Chapter Seventeen
It was two days before Clark left his room in the Training Center. He wasn’t sure that he would be able to rest at first — not with so much on his mind. His exhausted body, however, had other ideas. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
When he awoke, it was well after dark. Someone, probably an Avox, had used a key to get into his room, leaving a tray of food on his bedside table. The person had also covered him with a bedspread, as he hadn’t stayed awake long enough to get under the covers before falling asleep.
Clark was surprised that someone had managed to come into the room without waking him. He was usually a much lighter sleeper, and had the Games still been going on, his deep sleep would have made him appear a very easy target — at least until his attacker discovered that he was unkillable.
He’d only had an hour’s worth of sleep in the last nine days, and even with his extraordinary strength and abilities, Clark had his limits. An ordinary person would probably have died from a combination of exhaustion and the rigors of the arena long before nine days had passed — or simply fallen asleep, regardless of whether it was safe or not. Of course, an ordinary person wouldn’t have had to worry about floating while sleeping, which was the reason Clark had stayed awake so long.
Per Dr. Wellwood’s instructions, Clark had been left only a small meal — a small bowl of soup, now grown cold, an apple, and a glass of some sweet, carbonated beverage that he didn’t recognize but enjoyed the taste of all the same. The soup was easily reheated with his heat vision.
Clark was still hungry when he finished eating. He thought about ordering more food using the machine in the corner of the room — a device upon which one could bring up a menu, order something, and have it delivered within minutes — but when he realized that it was almost midnight, he decided against it. The Avoxes were more in need of rest than he was in need of extra food. Instead, he opened the blinds on his windows to let in the light when the sun rose and went back to bed, tucking himself in tightly this time.
When Clark awoke again, it was morning. A gray-haired woman in an Avox uniform had set another tray of food on the table and was closing the blinds.
“Please leave them open,” Clark told her. “I … like the sunlight.”
She looked slightly confused, but complied. Clark guessed that most of the Capitolites she served didn’t want the morning sun to wake them up.
“Wait,” Clark told her as she turned to leave. She turned around, awaiting his orders. “Did you bring my food last night?” She nodded. “And the bedspread?” She nodded again, pointing to the cabinet she had gotten it from.
“Thank you,” Clark said, watching an almost comical look of astonishment cross her face. Marcius had told him before the Games that Avoxes were voiceless and nameless, and were to be spoken to only to be ordered about, but Clark hadn’t realized until this moment how many people believed as Marcius did — the woman wouldn’t have been so surprised if being thanked was a common occurrence.
“I mean it,” he added. She smiled somewhat awkwardly, as though it was an expression she hadn’t used in a long time, and nodded in acknowledgment.
“You can go,” Clark told her. “I just wanted to say thank you.”
She nodded again, stepping out the door and locking it behind her. Clark reached for the tray, wondering, as he had on the train to the Capitol, what constituted treason and why a person had to be punished for life for it — and why it was that such persons were treated as nonentities, as though they were machines useful only for obeying commands, rather than living, thinking human beings with as much right to respect and acknowledgment as anyone else.
*****
After a day and a half, Clark had mostly recovered from the long days of sleep deprivation in the arena. His fast-healing body, aided by the bright summer sunlight coming in the windows, was recuperating quickly.
At first, though he didn’t know it, he was too exhausted to float while sleeping, and if he dreamed, he didn’t remember it. After thirty hours, though, most of which he spent asleep, he was recovered enough that he awoke to find himself floating about six inches above the bed after neglecting to secure himself after the last time he’d gotten up.
Not long after that, the nightmares started. Becky exploded into a swarm of rats that rapidly grew into mountain lions that devoured the tributes. Platinum cut his throat, then proceeded to beat Lois to death with her Kryptonite token. Lysander pulled the knife from his back and stabbed Clark with it, laughing as it turned from steel to Kryptonite. Lois screamed in agony as she died, staring at him accusingly the whole time, after his attempt to end her pain quickly by freezing her failed.
When Clark was awakened abruptly by falling to the floor, soaked with sweat and trying desperately to push away a dream in which the rats he’d killed turned into Becky, he gave up on sleeping. He was still a little tired, but every time he dozed off, his rest was interrupted by terrifying dreams.
As he got up, Clark realized that he wasn’t even sure if he’d fallen while floating or simply fallen out of bed. He’d awakened lying next to the bed, half of the bedding kicked off, though he’d secured himself before falling asleep.
