The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes

by Suzanne Collins

  The reason for Dean Highbottom’s presence became clear when he followed on Lysistrata’s heels. He managed to discuss the mentor-tribute program as if he hadn’t been drugged the entire time. Actually, Coriolanus found it a little unsettling how lucid some of his observations were. He noted that the Capitol students had begun with certain prejudices against their district counterparts, but in the two weeks since the reaping, many had formed a new appreciation and respect for them. “It’s essential, as they say, to know your enemy. So what better way to get to know each other than to join forces in the Hunger Games? The Capitol won the war only after a long, hard fight, and recently our arena was bombed. To imagine that on either side we lack intelligence, strength, or courage would be a mistake.”

  “But surely, you’re not comparing our children to theirs?” asked Lucky. “One look tells you ours are a superior breed.”

  “One look tells you ours have had more food, nicer clothing, and better dental care,” said Dean Highbottom. “Assuming anything more, a physical, mental, or especially a moral superiority, would be a mistake. That sort of hubris almost finished us off in the war.”

  “Fascinating,” said Lucky, seemingly for lack of a better response. “Your views are absolutely fascinating.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Flickerman. I can think of no one whose opinion I value more,” deadpanned the dean.

  Coriolanus thought the dean’s eye roll was implied, but Lucky blushed in response. “That’s very kind, Mr. Highbottom. As we all know, I am only a humble weatherman.”

  “And a budding magician,” Dean Highbottom reminded him.

  “Well, perhaps I’ll plead guilty to that!” said Lucky with a chortle. “Hold on, what’s this?” He reached behind Dean Highbottom’s ear and pulled out a small, flat candy with bright stripes. “I believe this is yours.” He presented it to Dean Highbottom, the colors smearing his damp palm.

  Dean Highbottom made no move to take it. “My goodness. Where did that come from, Lucky?”

  “Secrets of the trade,” said Lucky with a knowing grin. “Secrets of the trade.”

  Cars were waiting to carry them back to the Academy, and Coriolanus found himself with Felix and Dean Highbottom. The two seemed to know each other socially, and they largely ignored Coriolanus while they caught up on gossip. It gave him time to reflect on what Dean Highbottom had said about the people in the districts. That they were essentially the equals of those in the Capitol, only worse off materially. It was a somewhat radical idea for the dean to be putting out there. Certainly, the Grandma’am and many others would reject it, and it diminished Coriolanus’s own effort, which had been to present Lucy Gray as someone completely other than district. He wondered how much of that had had to do with a winning strategy, and how much of it reflected his confusion about his feelings for her.

  It was not until they were headed into the hall, and Felix was distracted by a camera crew, that Coriolanus felt a hand on his arm. “You know that friend of yours from Two? The emotional one?” Dean Highbottom asked him.

  “Sejanus Plinth,” said Coriolanus. Not that they were actually friends, but that wasn’t any of Dean Highbottom’s business.

  “You might want to find him a seat near the door.” The dean slipped his bottle from his pocket, ducked behind a nearby pillar, and dosed himself with morphling drops.

  Before he could consider this, Lysistrata appeared in a temper. “Honestly, Coriolanus, you could work with me a little! Jessup keeps calling Lucy Gray his ally!”

  “I had no idea that was your pitch. Really, I didn’t mean to trip you up. If we get another chance, I’ll work in the team angle,” he promised.

  “That’s a big if,” said Lysistrata with an exasperated huff.

  Satyria made her way through the crowd and didn’t help the situation when she crowed, “What a clever interview, my dear. I half believe your girl was Capitol-born myself! Now come on. You, too, Lysistrata! You need your badges and communicuffs!”

  She led them through the hall, which, unlike in previous years, was buzzing with excitement. People were shouting good luck to him, congratulating him on the interview. Coriolanus enjoyed the attention, but there was something undeniably disturbing about it as well. In the past, these had been subdued occasions, in which people avoided eye contact and spoke only when necessary. Now an eagerness filled the hall, as if a much-loved entertainment awaited them.

