a very short time, Lois had become his closest friend — he couldn’t allow himself to think of her in any other way. Rachel would have seen Lois hugging him comfortingly after he killed Lysander, would have seen them huddled together under the blanket for warmth the last night in the arena — and she would have seen Lois kiss him good-bye shortly before her death. How would Rachel view him now? Could he ever again feel the way about her that he once had?
It had been only seventeen days since his name was selected from the Reaping bowl, but it felt like a lifetime.
Two and a half weeks earlier, he had been contemplating his adult life, free from the danger of being sent into the arena. He had thought about the prospect of marrying and having children, despite his differences. He had assumed that he would spend his life farming, like his parents before him and their parents before them.
Then he had been Reaped into the Hunger Games, and things that would have been unthinkable before had become reality. Before, he would never have considered taking the life of another person. Now, two people were dead at his hands — and he would have sacrificed his own life to have saved Lois if he could have.
Could he return to his old life in District 9, putting his experiences in the arena behind him, or would he be forever changed by what he had been through? Clark knew that some things would inevitably be different—he would have a house in Victors’ Village and more money than he knew what to do with. In six months, he would take a victory tour of Panem, being flaunted before the families and friends of the other twenty-three tributes, the Capitol’s way of making sure that they remembered that he was alive while their children were dead. In a year, he would escort two more children to the Capitol to take part in the Hunger Games, and would continue to do so each year for the rest of his life — and it was this that he dreaded more than anything else. It wasn’t a duty he could escape, nor would he try — having mentors to explain what to do to stay alive gave the children more of a chance than if they had no one — even if it wasn’t much of a chance. He would do as much as he could to keep them alive, but he knew that at least one would die each year, and more likely both.
Clark looked up when he heard the key in the lock. A moment later, Dr. Wellwood and one of the nurses walked in. The nurse pointed to the examination table. “Over here, please.”
Reluctantly, Clark got up, putting the photo in a pocket of his robe. He walked over to the examination table, more anxious than he cared to admit — not of being sick or injured, but of his differences being discovered. “Should I take this off?” he asked, gesturing to his robe.
Dr. Wellwood shook his head. “No,” he told him. “We’re a little more respectful of your modesty than your prep team.”
Clark climbed up on the table and sat stiffly, not entirely trusting them not to try to stick him with a needle. He tried to watch everything the doctor and nurse did, fearing what they would discover.
Fortunately, there was no need for him to worry. Everything about him was within the range of normal — or could be explained away by the ordeal he’d been through. His heart rate was somewhat lower than average, but not so low that it gave anyone cause for suspicion. His blood pressure was a little higher than normal, but that was common when a person was under a great deal of stress. His temperature was a little higher than average, but after the arena, most victors were at least slightly feverish as their bodies fought off infections — and some people’s temperatures were a little warmer than average normally.
The examination was thorough, but Dr. Wellwood didn’t seem to find anything strange about Clark — his body was just like anyone else’s, even if his abilities weren’t. The doctor asked numerous questions, some of them embarrassingly personal. Clark answered in monosyllables — he felt fine, except for being exhausted and hungry, and he had no intention of showing the slightest graciousness to the tribute doctor.
Finally, Dr. Wellwood took the stethoscope from his ears and nodded. “There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with you, although I’m going to recommend you be given a few days to rest before the post-Games interviews. You’re by far the healthiest victor I’ve ever seen right out of the arena.” Looking at Clark, he added, “Do you have any questions?”
Clark started to shake his head, then blurted out, “How can you do this?!”
Dr. Wellwood looked confused. “How can I do what? Give medical care to victors?”
“Be a tribute doctor, but ignore them until they’re almost dead! You said you have two teenagers at home. How can you ignore sick kids, then go home and face them?!”
The doctor suddenly understood what Clark was asking. He nodded to the nurse, gesturing for her to leave the room. “I did everything I could for your young friend. Without the care I gave her, she wouldn’t have lasted the night, let alone made it into the arena.”
“She died before the Games even started!”
“I know, and I wish it had been otherwise.”
“She was sick when we arrived in the Capitol. Why didn’t you do something then?”
“Because there are rules against anything that might give a tribute an unfair advantage.”
