Chapter Eighteen
The following evening, Clark stood beneath the stage with the other members of his support team. It was customary for them to stand on metal plates that would rise from beneath the stage — an act that bore an unfortunate resemblance to the tributes rising into the arena. The prep team, Marcius, and Rosaline took their places on their platforms without trepidation, but Haver, Matilda, and Clark stepped onto their plates nervously, all three remembering being lifted into the arena.
The Panem national anthem played, and then Caesar greeted the audience from the stage. As with the night of the interviews, the most influential Capitolites had an excellent view of the stage, while everyone else crowded around trying to see. Clark swallowed hard, wondering if the father of the boy he’d killed was in the audience.
The first platform rose to the stage, carrying Clark’s prep team with it. He could hear their feet thumping on the stage as they danced around in delight in response to the cheers of the audience as Caesar introduced them. Marcius was next, and he was just as excited, though slightly more restrained. Rosaline rose to the stage next, bringing roars of approval from the audience, many of whom remembered her as a member of the prep team for two District 4 victors.
Haver and Matilda made the District 9 sign of respect to Clark just before they were lifted onto the stage. More cheers erupted — District 9 had gone a long time without a victor, and many people were eager to applaud the fact that the underdog had come out on top.
Clark stood alone on his platform, his heart pounding with anxiety. It was entirely too much like the morning he’d entered the arena, and he suspected that, although he’d survived, the most dangerous part of the Games was just beginning.
He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He wasn’t about to go into the arena again. He was about to go onstage, where thousands of people would applaud him, and thousands more would watch this interview on their televisions.
Clark looked up as the panel above him slid open and the metal plate began to rise. Unlike when he entered the arena, he wasn’t trapped in a glass tube, and it was only about ten feet to the stage, rather than a hundred, with no time spent in darkness.
The audience went wild as he rose onto the stage. Remembering Haver’s instructions, Clark pasted a smile on his face and nodded to acknowledge the cheering people. The smile was entirely fake, but he doubted many people noticed. In the Capitol, people saw what they wanted to see. In addition, Rosaline had dressed him in tight pants and a loose, open vest with no shirt, commenting that people wouldn’t be looking at his face when he was dressed like that. Her remark had embarrassed him at first, but now he was glad to distract people who might otherwise guess that he was anything but happy to be there.
Caesar strode over to him as the plate locked into place. “Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of the 66th Annual Hunger Games, Clark Kent of District 9!”
More cheers erupted. Clark stood awkwardly, not sure what to do. He couldn’t bring himself to act like he was proud of his accomplishment. What was there to be proud of? He had outlived twenty-three other kids, killing two of them himself. That wasn’t something to celebrate.
When the applause died down, Caesar directed Clark to sit in the victor’s chair, an ornate chair from which the victor watched the highlights of the Games. The highlights would go on for three hours and were required viewing for everyone in Panem — even the Capitolites, who usually had a choice as to whether they watched the Hunger Games or not.
Clark sat down, putting his hands in his lap so that he wouldn’t accidentally squeeze the arms of the chair and break them. The lights dimmed and the Capitol seal appeared on the screen as the highlights began.
The first half hour showed highlights of the pre-Game events — the Reaping, the tribute parade, the tribute scores, and the interviews. Most of it was dedicated to Clark and his actions — and reactions — to the events. A great deal of it concentrated upon his interactions with Becky, with some people in the audience cheering at the sight of him lifting her onto his shoulders during the tribute parade and gasping at the sight of him carrying her from the spotlight during the interviews. An upbeat soundtrack played the whole time, making Clark clench his fists as he listened, since it only served to underline the fact that every tribute but him was dead.
The music and the focus changed when highlights of the Game itself began. The soundtrack alternated between a fast beat that increased the suspense level and a slower, more mournful tune, depending upon what was being shown. Clark stared at the screen, wishing that he could look away but knowing that he was required to watch — and he didn’t think he could have looked away if he’d been allowed to, no matter how horrible it was.