  At a table, a Gamemaker oversaw the distribution of mentor supplies. While all were given a bright yellow badge with the word Mentor emblazoned on it to wear around their necks, only the ones with tributes still in the Games were issued communicuffs, making them the objects of envy. So much personal technology had disappeared during the war and its aftermath, as manufacturing had focused on other priorities. These days, even simple devices were a big deal. The cuffs buckled onto the wrist and featured a small screen, where the tally of sponsor gifts blinked in red. All the mentors had to do was scroll down the list of food items, select one from the menu, and double-click on it for a Gamemaker to set its delivery by drone in motion. Some of the tributes had no gifts at all coming to them. Despite not appearing at the interviews, Reaper had picked up a few sponsors from his time in the zoo, but Clemensia was nowhere to be seen, and her communicuff sat unclaimed at the table, drawing covetous looks from Livia.

  Coriolanus drew Lysistrata aside and showed her his screen. “Look, I’ve got a small fortune to work with. If they’re together, I’ll send in food for both.”

  “Thank you. I’ll do the same. I didn’t mean to snap like that. It’s not your fault. I should’ve brought it up before.” Her voice dropped to a hush. “It’s just . . . I couldn’t sleep last night, thinking about sitting through this. I know it’s to punish the districts, but haven’t we punished them enough? How long do we have to keep dragging the war out?”

  “I think Dr. Gaul believes forever,” he said. “Like she told us in class.”

  “It’s not just her. Look at everybody.” She indicated the party-like atmosphere of the room. “It’s revolting.”

  Coriolanus tried to calm her. “My cousin said to remember this isn’t of our making. That we’re still children, too.”

  “That doesn’t help, somehow. Being used like this,” said Lysistrata sadly. “Especially when three of us are dead.”

  Used? Coriolanus had not thought of being a mentor as anything but an honor. A way to serve the Capitol and perhaps gain a little glory. But she had a point. If the cause wasn’t honorable, how could it be an honor to participate in it? He felt confused, then manipulated, then undefended. As if he were more a tribute than a mentor.

  “Tell me it will be over quickly,” Lysistrata said.

  “It will be over quickly,” Coriolanus reassured her. “Want to sit together? We can coordinate our gifts.”

  “Please,” she said.

  The whole school had assembled by this time. They made their way over to the section of twenty-four mentor seats, which were set in the same place they’d been for the reaping. Everyone able was required to attend, whether they had a viable tribute or not. “Let’s not sit in the front,” said Lysistrata. “I don’t want that camera right in my face when he’s killed.” She was right, of course. The camera would go to the mentor, and if Lucy Gray died, especially if Lucy Gray died, he was assured a good, long close-up.

  Coriolanus obliged her by heading toward the back row. As they settled themselves in, he turned his attention to the giant screen on which Lucky Flickerman acted as tour guide to the districts, giving background about their industries, spiced with weather facts and the occasional magic trick. The Hunger Games had been a big break for Lucky, and he was not above accompanying his District 5 spiel on energy with some gadget that made his hair stand on end. “It’s electrifying!” he panted.

  “You’re an idiot,” muttered Lysistrata, and then something caught her attention. “That must
’ve been an awful flu.”

  Coriolanus followed her gaze to the table, where Clemensia had just collected her communicuff. She was scanning the room for someone. . . . Oh, it was him! The moment their eyes met, she made a beeline for the back row, and she didn’t look happy. She looked terrible, really. The bright yellow of her eyes had faded to a pale pollen shade, and a long-sleeved, high-collared, white blouse concealed the scaly area, but even with those improvements, she radiated sickliness. She picked distractedly at the dry patches on her face, and her tongue, while not protruding from her mouth, seemed bent on exploring the inside of her cheek. She made her way to the seat directly in front of him and stood there, flicking bits of skin randomly into the air as she examined him.

  “Thanks for visiting, Coryo,” Clemensia said.

  “I meant to, Clemmie, I was pretty beat-up —” he started to explain.

  She cut him off. “Thanks for contacting my parents. Thanks for letting them know where I was.”

  Lysistrata looked puzzled. “We knew where you were, Clem. They said you couldn’t have visitors because you were contagious. I tried to call once, but they said you were sleeping.”