Shaking his head to dispel the last vestiges of the dream, Clark pulled a chair over to the window and sat down, hoping that the summer sunlight would energize him enough that the last of his exhaustion would disappear. Resting his arms on the windowsill, he looked down at the street.
What he saw was people going about their ordinary business on an ordinary afternoon. It was late August, so the kids probably weren’t back in school yet, and he saw quite a number of them apparently enjoying the last days of summer. Few of them had to work for a living yet, and none had to fear being sent away to die in an arena. Clark envied them, but also hoped that they would never have to experience the gut-churning fear of having to fight until only one person was left standing.
Cars moved along the street, pedestrians crowded the sidewalks, and a bored-looking Peacekeeper leaned against a lamppost, keeping a desultory eye on the crowd. A bus pulled up and let some people off and others on. No one seemed on edge or overly anxious — it was a beautiful summer day, and there was nothing to worry about.
A trio of teenage girls with pink hair and skimpy clothing who had emerged from the bus walked up to the Training Center. The Peacekeeper straightened, watching the girls, but relaxed when one pulled a magazine from her bag and looked up at the building, consulting with the others and counting the floors.
Clark drew back when she pointed at the window he was looking through, though he doubted she’d seen him. She turned to her friends, jumping up and down with an excited look on her face.
Curious, Clark looked back down, surprised when he saw his own face on the cover of the magazine, a celebrity publication whose current issue was dedicated to the recently finished 66th Hunger Games. Using his X-ray vision, he looked inside the magazine, feeling startled and disgusted when he saw page after page dedicated to the way the tributes had died. What startled him even more, though, was the fact that the rest of the magazine was dedicated to him—pictures of him, quotes from his interview with Caesar Flickerman and from the Games, quotes about him from his mentors, stylist, and prep team, from Marcius and from his parents and friends, and from random strangers giving their opinions of him, some of which made him turn red and want to hide.
Unable to resist, Clark used his superhearing to listen to the girls’ conversation, though he knew they would be mortified if they knew he was listening. The girl who had pointed to his window showed the magazine to her friends, then squealed, “He’s so handsome! I can’t wait for his interviews — I’m going to record them so I can watch them every day!” She punctuated her words by kissing Clark’s picture.
Another girl rolled her eyes. “That’s what you said last year about Finnick Odair.”
“He’s cute,” the first girl replied, “but nothing compared to Clark Kent! Besides, Finn’s so young!”
“He’s the same age as you,” the third girl pointed out.
“Fifteen is too young,” the first girl asserted. “Clark’s eighteen! He’s a man!”
Clark gawked at them, grateful that there was no camera in the room. He was sure his expression was comical. Strangers really thought about him like that? For someone who had grown up in obscurity on a farm in District 9, the attention was both flattering and disconcerting.
“I thought we were going shopping,” the second girl complained.
“We are,” said the first one, “but I wanted to see where my Clarkie is staying first.”
Clark grimaced at her words. Clarkie?
“Come on,” the third girl said, rolling her eyes. “I want to go shopping! I can’t believe we have to go back to school on Monday.”
The three girls moved down the street, the one who had displayed such an interest in Clark occasionally turning back and gazing at the Training Center longingly.
Clark continued to sit in front of the window, somewhat bewildered by what he’d overheard. He was aware that some people adored celebrities — there had been enough girls in District 9 who had sighed over Finnick Odair after he’d won the Hunger Games to make that obvious, and Clark and his male friends had ogled attractive female victors on television and in the few magazines the people of District 9 had access to — but he had never thought that he might be a celebrity. He supposed that some Careers volunteered for the Games in hopes of gaining celebrity status, but it had been the farthest thing from his mind when he was declared victor — there had been far more important things on his mind then, like the fates of his fellow tributes, especially Becky and Lois.
Clark had never sought out attention — he had too many things to hide. The more attention people paid to him, the more likely it was that his extraordinary abilities would be discovered, putting the lives of everyone around him at risk.
Suddenly, Clark wanted more than anything to return home to District 9. He didn’t want to be admired and worshipped by the Capitolites — especially for winning a contest he had never wanted to enter, a contest that had cost the lives of two people he cared about and destroyed his faith in himself as a decent person.
Clark got up and headed in the direction of the bathroom. The sooner he made himself presentable and left his self-imposed isolation, the sooner he could get through the final interviews and Victory Banquet and return home, where, he hoped, life would eventually get back to normal.