Though he’d already seen the footage of Becky’s death, it wasn’t any easier to watch the second time. For a moment, Clark felt as though he was back in the arena, swaying precariously on his launch plate as he watched the girl he had promised to protect die.
The murmurs of the audience, clearly audible to Clark, brought him back to reality. Many of the voices were surprisingly sympathetic.
“That poor girl. She should have been in the hospital, not the arena.” “Why are such young children allowed in the Games? They never have a chance.”The bloodbath was equally hard to watch. Clark had seen little of it in the arena, since he had immediately run for higher ground — only the District 11 boy, Tack, had died in front of him. In comparison to some Games, this bloodbath had relatively few casualties — only five tributes had been killed in those first few minutes, six if Becky was counted, which Clark didn’t. As far as he was concerned, the only good thing about Becky dying before the gong sounded was that she was spared the terror of the bloodbath.
Five tributes dying in the first few minutes of the Games was a low number, but it was still five too many as far as Clark was concerned. He wished he could have helped them, but as sick and weak as he’d been from Kryptonite exposure, all he’d been able to do was run for his own life — and he still would have been killed if Lois hadn’t attacked Platinum.
One of the highlights shown was the fight between Lois and Platinum. Though Clark had been there, he had been half-blinded by the Kryptonite, and hadn’t seen Lois use one of her “dance moves” to kick Platinum away from him. Indeed, he’d missed a good portion of the fight because he’d been crawling away uphill before finally struggling to his feet and turning to see what was happening.
No tribute’s death was left unshown in the highlight film. Clark saw how the Career tributes had allowed Claude to fight for them during the bloodbath, only to turn on him once they’d secured the Cornucopia for themselves. By that time, Platinum had staggered back to her friends and Mayson was trying to tend to her injuries, so they were the only two of the six Career tributes who hadn’t participated in torturing Claude. The District 3 boy had been confused and terrified at the others turning on him, pleading with them and screaming in pain as they’d amused themselves by poking him with knives and spears and throwing rocks at him. It was only when he’d broken away from them and nearly escaped that Tiburon, the boy from District 4, had put a spear through him.
It hadn’t been long after that when Lumen had killed Platinum. She had been sitting atop a crate, propped up against the side of the Cornucopia, a blood-stained bandage on her head and her useless right arm dangling. Lumen had asked her with false sympathy how she was doing. When she’d mentioned that she couldn’t move her arm, he’d nodded, then abruptly run her through with his sword.
Platinum had stared at him in silent shock for a few seconds before dying while Mayson screamed and Lysander went after Lumen. The two boys had fought with their swords before Lysander had succeeded in disarming Lumen and shoving him up against the Cornucopia. He had been about to kill him when the other three Careers had pulled him away. Lumen and Lysander had screamed at each other, much of their conversation bleeped out, before Lumen had finally convinced Lysander that Platinum had been a liability to them.
The audience gathered around the stage reacted to each of the events shown in the film, laughing, cheering, and even gasping in shock. Occasionally, Clark’s reaction to the film was pictured in a small square in the corner of the screen. He realized, upon seeing himself, that he looked dazed at the overwhelming reminder of the suffering and death that had taken place in the arena. Like many victors before him, he found seeing everything that had happened to his fellow tributes to be unbearable.
What was even more telling than what was shown was what wasn’t shown. Lois’s angry rant against the practice of interviewing the families of the final eight tributes was completely absent, probably because it hinted at rebellion. Clark had no idea if it had been shown when she’d said it, but it was definitely missing now.
Some people in the audience cheered when Lysander’s death was shown. Clark kept his face carefully blank, but his fists clenched so hard that his fingernails cut into the palms of his hands. How could anyone take such delight in a person’s death? Yes, Lysander had been vicious, but he had still been a human being, with hopes, dreams, and a family who would miss him — and a powerful father in the Capitol who might even now be in the audience.