  Coriolanus ran with that. “I tried, too, Clemmie. Repeatedly. They always gave me the runaround. And as to your parents, the doctors promised they were on the way.” None of that was true, but what could he say? Obviously, the venom had unbalanced her, or she wouldn’t even be bringing the whole incident up in such a public setting. “If I was wrong, I’m sorry. As I said, I’ve been recovering myself.”

  “Really?” she said. “You looked top-notch at the interview. You and your tribute.”

  “Easy, Clem. It’s not his fault you got sick,” said Festus, who’d arrived in time to hear enough of the conversation.

  “Oh, shut up, Festus. You have no idea what you’re talking about!” Clemensia spat out, and stomped off to take a seat near the front.

  Festus settled down next to Lysistrata. “What’s her problem? Other than she looks like she’s molting.”

  “Oh, who knows? We’re all a mess,” said Lysistrata.

  “Still, that isn’t like her. I wonder what —” Festus began.

  “Sejanus!” Coriolanus called out, happy for an interruption. “Over here!” There was an empty seat next to him, and he needed to shift the conversation.

  “Thanks,” said Sejanus, dropping into the seat on the end. He looked unwell, exhausted, with a feverish sheen on his skin.

  Lysistrata reached across Coriolanus and pressed one of his hands. “The sooner it starts, the sooner it can be over.”

  “Until next year,” he reminded her. But he gave her hand a grateful pat back.

  The students had barely been instructed to take their seats when the seal of the Capitol overtook the screens and the anthem drew everyone to their feet. Coriolanus’s voice rang out over those of the other mentors, who mumbled their way through. Honestly, by this point, couldn’t they make a little effort?

  When Lucky Flickerman returned and extended his hands in a welcoming gesture, Coriolanus could see the bright candy smear from the magic trick on his palm. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “let the Tenth Hunger Games begin!”

  A wide shot of the arena’s interior replaced Lucky. The fourteen tributes who remained on his list were positioned in a large circle, awaiting the opening gong. No one paid any attention to them, or to the new wreckage from the bombing that littered the field, or to the weapons strewn on the dusty ground, or to the flag of Panem strung from the stands, adding an unprecedented decorative touch to the arena.

  All eyes moved with the camera, riveted as it slowly zoomed in to the pair of steel poles not far from the main entrance of the arena. They were twenty feet high, joined by a crossbeam of similar length. At the center of the structure, Marcus hung from manacled wrists, so battered and bloody that at first Coriolanus thought they were displaying his corpse. Then Marcus’s swollen lips began to move, showing his broken teeth and leaving little doubt he was still alive.

  Coriolanus felt ill but incapable of looking away. It would have been horrifying to see any creature displayed this way — a dog, a monkey, a rat, even — but a boy? And a boy whose only real crime had been to run for his life? Had Marcus gone on a killing spree throughout the Capitol, it would have been one thing, but no such reports had followed in the wake of his escape. Coriolanus flashed back to the funeral parades. The grisliest exhibits — Brandy dangling from a hook and the tributes being dragged through the streets — had been reserved for the dead. The Hunger Games themselves had the twisted brilliance of pitting district child against district child, so the Capitol kept its hands clean of actual violence. There was no precedent for Marcus’s torture. Under Dr. Gaul’s guidance, the Capitol had reached a new level of retaliation.

  The image drained the party atmosphere from Heavensbee Hall. The interior of the arena had no microphones, except for a few around the oval wall, so none were close enough to hear if Marcus was trying to speak. Coriolanus desperately wished for the gong to sound, to release the tributes into action and distraction, but the opening stasis stretched on.

  He could feel Sejanus shaking with rage, and he had just turned to put a quieting hand on him, when the boy sprang from his seat and ran forward. The mentor section had five empty chairs in the front reserved for their missing classmates. Sejanus grabbed the one on the corner and hurled it toward the screen, smashing it into the image of Marcus’s ravaged face. “Monsters!” he screamed. “You’re all monsters here!” Then he dashed back down the aisle and out the main entrance to the hall. No one moved a muscle to stop him.

