Chapter Nineteen
Clark sat in Snow’s office, staring at the door Panem’s president had exited through and trying to stop shaking. His hand clenched around the sickly-sweet smelling white rose the man had given him, pulverizing it.
When Clark had been declared the victor of the Hunger Games, he had thought the worst was over. He had imagined that he would complete his obligations as victor in the Capitol and go home, where things would eventually be, if not exactly like they were before, at least somewhat close to normal.
There was no chance of that now. Snow knew what Clark could do — at least, he knew some of it. He knew that Clark was extraordinarily strong, though perhaps he didn’t know just how strong. He knew that Clark was fast, if not exactly how fast. Snow had discovered Clark’s invulnerability, both to injury and to poison, and he knew that Clark could fly.
He wasn’t sure whether Snow knew about his other abilities or not, and he had no intention of asking. If Snow didn’t know about Clark’s freeze breath, his telescopic, heat, and X-ray vision, or his enhanced senses, Clark wasn’t going to tell him. Panem’s president knew too much already, and that knowledge had put too many people at risk.
Clark had a good idea of why Snow had threatened strangers if the young victor didn’t obey him. He had guessed that Clark’s conscience wouldn’t allow others, even strangers, to suffer because of his actions. Clark might be able to protect his family and friends in District 9, but there was no way he could protect random strangers.
Clark dropped the crushed rose on the floor and stood up slowly, taking a deep breath to help calm himself. If he went back to the ballroom visibly upset, there would be questions, and Snow had instructed him to keep their conversation to himself. After a few more minutes, Clark had managed to calm himself enough to leave.
He was walking toward the door when something else occurred to him. As closely as Snow had been watching him in the Games, he would certainly have seen how sick and weak Clark was at the beginning, and would have known for certain that it wasn’t an act when Platinum attacked him and cut his arm. What if Snow had figured out the reason for Clark’s weakness at that time? It seemed impossible, but Snow hadn’t stayed the president of Panem for twenty years by being unobservant — and the way Clark had stared at Platinum’s Kryptonite pendant might have been a dead giveaway.
Unless Snow knew how Kryptonite affected Clark and said something or acted upon this knowledge, there was no way for Clark to know how much Panem’s president knew without asking — and asking would give the knowledge away if Snow didn’t already have it. Clark realized that all he could do for the moment was keep his mouth shut and hope that President Snow didn’t know any more than he’d already revealed.
Slowly, Clark made his way back to the ballroom. It was past two in the morning and the crowd had thinned out considerably, but Marcius, Haver, and Matilda were still at the victor’s table waiting for him. Rosaline had long since left, as had most of his sponsors. There was no sign of Luthor, something for which Clark was grateful — he had enough on his mind without having to try to figure out what the man’s game was.
“Is everything okay?” Haver asked. “You were gone for quite a while.”
“I … ah … President Snow wanted to congratulate me on my victory. It’s been a while since District 9 had a victor …”
“Tha’ took a hou’?” Matilda slurred, looking at him curiously.
Clark hadn’t realized just how long he’d been gone. “Well … um … I … I think I’d had a little more to drink than I should have, and I kind of got lost.”
Matilda gave him a skeptical look. “Bull —“
“Matilda!” Haver sighed, looking at Clark’s half-full champagne glass. He’d been discreetly supervising the young victor all evening, having learned the hard way when Matilda had won just how much trouble a new victor could get into when given unlimited access to alcohol, and knew that Clark had drunk only a glass and a half of champagne. Given the amount of time that had passed and the amount of food the young man had consumed, either Clark was exceptionally affected by alcohol, or something else was going on.
Haver looked at Clark as he sat down. The young victor looked nervous, and given how unlikely it was that there was any truth to his excuse about having had too much to drink, Haver was almost certain that something had happened in Snow’s office that Clark was reluctant to talk about. The older victor also knew that Snow had a penchant for making demands of victors and threatening their loved ones if they didn’t comply. Snow’s demands were an open secret amongst past victors, and much of what he demanded was considered reprehensible. Those victors who had no friends or loved ones to care about were largely immune to his demands, as their celebrity status amongst the Capitolites provided them with a certain amount of protection from harm — even a dictator had to deal with politics, and keeping the local populace content went a long way towards preventing rebellion.