*****
A couple of hours later, Clark made his way to the dining room. He had showered, shaved, and trimmed his nails and hair. His clothes were fresh and clean, rather than the ones he had been sleeping in for two days. Though he was still a little tired, he felt better than he had two days earlier.
Marcius, Haver, and Matilda turned to look at him as he stepped into the room. An Avox hurried to set a place at the table for him.
“You look like you’re feeling better,” Haver said, watching as Clark sat down at the table and started to serve himself from the platters of food in front of him.
Clark nodded, not looking at Haver. He was still ashamed of his behavior after returning to the Training Center.
“Has Dr. Wellwood cleared you for the final interviews and the Victory Banquet?” Marcius asked.
“I haven’t seen him,” Clark replied. “He said I was okay on the way back to the Capitol.”
Marcius frowned. “He usually pronounces victors healthy enough for the events after the Games.”
Clark shrugged. “I guess he thinks I’m fine, because I haven’t seen him since he left to fill out the death certificates.”
“Lucky you,” Matilda muttered. “He kept me in the hospital for over two weeks.”
“That’s because you had three broken ribs and a punctured lung,” Haver reminded her. “Clark just needed to rest.”
“Since you seem to be recovered,” Marcius said, “I’ll arrange for your interviews. Everyone is very excited about this — you’re the first victor District 9 has had in thirteen years.”
“I know,” Clark mumbled. He’d watched people he knew die on television every year of his life. The year Matilda had won, there’d simply been one less death.
“The menu is already selected for the Victory Banquet,” Marcius went on. “The chefs just need to know when to prepare it. Rosaline has been working on your outfits — I think you’ll like what she’s come up with up.”
As he listened to the man prattle on, Clark began to wish he’d stayed in his room. He wasn’t ready for all the excitement over his victory. He didn’t know if he ever would be.
An Avox entered the room with a bottle of wine. Haver took it, nodding approvingly. “The Gamemakers sent a bottle of District 3’s best wine in celebration of your victory.”
Clark looked up, startled. “District 3? I thought they developed technology.”
“They do, but the area is also one of the best in Panem for growing grapes, so most of Panem’s fine wine comes from there. Most of the area is dedicated to industry, so the wine from District 3 is expensive.”
Clark watched as the Avox opened the bottle and poured a little wine into a glass. Haver sniffed it, then took a sip. Nodding his approval, he allowed the Avox to fill their glasses.
Marcius and the two older victors raised their glasses, so Clark did the same. He supposed raising a glass of wine meant much the same thing as raising a mug of beer in District 9 — it was a sign of congratulations.
“Go easy on that,” Haver warned Clark as he lifted the delicate glass to his mouth. “Have you ever had alcohol before?”
“Beer,” Clark replied. One of the products produced in District 9 was beer. Most of it was shipped to the Capitol, but any beer that wasn’t quite up to Capitol standards was left with the people who brewed it. There was one bar in District 9, which bought most of the substandard beer, but some people bought it for drinking at home, mostly merchants who could afford to spend the extra money. The son of one merchant had smuggled a keg of beer to the end-of-school dance Clark had attended in June. Alcohol was forbidden at school, but a lot of kids had slipped away from the dance to where the keg was hidden in a stand of trees, Clark and his friends included. Pete, Lana, and Rachel had been giddy and tripping over themselves from the effect of the alcohol. Clark had enjoyed the taste, but it hadn’t had any more effect on him than if it had been water.
“This is stronger,” Haver told Clark. “Sip it slowly.”
Clark took a sip of the red liquid, making a face as he did. For something so expensive, it didn’t taste very good.
Matilda laughed at Clark’s expression. It was the first time he’d ever heard her laugh. “Don’t like it, huh?”
“Well … I think it could use some sugar, or maybe a spoonful of honey.”
Matilda seemed to find this hilarious, making Clark wonder how much she’d had to drink before he came to the table. Haver gave Matilda an annoyed look.
“It’s a dry wine,” Haver told Clark.
Clark gave him a confused look. The wine appeared to be liquid to him.
“He means it’s sour,” Matilda explained, draining half her glass in one gulp.
Clark frowned, tasting the wine again. It didn’t quite taste sour to him, either. Shrugging, he took another sip. He still thought it could use sweetening, but it wasn’t any worse than black coffee — and definitely better than some things he’d tasted recently, like those foul-tasting berries he’d eaten in the arena.
When Clark finished his wine, the Avox started to refill his glass, but Marcius stopped him.
“Don’t give him more, unless you want to carry him back to his room!”