“An unfair advantage?! How could treating tuberculosis give someone an unfair advantage?”
“The rules set down by the Gamemakers — and approved by President Snow — don’t allow for any more medical treatment than that which will keep a tribute alive long enough to enter the arena. And,” he added, “if Becky hadn’t made it into the arena, someone else would have been brought in to take her place — most likely one of her sisters. Is that really what you would have wanted?”
Clark shook his head. “No! One dead girl in that family is enough, but … how can you follow rules like that when you know they’re wrong?”
“I think that’s a question you’ll find you’re asking yourself many times, now that you’re a victor. The world isn’t as black and white and clear cut as you might want to believe. In the future, you’ll undoubtedly find yourself making some hard choices in situations that have no easy answer.”
Clark looked down. He’d already had to make the hardest choice imaginable. The world, he was discovering, could be a much more complicated place than he had ever thought it could be.
Dr. Wellwood looked at Clark sympathetically as he turned to the small sink and washed his hands. When he was finished, he unlocked the cabinet above the sink and removed a scalpel and pre-loaded syringe, setting them on a tray.
Clark looked at the items in alarm. “What’re they for?!”
“I need to remove the tracker from your arm.” Dr. Wellwood reached for a pair of gloves.
“No!”
“It has to come out. You don’t want your movements to be tracked now that the Games are over.”
“Don’t touch me!” Clark warned.
“I’ll numb you up first. You won’t feel a thing.”
Clark jumped down from the examination table. “Stay away from me!”
“Get back up there!” The doctor carried the tray over and set it on a small table next to the examination table. He picked up the needle and reached for Clark’s arm.
“Don’t touch me!” Clark warned again.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Dr. Wellwood reassured him soothingly, not understanding the reason for Clark’s panic.
Clark knocked over the small table, sending it and the items atop it scattering across the floor. Then he grabbed the needle from the doctor and flung it into the bin where he’d put his ruined clothing.
Dr. Wellwood stared at him, wide-eyed, then went to call the Peacekeepers. Clark looked around frantically, then ran in the direction of the small bathroom attached to the examination room. Stepping inside, he slammed the door and locked it.
Clark looked at his arm, using his X-ray vision to locate the tracker. Dr. Wellwood was right that it needed to come out, but none of his surgical instruments, no matter how sharp, could penetrate Clark’s skin, and the needle on the syringe would have simply bent.
Clark touched the spot where the tracker was located, pressing around it until it appeared as a small lump. Then he brought his arm up to his face, working awkwardly to remove the device with his teeth.
Someone knocked sharply on the bathroom door. Clark looked up, pushing the tracker through the small, bleeding hole he’d made in his skin. The person on the other side of the door had just put a key in the lock when he opened the door.
The nurse still had her hand on the key and was almost pulled over when Clark yanked the door open. He steadied her, then presented the tracker to the doctor. “Here …”
Dr. Wellwood gaped at him. “What did you do?”
“I removed the tracker.”
“But how …” Dr. Wellwood looked at Clark’s arm, seeing the bite marks. “Never mind.” He pointed to the examination table. “Sit down.” When Clark hesitated, he added, “I need to clean and bandage the wound. You’re lucky you didn’t sever a major blood vessel. You could have bled to death, pulling a stunt like that.”
Clark complied, sitting quietly as Dr. Wellwood cleaned and bandaged the spot where the tracker had been. When he was done, the doctor put the tracker into a box labeled ‘Biohazard’. “Just when you think you’ve seen everything,” he mumbled, shaking his head.
The nurse who had first tried to get him into the exam room opened the door. “We’ll be back at the Training Center soon,” she told Clark. She opened a cabinet just outside the room and handed him a few clean garments in his size. “Why don’t you put these on, then come out here? There’s a couch that’s much more comfortable than the examination table, and you can have something to drink while you’re waiting to arrive back in the Capitol.”
Clark looked at her warily, but when the door closed behind everyone, he dressed quickly, then walked out of the examination room. An Avox followed him to the couch, presenting him with a fancy glass of orange juice and standing nearby to await any further instructions.
Wearily, Clark sipped his drink and looked through the window as the hovercraft approached the Capitol.
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