The Capitolites eventually lost interest in some victors, especially those who made no effort to maintain their celebrity status. Most of them were still left alone by Snow, who used popular victors to gain favor with other powerful Capitolites. Some attractive victors were forced into prostitution, while those who possessed special skills had their talents sold for Snow’s benefit. Once a victor no longer interested the public, they could no longer be used to gain favor, and became valueless to Panem’s president. These victors were largely ignored, but on occasion, they became pawns in Snow’s schemes to control other victors.
Haver watched as Clark reached for his half-full champagne glass. He started to say something, but Marcius beat him to it.
“If you’ve already had so much to drink that you managed to get lost, you certainly don’t need that.” He tried to take the glass from Clark, but the young victor held it out of his reach. Exasperated, Marcius added, “You’ve had enough!”
Clark was still feeling less than calm after his conversation with Snow, and though he had settled down enough to hide his distress from most people, he knew that his mentors suspected something. Marcius seemed to have been taken in by his excuse, but the man’s attempt to snatch the glass from Clark’s hand annoyed him.
Unthinkingly, Clark tightened his grip on the glass. It shattered, champagne and broken glass flying everywhere.
Everyone stared at the mess. Haver took it as his cue to get Clark out of there before anything else happened.
“Marcius is right, Clark. You’ve had enough. In fact, as late as it’s getting, I think it’s time to go back to the Training Center. Your final interview is early tomorrow afternoon — or today, actually — and you’ll want to be well-rested before Rosaline and your prep team come to get you ready for it.”
Clark nodded. He was more than ready to leave the president’s mansion. He didn’t want to risk running into Snow again — or Luthor, for that matter. He stood, using a napkin to blot the champagne he’d spilled and brush off bits of glass.
“Matilda, come on. We’re leaving,” Haver said, tapping her on the shoulder.
“Hmm?” Matilda barely looked up from the empty glass in front of her.
“We’re going back to the Training Center. It’s late.”
“Uh … s-sure.” Matilda got up, swaying drunkenly. She started in the direction of the door, forgetting that she was on a platform, and stumbled down the two steps, falling and hitting her head on a chair. “Ow …” she mumbled.
Clark had been looking around the room and hadn’t noticed Matilda’s drunken staggering until he heard her head hitting the chair. When he heard her fall, he hurried to help her up. Haver watched him, noting that he showed no sign of being drunk.
Matilda was so drunk that she could barely walk. Clark finally picked her up, making her giggle, and carried her out to the street. The limousine carried them back the half mile to the Training Center. Matilda had fallen asleep by then, so Clark carried her inside and put her on her bed once they reached the District 9 floor.
Marcius looked at Matilda in disgust, then shook his head. “I’m going to call Dr. Wellwood. She hit her head pretty hard on that chair.”
Clark frowned in confusion. “I thought he’d left.”
“The tribute doctor stays at the Training Center until the victor goes home,” Marcius explained. “That’s why I was surprised that he didn’t check on you and declare you healthy enough for the final events.”
Clark shrugged, secretly glad that the doctor hadn’t checked on him a second time. Dr. Wellwood hadn’t seemed to notice anything strange about him, besides his insistence upon removing the tracker himself, but Clark didn’t want to press his luck. “He declared me healthy on the way back to the Capitol. I guess he didn’t think I needed any help.”
While Marcius went to call the doctor, Haver and Clark stayed beside Matilda. She was snoring loudly enough to drown out most other sounds, so Haver leaned close to Clark and said softly, “After all that champagne, you could probably use some fresh air. Once Dr. Wellwood gets here, we can leave and go up on the roof.”
Clark shook his head. He suspected that he knew why Haver wanted to talk to him on the roof. “I’m fine.”