When the final battle between the tributes was shown, followed by the rat attack, some members of the audience exclaimed in delight at the sight of the venomous creatures. Clark had been shocked when, earlier that day, Marcius had told him that toy copies of the rats had been rushed into production, both action figure type toys and plush ones, and were predicted to be very popular amongst the Capitol children once they were available to buy.
It wasn’t the only shocking thing Clark had heard that day. One of the men on his prep team had commented that he had been getting a new tattoo when the fire had broken out in the arena, and he had found it so amazing that he had gotten the tattoo artist to include some flames in the design. The female member of the prep team, Hermia, had remarked that she had wished to be in Lois’s place when Clark was carrying her back to the cave, prompting Clark to snap at her, asking why she would want to be in the place of a dead girl. Hermia had run off in tears, though later Rosaline had gotten her to apologize for being so insensitive, and Clark had apologized for yelling at her.
When the highlights of the last couple of hours of the Games were shown, it became apparent that Hermia wasn’t the only woman in the Capitol who had envied Lois or thought it romantic that Clark had tried to take care of her and protect her to the very end. Clark found the comments and sighs appalling.
She’s dead, he thought.
Lois is dead, and yet some women want to be in her place so they can be close to me. Why would anyone want that? And romantic? She was bleeding to death and in great pain. There’s nothing romantic about that. And I couldn’t save her. All I could do was end her pain. I wonder what these women would think if they knew that I killed her?When the film showed Clark tossing the poncho over the camera, there were baffled comments from the audience. Most had already seen the end of the Games, but many had assumed that there had been another camera filming Lois and Clark and that the Gamemakers were saving what had happened for the highlights broadcast.
Clark knew that there had been only one camera in the cave — he had checked. And though he didn’t feel any pride in winning the Games, he was nevertheless glad that he had denied the Capitolites the sick pleasure of watching Lois die. Her death had been private, the cause uncertain. For the Capitolites, who were accustomed to seeing the deaths of every tribute, no matter how gruesome or painful, the frustration of not seeing Lois’s death was great. They didn’t know what had happened, and Clark vowed that they never would.
Finally, the highlights broadcast ended and the anthem played again. Clark stood as President Snow stepped onto the stage, followed by a little girl carrying a cushion with a crown atop it. Snow took the crown from the cushion, a broad smile on his face, but Clark flinched when the man placed the crown atop his head. There was something cold and calculating in Snow’s expression when he looked at Clark, something that made the young victor very uneasy, though he couldn’t put his finger on why.
When Snow put the crown on Clark’s head, the audience cheered. Panem’s president stepped off the stage and Caesar came over to Clark’s side. Clark’s team joined them, making the audience grow even louder and more enthusiastic. As Marcius, Haver, and Matilda had coached him to do, Clark smiled, bowed, and waved to the audience. This seemed to go on for an eternity before Caesar told the audience good night, reminding them to tune in for the final interview tomorrow, and Clark was finally able to escape the spotlight.
*****
“Good job,” Haver told Clark as they walked away from the stage. “I know it wasn’t easy, but you kept your thoughts to yourself. You’ve gone a long way towards protecting your family and the future tributes of District 9.”
Clark kept his hands at his sides, hiding the almost-healed cuts from where he’d dug his fingernails into his palms. “I hated every minute of it.”
“Most victors do,” Haver said. “They’ve already lived through the Games and have no desire to see them again. The few who are happy about it are almost always Careers who have trained their whole lives for the Games — and even most Careers are glad to get the first interview over with.”
“Now it’s time for the Victory Banquet,” Marcius interrupted them. “It’s at the president’s mansion, and you’ll meet all sorts of important people, including your sponsors, so remember to smile and thank them.”
“What sponsors?” Clark asked. “I didn’t receive any sponsor gifts.”