Clark gave the Avox an apologetic look. “He’s right. I’ve had enough.” In truth, the wine was having no more effect on him than the beer had. “You can have some if you like, though.”
“No, he can’t!” Marcius reprimanded sharply. Both the Avox and Clark looked at him, not sure who he was talking to. “I’ve told you before, Clark,” Marcius went on. “Avoxes are to be spoken to only to give them an order — and you certainly never offer them wine!”
“What if I ordered him to drink some wine?” Clark asked.
“Still unacceptable. He gets what he needs to survive, and he should be grateful for that. He could as easily have been executed for treason. Living as an Avox is a mercy.”
“I don’t agree,” Clark responded. “I think —“
“It doesn’t matter what you think. That’s the way it is. If you don’t have an order for him, don’t speak to him — and never offer him anything!”
The Avox was looking around the table, his expression growing increasingly anxious. Haver finally took pity on him. “Leave us,” he told the man. “Clark,” he went on, “there are some things that simply aren’t acceptable, and —“
“I don’t care!” Clark interrupted him angrily. He stood up, grabbed his plate, and walked out the door.
*****
A couple of hours later, Haver knocked on Clark’s door. “Clark? Are you in there?”
The door flew open. “What?!” Clark snapped at him.
Haver sighed. “I came to tell you that Marcius has arranged your first post-Games interview for tomorrow night, followed by the Victory Banquet. The final interview will be the following afternoon, and then you’ll be on your way home.”
“Fine,” Clark said, starting to close the door.
Haver put a foot in the door to keep it from closing. “We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Come on. It’s a pleasant night with a nice breeze.”
Clark realized that Haver wanted to discuss something better off not picked up by the microphones, but he really didn’t want to talk to him right now. “I’m tired.”
“You’ve slept for two days. You need to get some fresh air.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
They stared at each other challengingly. Finally, Haver stepped back. “Have it your way.” He turned and walked away.
Clark shut the door, then pushed his glasses down, watching Haver walk in the direction of the elevator. He had no intention of following him — until curiosity and a desire to get out of his room got the better of him.
Quietly, Clark left his room and boarded the elevator. When he reached the roof, he looked around, seeing Haver standing near the wind chimes, looking down at the street.
Clark walked quietly in Haver’s direction, tapping him on the shoulder when he reached him. Haver jumped, startled.
“Sorry,” Clark apologized. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
Haver sighed. “Your attitude, for one.” When Clark started to interrupt him, Haver put up a hand, shaking his head and warning him to stop. “First off, I agree with you about the treatment of Avoxes, and no, you aren’t required to be as rude as Marcius. It’s perfectly acceptable to say please and thank you. However, Marcius is right in that you shouldn’t offer them wine — or anything else. Any Avox who accepts a gift and gets caught will be severely punished.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Marcius should have told you, instead of assuming you knew. He sometimes forgets that things are different in District 9. Now, as to your attitude —“ When Clark started to turn away, Haver grabbed his shoulders and turned him back around. He faced down the angry young man. “I understand why you’re acting this way. Most people don’t — and if you get angry and walk out of an interview with Caesar Flickerman, or worse yet, talk back to President Snow, you’ll make life very difficult for yourself and the people back home. No matter how provoked you feel, you have to keep your mouth shut.
“Smile, or at least keep a neutral expression. You probably won’t have to say anything at tomorrow’s interview, which is mostly about celebrating the accomplishments of our team as a whole in keeping you alive.” At Clark’s look of disbelief, Haver added, “I never said we were a great help, or that the majority of the credit didn’t go to you. Nevertheless, the Gamemakers will honor your entire team — just before they show three hours of highlights from the Games. You have to sit quietly and watch, no matter how you feel about it. They’ll go over every death, and they’ll go over every remotely exciting thing you did. You can’t let yourself get upset — at least, not openly. If you want to talk to me or Matilda later, we’ll be there.”
Clark couldn’t imagine wanting to talk to Matilda about anything, but he only nodded. “I’ve watched the post-Games interviews every year of my life. Most victors looked dazed, but some look triumphant. What am I supposed to look like?”
“Just be yourself — as long as you don’t get angry. I can’t see you celebrating anyone’s death — all of Panem saw your reaction when you killed the District 2 boy.”
“His name was Lysander. Don’t you know their names?”