“You won’t be in the morning. Getting some fresh air and taking some time to sober up might help with the hangover you’re going to have.”
“No.”
“Clark.” Haver looked at him seriously. “Your final interview is at 1:30 this afternoon. You cannot show up for it hung over. You need to get some fresh air before you go to bed.”
Clark shook his head again. “I’m fine,” he repeated.
They were interrupted by Marcius returning to the room, a confused look on his face. “Dr. Wellwood is nowhere to be found,” he announced. “He didn’t answer when I called his room, or when I called the Training Center hospital. Neither of the nurses have seen him since he went to fill out the death certificates, and when I called his home, his wife thought he was still here.”
Clark frowned, a frisson of alarm running through him. Had Snow suspected that Dr. Wellwood knew something about him? He knew that Snow didn’t want anyone but himself to know about Clark’s strange abilities. Had something happened to the doctor because he had the misfortune to have examined a victor with unusual powers?
“I called the local hospital,” Marcius continued, “and they’re sending someone to take a look at Matilda. They’ll take her back to the hospital if they deem it necessary.”
Haver nodded. He’d seen Clark’s worried look when Marcius said that Dr. Wellwood was missing, and felt it more important than ever that he talk to Clark and find out what had really happened when the new victor had gone to talk to President Snow.
“Could you keep an eye on Matilda?” Haver asked Marcius. “I’m taking Clark up to the roof to help him sober up a bit.”
“He looks fine —“ Marcius started. He stopped when Haver gave him a pointed look. “A little fresh air might be good anyway, though,” he concluded.
Clark shook his head, but stopped when both men looked at him impatiently. “Fine,” he said crossly, “but just for a few minutes. I’m tired.”
Haver sighed. “Come on.”
Once they were on the roof, Haver waited until the breeze set the wind chimes to jangling, then said, “All right. What really happened when you met with President Snow?”
Clark shrugged. “He congratulated me on being victor.”
“And?”
“And then I got lost —“
“No, you didn’t.” When Clark looked at him, Haver went on, “You weren’t drunk, either. You only had one and a half glasses of champagne and no other alcoholic drinks — yes, I was watching. Matilda got so drunk at her Victory Banquet that I thought it was a good idea to keep an eye on you. Also, you didn’t act like you were impaired at all, and when you came back from talking to Snow, you looked anxious, not intoxicated. Now, what really happened?”
“Nothing.”
“He demanded something, didn’t he? And then threatened your family if you didn’t comply.”
Clark paled. “What? H-how did you —?”
“He often makes demands of victors, using them both to cement his hold on power and keep them in their places. His favorite tactic is to prostitute attractive victors to those loyal to him. Is that what he asked of you?”
Clark shook his head. “No … no, he didn’t ask for
that.”
“But he demanded something?”
“Y-yes.”
“What did he demand?”
“I … I can’t say.” When Haver raised an eyebrow, Clark went on, “He wants something, but it has to stay a secret. If I say anything, then my parents, my friends, you and Matilda, and some unknown strangers will be punished.” He stopped, fearing that he’d already said too much.
Haver nodded. “I won’t ask you about it anymore, then — and I won’t say anything to anyone else. I probably don’t need to warn you, but just in case … Snow doesn’t make threats lightly. If he says he’s going to do something, he does it. Do whatever you have to do to protect your family. All of Panem’s presidents since the end of the Dark Days have used victors for their own purposes, but Snow is among the worst. He’s stayed in power for twenty years by ruling with an iron fist and not allowing any hint of rebellion from anyone. The Hunger Games didn’t start with him, and I doubt they’ll end with him, but as long as he’s in power, there are far more dangerous games to play. He makes the rules, and everyone else has to learn to play by them.”
“What did he ask you to do?” Clark asked.