“Matilda and I did arrange for sponsors,” Haver told Clark, “but the Gamemakers refused to allow any gifts to be sent to you until the feast. By that time, everything was so expensive that it took all of the sponsorship money to provide those artificial logs. Had you received gifts earlier, what you received at the feast would have been far smaller and far less useful.”
“Gifts would have been more useful earlier,” Clark said, “when Lois and I were starving and freezing.”
“I know,” Haver replied, “but the Gamemakers were upset by what you did at the tribute interviews, and they were upset with Lois for complaining about the way the families of the final eight tributes are interviewed, so although the money was donated and the gifts ordered, nothing was actually sent to you. There were a number of sponsors who were unhappy about that, but they couldn’t overrule the Gamemakers. Only President Snow can do that, and he very seldom interferes.”
Clark remembered the calculating look on Snow’s face as he’d placed the crown on Clark’s head. He shuddered inwardly, realizing that he’d caught the attention and gained the ire of the most powerful man in Panem — and Snow would almost certainly be at the Victory Banquet. It was, after all, being held at his home.
A long black limousine pulled up beside them. Clark barely glanced at it before continuing along the street, but Marcius grabbed his arm and pulled him back.
“Where are you going?” Marcius asked. “This is our ride.”
Clark looked at the car incredulously. “But it’s only about half a mile to the mansion.”
“As the victor, you’re expected to arrive in style.”
Clark looked at Marcius like he’d lost his mind. Very few people had cars in District 9 — the mayor had one, the judge had one, and the Peacekeepers shared three. Well-worn, much-mended trucks were used to bring the harvest to town for processing and shipping to the Capitol, but most farm families didn’t own one personally — the high cost of fuel and maintenance made it far more practical for two or three families to share a single truck. Very few people rode in them aside from families living on farms far from town, who used them to transport the entire family — and sometimes more than one family — to town for the Reaping. The few days between the Reaping and the beginning of the Games were often full of celebration, not because people enjoyed the Games, but because it was often the only time friends and families were able to get together.
Using a vehicle to travel just a few blocks was almost unheard of. Even those who had cars didn’t usually use them to drive around the small town, and the roads outside of town were almost all unpaved, pitted with potholes, and were nearly impassable with snow in the winter, while being muddy or dusty the rest of the time. Most people in District 9 walked everywhere, or rode horses if they had a long way to go.
Even in the Capitol, the large number of pedestrians that Clark had seen pointed to the fact that most people found it easier to walk short distances than to drive. As such, the idea that a group of perfectly healthy people would use a car to go such a short distance seemed incredibly strange.
Marcius sighed and rolled his eyes. “Just get in,” he told Clark.
Clark did as he was told, looking around with interest in spite of himself. The seats were made of fine leather, and there was a television, a tape player, and a small machine for playing music chips. There was even a wet bar, which Haver and Matilda looked at longingly but decided to forgo in favor of the drinks that would be served at the banquet.
It took only a few minutes for the limousine to reach the president’s mansion. The vehicle had to move slowly because of the number of people in the street, most of them celebrating and quite a number of them drunk. There were extra Peacekeepers to control the crowds, but they didn’t help much, and sometimes added to the chaos.
Once inside the mansion, the group was escorted to a medium-sized ballroom. A live band played in one corner, though no one was dancing and few people appeared to be listening. There was an open bar at the far end of the room, which had attracted a lot of people. Matilda headed straight for it, leaving Haver to get Clark situated.
There was a platform in the center of the room, with a table set up for the Clark and his team. Haver escorted Clark to his seat at the head of the table.
“There will be waiters coming around with the different courses,” he told Clark. “They’ll also bring champagne and whatever non-alcoholic beverages you want. They’ll also get you drinks from the bar, but it’s faster just to go up there yourself. I recommend that you limit how much alcohol you drink. You’re young and, unless I miss my guess, not terribly experienced with alcohol. Considering how badly some people act when they’ve had too much to drink, I recommend you have no more than one or two drinks, lest you make a complete fool of yourself in front of all these wealthy and influential people.”