  The gong sounded at that moment, and the tributes scattered. Most fled to the gates that led to the tunnels, several of which had been blown open by the latest bombing. Coriolanus could see Lucy Gray’s bright dress heading for the far side of the arena, and his fingers gripped the edge of his seat, willing her forward. Run, he thought. Run! Get out of there! A handful of the strongest sprinted for the weapons, but after grabbing a few, Tanner, Coral, and Jessup dispersed. Only Reaper, armed with a pitchfork and a long knife, seemed ready to engage. But by the time he was on the offensive, no one remained to fight. He turned to watch the receding backs of his opponents, threw back his head in frustration, and climbed into a nearby stand to begin his hunt.

  The Gamemakers took this opportunity to cut back to Lucky. “Wish you’d placed a bet but couldn’t make it to the post office? Finally decided on a tribute to back?” A phone number flashed at the bottom of the screen. “You can do it all by phone now! Just call the number below, give your citizen digits, the name of the tribute, and the dollar amount you’d like to bet or gift, and you’ll be part of the action! Or if you’d rather make a transaction in person, the post office will be open daily from eight to eight. Come on, don’t miss out on this historic moment. It’s your chance to support the Capitol and make a tidy profit, too. Be a part of the Hunger Games and be a winner! Now back to the arena!”

  Within a few minutes, the arena had cleared of every tribute except Reaper, and after roaming around the stands for a bit, he ducked out of sight, too. Marcus and his agony became the focus of the Games again.

  “Should you go after Sejanus?” Lysistrata whispered to Coriolanus.

  “I think he’d rather be alone,” he whispered back. Which was probably true but secondary to the fact that he didn’t want to miss anything, trigger a response from Dr. Gaul, or publicly link himself to Sejanus. This growing perception that they were great friends, that he was the confidant of the loose cannon from the districts, was beginning to worry him. Passing out sandwiches was one thing, throwing the chair quite another. There were sure to be repercussions, and he had enough troubles without adding Sejanus to the list.

  A very long half hour passed before a distraction drew the audience’s attention. The bombs near the entrance had blown open the main gate, but a barricade had b
een built under the scoreboard. With its multiple layers of concrete slabs, wooden planks, and barbed wire, it was both an eyesore and a reminder of the rebel attack, which was probably why the Gamemakers hadn’t given it much screen time. However, with little else going on, they relented to show the audience a skinny, long-limbed girl creeping out from the fortification.

  “That’s Lamina!” Pup told Livia, who was seated next to him a couple of rows ahead of Coriolanus.

  Coriolanus had no recollection of Pup’s tribute except that she’d been unable to stop weeping at the first mentor-tribute meeting. Pup had failed to prepare her for the interview and had thus forfeited his chance to promote her. He couldn’t recall her district . . . 5 maybe?

  A rather jarring voice-over set him straight. “Now we see fifteen-year-old Lamina from District Seven,” Lucky said. “Mentored by our own Pliny Harrington. District Seven has the honor of providing the Capitol with the lumber used to repair our beloved arena.”

  Lamina surveyed Marcus, taking in his plight. The summer breeze ruffled her blonde halo of hair, and she squinted against the brightness of the sun. She wore a dress that looked to be fashioned from a flour sack and belted with a piece of rope, and insect bites dotted her bare feet and legs. Her eyes, puffy and exhausted, were reddened but tearless. In fact, she seemed strangely calm for her circumstances. Without haste, without nervousness, she crossed to the weapons and took her time choosing first a knife, then a small ax, testing each blade for sharpness with the tip of her thumb. She stuck the knife in her belt and swung the ax loosely back and forth, feeling its weight. Then she made her way to one of the poles. Her hand ran down the steel, which was rusty and paint-splattered from some previous job. Coriolanus thought she might try to chop it down, being from the lumber district and all, but instead she secured the ax handle between her teeth and began to climb it, using her knees and calloused feet to grip the metal. It looked natural, like a caterpillar making its way up a stem, but as someone who’d put in extra hours to scale the rope in gym class, he knew the strength it took.