“Snow wasn’t yet in power when I won. His uncle was president of Panem then. One of his allies admired my fighting skills, so he was granted an exclusive contract on me as a prizefighter. I didn’t always look like this,” Haver added, gesturing to his permanently battered-looking face. “I made a lot of money, though not as much as the man who owned my contract. I knew better than to resist, so my family was safe, though to be sure I kept them away from me. I bought them a house in the merchant section of town and still give them money every month, though they have their own business now and no longer work for starvation wages in a factory. I am no longer a prizefighter — I’m too old, and the man who owned my contract is deceased.”
Clark frowned but nodded, his expression thoughtful. “And Matilda?”
Haver hesitated. “Matilda became a victor after Snow took power. What he demanded of her, however — that’s a discussion for another time.”
They turned at the sound of approaching footsteps. Marcius came toward them, looking exasperated.
“Matilda’s fine,” he told them. “The doctor checked her over and left some painkillers for when she wakes up in the morning — which she’ll probably enjoy entirely too much. I told him to send the bill to the Gamemakers. They won’t be happy, but it’s their job to keep track of Dr. Wellwood.” He looked at his watch, then looked at Clark. “I suggest you go to your room now. It’s almost four o’clock, and Rosaline and your prep team will be here at ten to get you ready for your final interview.”
“And then I’ll be going home.”
Marcius sighed, unable to understand why Clark was so eager to leave the Capitol and return to his impoverished home district. “Yes, then you’ll be going home.”
Clark nodded. “Good night, then.” He hurried towards the elevator, glad to get away from Haver’s inquiries. He knew that his mentor meant well, but he couldn’t risk anyone finding out what Snow had said to him. He didn’t yet know what Panem’s president intended to do with his “powers,” but the less that was said, the better.
*****
That afternoon, Caesar joined Clark in the District 9 sitting room for the final interview. The victor’s chair had been placed in the room, along with a few cameras. Aside from Marcius, Haver, and Matilda, there was no live audience for this interview.
As Haver had predicted, the circumstances of Lois’s death were a chief focus of the interview.
“Clark,” Caesar said, “when you covered the camera with that poncho — was that deliberate?”
Clark shook his head. “No, Caesar … I was just trying to get it out of the way. I didn’t think about where it would land. I had to take it off her to … to make it easier to do what had to be done.”
“And what happened after that? Everyone is wondering how Lois died.”
Clark was silent for a moment before answering, “I don’t know. I knew what I had to do — I couldn’t sit and watch her suffer — but then … I didn’t have to do anything. She just … died. I don’t know how. I was just glad she was no longer suffering.”
“Well, you had half of Panem in tears.”
“Because they didn’t see her die?” Clark looked at Caesar in confusion.
“No … because of her death. It was a first for the Hunger Games — a tragic love story. Star-crossed lovers from separate districts meeting in the Games and defending each other to the end, even when the tragic outcome was inevitable.”
Clark was startled, though he took pains to hide his feelings.
People thought it was a love story? It was brutal and painful … I had to kill my best friend to keep her from dying in agony. I’ll never be able to forget that moment — but it wasn’t a love story. It was two people who became friends and tried to do what was right, even under the worst of circumstances.Clark could not allow himself to think that he might have felt more for Lois than friendship — it hurt too much to contemplate. It was hard enough to live with the knowledge that he had killed a friend, even if it was to spare her further pain. The idea that he might have been responsible for the death of someone he loved was more than he could bear.
To Caesar he said, “She was a good person, full of life. She had compassion for those weaker than her. I did everything I could for her — until there was nothing left that I could do.”
Caesar was so moved by Clark’s words that he had to take a moment before continuing. The rest of the interview passed quickly, touching on Becky’s death, Platinum’s attack on Clark, and Lysander’s death.
Clark barely suppressed a sigh of relief when Caesar signed off, ending the final interview. As the cameras were shut off and taken away, Clark walked over to his mentors.
“You made it,” Haver said. “The Capitol loves you.” Leaning close, he whispered, “That’ll go a long way towards keeping you safe.”
Clark nodded. “Now what?”
“Now you collect your belongings from your room. A car will be here soon to take us to the train station.”
*****
A short time later, Clark was standing in front of the Training Center with his mentors. Marcius, who would be accompanying them back to District 9, was talking to their driver.