Clark nodded, acknowledging what Haver was telling him. He was well aware that people often said and did things they shouldn’t when they were drunk, and it was important that Clark keep his thoughts on the Games to himself. Alcohol had no effect on him, but Haver didn’t know that, and it was easiest just to play along.
The food was good, though Clark had little time to enjoy it. Wealthy sponsors kept stopping by the table, telling Clark how much they’d enjoyed the Games and apologizing for their gifts never reaching him. Most wanted their picture taken with him, and they grew increasingly intoxicated as the evening went on. Clark responded politely, shaking their hands, listening to what they had to say, even if it was almost incomprehensible, smiling and acting pleased to have his picture taken with them.
It was growing late when the crowd parted to let one man through. Clark was eating his dessert when the man stepped up onto the platform. He froze, his fork halfway to his mouth, as he looked into the eyes of Lex Luthor.
The fork fell from his hand, bouncing off the table and clattering to the floor. A waiter rushed to pick it up and replace it with a clean utensil, but Clark paid no attention as he stared wide-eyed at the father of the boy he’d killed.
Luthor had a glass of champagne in one hand, and didn’t appear to be angry or in mourning, but Clark was quickly learning that some people were very good at hiding their true feelings. The man held out his free hand and Clark shook it briefly, wincing as he realized how sweaty his palms had suddenly become. He seldom sweated, except when upset, but Luthor definitely made him nervous.
As he’d been doing most of the evening, Marcius hurried over to introduce Clark to his latest visitor. “Clark, this is Lex Luthor, owner of LexCorp. Mr. Luthor, this is Clark Kent, the victor of the 66th Hunger Games.”
“I know.” Luthor glanced at Marcius briefly, then ignored him. He sat down at the table, his eyes fixed on the new victor. “This year’s Games were most … interesting.”
“I … ah …” Out of the corner of his eye, Clark saw Haver shaking his head, reminding him not to say a word about Lysander. “Thank you, sir.”
“Clark … may I call you Clark?”
“I … um … of course, sir … uh … Mr. Luthor,” Clark stammered, his heart pounding.
“Clark, I make a point of getting to know the victors, assessing their potential, so to speak. You’ve gained opportunities that few people from your district will ever have, so —“
“Excuse me, Mr. Luthor,” an older man interrupted, looking apologetic.
“What is it, Nigel?” Luthor looked annoyed.
“President Snow has requested an audience with the new victor — immediately.”
“I’m sure it can wait.”
“No. He was quite emphatic. He wishes to speak to Mr. Kent
now.”
Luthor still looked irritated, but he nodded. “All right. Clark, I will speak to you at another time. After all, one mustn’t keep President Snow waiting.”
Clark would have been glad for the interruption, but he had even less desire to speak with Snow than he did to speak with Luthor. Most of the people he’d met at the banquet were merely interested in meeting Panem’s latest celebrity. Luthor and Snow’s motivations were unknown, and they scared him.
Clark shot a glance at his mentors. Matilda looked unhappy, while Haver looked worried, though he nodded, indicating that Clark should follow Nigel.
Clark got up and followed the man out of the ballroom and down a long hallway. Nigel stopped at a door near the end, knocking and announcing his presence.
“President Snow, it’s Nigel St. John. I’ve brought the new victor.”
“Come in,” Snow responded.
When they entered the room, Clark saw Snow sitting behind a large desk. The president looked at Clark, smiling the same way as he had when he’d crowned him victor — a look that made Clark want to run from the mansion and fly as far as he could from the Capitol.
“Thank you, Mr. St. John.” Nigel nodded, leaving the room and closing the door behind him. “Mr. Kent, have a seat.”
Clark sat down in a chair facing Snow, wondering just what the man wanted.