“Yes, but it’s easier to think of them as numbers. It’s hard enough knowing that I’ll probably be accompanying the bodies of two children back to District 9. If I let myself think of the other tributes as anything more than nameless, faceless numbers, rather than people with hopes, dreams, and fears, I’ll have to mourn them, too. When I have to watch them die alongside the kids I watched grow up, year after year, it becomes too much. Next year, and every year after that, you’ll be a mentor, and you’ll find out how hard it is to watch all those kids die. If you don’t acknowledge them as people, just like your own tributes, you’ll find it easier.”
Clark shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do that.”
“There’s a lot of things you won’t think you can do — until you do them.”
They stood in silence for a moment before Clark spoke up. “Haver … Caesar said that Lysander was the son of a Capitolite, but didn’t say who. Do you know who his father is?”
Haver hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”
“Who?”
“A man named Lex Luthor. He’s the wealthiest person in Panem, and is second in influence only to President Snow.”
Clark’s eyes widened with shock and a hint of fear. “I’ve seen him on television a couple of times.”
“You’ll probably meet him in person at some point — he always takes an interest in victors. Whatever you do, don’t let on that you know that he’s Lysander’s father. Don’t try to apologize for his son’s death. If he wants to speak to you about it, he will. Otherwise, pretend you don’t know about his connection to the tribute you killed.”
“How could he let his son become a tribute in the Hunger Games?!”
“I won’t even try to speculate about how Mr. Luthor’s mind works. Suffice it to say he’s an extremely powerful man and one you would be wise not to cross if you can avoid it. He may be at the Victory Banquet. If he is, and if he approaches you, smile, be polite, and don’t ask any questions. The same goes for any other wealthy, influential people you might meet. If you don’t know who someone is, just be polite. Your best bet is to keep out of trouble and not make a spectacle of yourself. Don’t drink too much, don’t ask questions, and if Marcius or I tell you to do something — or not do it — just do what you’re told. You can ask us questions later.
“Now, there are two questions that are likely to come up, and you need to have answers for them. It doesn’t matter if they’re true, as long as they’re plausible. The first question is — why did you cover the camera just before the District 3 girl’s death?”
“Her name was Lois! Call her by her name!”
“All right, Clark. Why did you cover the camera before Lois’s death?”
Clark hesitated. “I didn’t mean to cover it. I just pulled off the poncho and had to throw it somewhere.”
“Is that the truth, or is that something you made up?”
“It’s all I’m going to tell you.” Clark looked at Haver coldly.
“Then your answer will be that you tossed it aside without thinking about where it would land.”
“Of course I thought about where it would land! I couldn’t throw it on the fire!”
“Clark —“ Haver sighed and rubbed his temples. “Unless you have a better answer, just tell Caesar — and anyone else who asks — what I just told you to say.”
“But —“
“Clark!” Haver lowered his voice when he realized how loud their argument was getting. “You have to give a plausible answer that absolves you of responsibility. The Gamemakers are not pleased that you covered that camera and denied the audience the chance to watch Lois die.”
“To hell with the Gamemakers!”
“Listen to me, Clark. The Capitol audience has a short memory. The Gamemakers do not. Neither does Snow. For the sake of the future tributes of District 9, try to make it seem like an innocent mistake. You don’t want them taking out their anger at you on future tributes.”
“It isn’t right!”
“Right or not, it’s the way things are. You’ll have all sorts of obstacles to negotiate now, whether for yourself or for the sake of others. The sooner you learn that, the better. Now, that brings me to the second question — how did Lois die?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Clark, what did I just tell you?”
“She died, okay? What does it matter how?”
“People will want to know how she died, since they didn’t get to see it for themselves. Did you kill her, or did she die of natural causes?”
“There was nothing natural about those rats!”
“So, you’re saying she bled to death?”
“No!”
“Then how did she die? Did you kill her?”
Clark turned and looked out at the street. Finally, he replied, “She just died. I guess it was natural causes. I took the poncho off to make it easier to … to kill her, but then I didn’t have to. She just died.”
“Then that’s what you’ll tell Caesar when he asks — and that’s what you’ll tell anyone else who asks, too.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You’re going to have to, but if you tell people what you just told me, and don’t try to elaborate, they may ask fewer questions than they would otherwise.
“Now,” Haver continued, “Marcius will undoubtedly have you up early to meet with your prep team. Even though your interview isn’t until 7:30, he’ll insist upon having everything perfect. You can stay here for a while if you want, but you should go back to your room at some point and try to rest. I doubt you’ll have time tomorrow, and tomorrow night will be a late night.”
With that, Haver turned and headed for the elevator, leaving Clark alone with his thoughts.
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