Clark reached into his pocket, pulling out the picture of his family and looking at it. It was the only thing, besides the clothes Rosaline had given him for his final interview, that he was taking home with him.
Home. It seemed unreal. He had only been away for three weeks, but District 9 and the life he’d had before the Hunger Games seemed like a distant dream. What would he face when he came home? What would it be like?
Haver tapped on his shoulder, gesturing for him to get into the car. Clark complied, watching as the windows darkened so he couldn’t see where the car was taking him. It didn’t matter, of course — he’d seen the route from the train station to the Training Center the fateful night he’d flown over the Capitol and hit the force field.
He didn’t say anything, though, or ask any questions. He knew that the Capitol tried to keep everyone from the districts, even victors, ignorant of the city’s geography so they couldn’t tell tributes where to go if they escaped from the Training Center.
Before long, the car arrived at the train station. Clark stepped into the train, watching as it started to move, carrying him away from the Capitol and back to his old life.
As the train entered the tunnel through the mountains, Clark went to his room. Closing the door behind him, he pushed down his glasses, then looked through the walls at Becky’s room. It was neat and spotless, with no sign that she had ever been there. Next year, another girl would occupy her room for the brief trip to the Capitol, and another boy would occupy Clark’s room. Clark himself would be a mentor, trying to find a way to keep the kids alive against all odds.
The clothes he had worn for the Reaping were sitting in the middle of the bed, clean and pressed. Slowly, Clark removed the fancy interview clothes and changed into his old District 9 attire. Then he tucked his token into his pocket and rejoined the others.
The train was moving much faster now than it had on the way to the Capitol. Puzzled, Clark asked Marcius about it.
“When you were going to the Capitol, the train’s speed was set so that all of the tributes would arrive within an hour of each other. Since Districts 11 and 12 are so far from the Capitol, that means early morning on the day after the Reaping. Going home, the train goes at full speed. You’ll be home by early evening.”
Clark looked out the window as the mountains disappeared and the wide, rolling plains flashed by. He remembered the day he had run alongside a train — a youthful impulse that had ultimately wound up betraying him to Snow. He had been too young then to realize the potential consequences of his actions, but now they had come back to haunt him, and as a result, he would have to take great care in the future for the sake of everyone he cared about.
Sometime later, the train slowed as it moved through the populated areas of District 9. Clark stood at the window, looking out and seeing the occasional house and barn amongst the fields of grain. Some people were still working in the fading light of early evening. They looked up and pointed as the train rumbled past.
Clark looked out at them, at the familiar people and land of his district. He was almost home — but what did that mean now? Would he appear as different to people as he felt? Would he still be a member of the community like he had been before, or would people treat him differently? All of them had watched the Hunger Games — they’d had no choice in the matter. All of them would have seen what he had done to survive, some of it things that would be considered entirely wrong here.
What did his parents think of him? They’d spent years teaching him to be kind and compassionate, but now they’d seen him kill another person. What did the Rasens think? Were they glad that District 9 had a victor this year, or did they blame him for not saving their daughter? Would his friends view him as they had before? What would Rachel think of him now? Did she believe that what she’d seen growing between him and Lois was a tragic love?
Not only did Clark wonder how people would view him, but he wondered how he would view them. Would he be able to live amongst them normally, or would the Games always haunt him? He would never be able to forget Becky or Lois, and what he’d done to Lysander would stay with him forever. Would he be able to see them as the people he’d grown up with, or would he see them as potential victims of the Capitol?
Though he’d watched the Hunger Games every year of his life, it wasn’t the same as actually living through it. What he’d seen and done would be with him for a lifetime, and he didn’t know if things could ever truly return to normal.
Haver and Matilda came to stand beside him as the train pulled into the District 9 station. Haver put a hand on Clark’s shoulder.
“Eventually, it will get easier,” he told the young man.
Matilda shook her head sadly. “No, it won’t.”
Silently, the three of them went to greet the crowd gathered around the station, waiting to welcome back their victor.
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