“I wanted to take a moment to congratulate you personally on your victory,” Snow said. “It’s been many years since District 9 has had a victor.”
“Th-thank you, sir.”
“There’s no need to be nervous, Mr. Kent. Winning the Hunger Games is quite a feat.” Snow picked up a teacup sitting in front of him and took a sip. He glanced at a tray of food on his desk and pushed it towards Clark. “Try some of the fruit, Mr. Kent. It’s quite a delicacy.”
Clark looked the crystal dish of berries, recognizing them as the foul-tasting ones he’d eaten in the arena, though these were covered with sugar. “No, thank you, sir. The food at the banquet was good, and I’m pretty full.”
“I insist. Just try one.”
Not wanting to be rude, Clark took one of the berries and put it in his mouth. In spite of the sugar, it tasted just as bad as it had in the arena. He swallowed it quickly, nodding when Snow offered him a cup of tea.
“Thank you, sir.” Clark took a sip, trying to wash the taste out of his mouth.
“Would you like more fruit?”
“No, thank you,” Clark said. “I … couldn’t eat another bite.”
Snow smiled, but his eyes were cold. “Do you know what you just ate?”
“Ah … some Capitol delicacy?”
“Some people have thought so, though it’s the last delicacy they ever tasted. That’s nightlock. It contains one of the most deadly poisons known to man. One berry is enough to kill a grown man.”
Clark jumped up, knocking his chair over. The teacup fell from his hand, shattering on the edge of the desk. “I … excuse me …”
“Don’t bother, Mr. Kent. If it was going to kill you, you would be dead by now. Besides, you ate a handful of them in the arena — without the slightest ill effect.”
“I —“
“The girl realized there was something wrong with them, but you did not. You ate them — and yet here you are.”
“I … I guess I’m very lucky …”
“More than lucky, I’d say. Pick up the chair, Mr. Kent, and sit back down.”
Clark picked up the chair, his hand tightening involuntarily on the back of it. The wood broke, a large piece coming off. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “It must have broken when I knocked it over.”
“It’s brand new and of the highest quality — very hard to damage,” Snow said. “Unless, of course, you’re unusually strong …” He pulled a remote from his desk. “Sit down, Mr. Kent. There’s something I’d like you to see.”
Clark sank into the chair, staring at the large television as Snow turned it on and started the tape. On the screen, he saw himself drowsily stuffing a handful of berries into his mouth and grimacing at the taste.
“That number of nightlock berries, Mr. Kent, could have killed every remaining tribute — and then some. Yet you weren’t affected in the slightest. Now, most people didn’t see that — a pair of tributes eating a meal is seldom very exciting, especially when another pair of tributes is fighting. However, during the Games I keep an eye on everything in the arena, so I took note of your little meal.”
“I guess I’m lucky to be alive.”
“As I said before, Mr. Kent, I believe it’s more than luck.” Snow pointed to the television as a new scene appeared — old, grainy security footage that showed a boy running alongside a train. “Those trains travel at about two hundred and fifty miles an hour — far faster than anyone can run, and yet that boy — who looks amazingly like you — was keeping up with it.”
Clark stared at the television in shock. He remembered that day clearly — he’d been trying to find out just how fast he could go, and racing the train had been a thrill he couldn’t resist. He hadn’t thought about the possible consequences then, though when he’d told his parents what he’d done, they’d finally told him the truth about his origins and then told him never to let anyone know what he could do.
Now it had come back to haunt him.
“There were reports of a boy running alongside a train in District 9,” Snow went on, “but the men who made the report had been drinking a particularly potent type of liquor that sometimes induces hallucinations, so no one believed them. But after seeing you eat those berries and survive, I remembered the report and requested the security footage from that train. It seems, Mr. Kent, that you have many talents outside the ordinary.”
Clark just stared at Snow, his eyes wide and his heart pounding so hard he felt dizzy. He’d never been so scared in his life — not when he was Reaped, and not when Platinum had tried to kill in him in the arena. Then, he could only die, and though he would have been mourned, his family and friends would have been safe. Now, though — he’d always done his best to hide his unusual abilities, but as his parents had feared, he hadn’t been able to completely hide them in the arena — and now the nation’s president, a man not known for his compassion, knew what he could do.
Snow wasn’t finished though. He pointed at the television as another scene appeared, showing Clark wrestling with the mountain lion.
“It’s interesting, isn’t it, how that cat shredded your clothing and yet did absolutely no damage to your skin.” Snow looked at Clark assessingly.
“It … I think it caught its claws in my clothes, and that’s why it didn’t —“
“Mr. Kent, if there’s one thing I value, it’s honesty. I suggest you refrain from lying to me.” Snow pointed as another scene appeared. “As you already realize, those rats were meant for you. When they bit you just above your boots, they should have bitten through your skin and left you with uncontrollable bleeding. They didn’t, though. Instead, their teeth shattered. And then there’s this …” The scene changed again, showing more grainy security footage. “When something hits the force field around the top of the Training Center, it automatically activates a security camera. The Peacekeepers who reviewed the footage from a night about five weeks ago saw something bounce high into the air after hitting the force field. They assumed it was a dummy, as a group of bored young college students on summer break had borrowed a private hovercraft and flown it over the Capitol and the surrounding countryside, dropping objects from it for the apparent purpose of amusing themselves.
“Several dummies and mannequins were found on rooftops and in parks, so it was assumed that one had been dropped near the Training Center. When I looked closely at the footage, however, it appeared that the dummy tried to control its flight after it bounced off the force field — and furthermore, it looks just like you. Either someone, for unknown reasons, created a dummy that looked just like a District 9 boy, or it
was that boy. Somehow, Mr. Kent, you managed to be above the Capitol that night, hundreds of miles from home. No hovercraft have been in District 9 this summer, and no District 9 residents have been permitted in the Capitol except the tributes and their mentors. So, the question is, how did you get up there? There are no tall buildings close enough for you to have leaped from, and the angle at which you hit the force field ruled out having jumped on it from the roof of the training building. Furthermore, the hovercraft the college students borrowed recorded their flight path — a feature added by the owner, whose son enjoys taking it out. At no time did it go anywhere near the Training Center.”
Clark was shaking. “I … I … President Snow, I …”
“It seems, Mr. Kent, that you have … powers … far beyond that of ordinary humans. On the night you were ‘born’, a shooting star streaked across Panem and a rocket landed in one of your parents’ fields in District 9. Your parents insisted to investigators that you were their son … but it seems they lied. No ordinary couple could have produced a child like you.”
Snow pushed back his chair and stood. “Now, Mr. Kent, it’s getting late. I suggest you keep this conversation to yourself. It’s highly unlikely that anyone else in Panem has put the clues together — and if they have, I want you to mislead them, as you tried to do to me. When you return to the Capitol in six months during the Victory Tour, we will talk further. I think your powers may prove useful to me.” Snow reached over and pulled a sweet-smelling white rose from a vase on his desk. Handing it to Clark, he added, “Oh, and Mr. Kent … lest you think you can eliminate the danger by killing me, you should know that five other people have copies of the tape I just showed you. They are all very loyal, and all are under strict orders not to view the tape unless something happens to me. Their copies contain instructions as to what to do with your parents, friends, mentors, and a few strangers if I should die under suspicious circumstances. No two people will have the same fate — but I don’t think you’ll like what will happen to any of them if you disobey me.”
Snow took the tape from the player and walked towards the door. “Calm yourself, Mr. Kent. Remember — no one is to know of this conversation.” He opened the door, looking back at Clark. “Take as long as you need to get yourself under control, then return to the ballroom. I’m sure you can think of a plausible excuse for taking so long.”
With that, Snow left the room, closing the door behind him and leaving the terrified young victor staring after him.
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