The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes

by Suzanne Collins

  When she reached the top of the post, Lamina regained her feet and slid the ax into her belt. Although the crossbeam couldn’t have measured more than six inches in width, she easily walked along it until she stood above Marcus. Straddling the beam, she locked her ankles for support and leaned over toward his battered head. She said something that the microphones couldn’t pick up, but he must have heard, because his lips moved in response. Lamina sat upright and considered the situation. Then she braced herself again, swung down, and drove the ax blade into the curved side of Marcus’s neck. Once. Twice. And on the third time, in a spray of blood, she succeeded in killing him. Regaining her seat, she wiped her hands clean on her skirt and stared off into the arena.

  “That’s my girl!” Pup cried out. Suddenly, he appeared on the screen as the Heavensbee Hall camera streamed his reaction. Coriolanus caught a glimpse of himself a couple of rows behind Pup and sat up straighter. Pup grinned, revealing bits of his morning eggs in his braces, and gave a fist pump. “First kill of the day! That’s my tribute, Lamina, from District Seven,” he said to the camera. He held up his wrist. “And my communicuff is open for business. Never too late to show your support and send a gift!”

  The phone number flashed on the screen again, and Coriolanus could hear a few faint pings coming from Pup’s communicuff as Lamina received some sponsor gifts. The Hunger Games felt more fluid, more changeful than he had prepared for. Wake up! he told himself. You’re not a spectator, you’re a mentor!

  “Thank you!” Pup waved at the camera. “Well, I think she deserves a little something, don’t you?” He fiddled with the communicuff and looked up at the screen expectantly as the camera jumped back to Lamina. The audience watched with anticipation, as this would be the first attempt to deliver a gift to a tribute. A minute passed, then five. Coriolanus had begun to wonder if the technology had failed the Gamemakers, when a small drone clutching a pint-sized bottle of water in its claws appeared over the top of the arena by the entrance and made its way shakily to Lamina. It looped and dipped and even reversed course before crashing into the crossbeam a good ten feet from her and falling to the ground like a swatted insect. The bottle had cracked, so the water soaked into the dirt and vanished.

  Lamina stared down at her gift, expressionless, as if she’d expected nothing more, but Pup burst out angrily, “Wait a minute! That’s not fair. Someone paid good money for that!” The crowd murmured in agreement. No immediate remedy followed, but a replacement bottle flew in ten minutes later, and this time, Lamina managed to snatch it from the drone, which followed its predecessor to a dusty death.

  Lamina took an occasional sip of her water, but other than that, little movement occurred except the gathering of flies around Marcus’s body. Coriolanus could hear the occasional ping from Pup’s communicuff signifying additional gifts to Lamina, who seemed content to remain on the crossbeam. It wasn’t a bad strategy, really. Safer than the ground, for sure. She had a plan. She could kill. In less than an hour, Lamina had redefined herself as a contender in the Games. She seemed a lot tougher than Lucy Gray anyway. Wherever she was.

  Time passed. With the exception of Reaper, who could occasionally be seen prowling the stands, none of the tributes presented themselves as hunters, not even the armed ones. Had it not been for Marcus’s presentation and Lamina’s finishing him off, it would have been an exceptionally slow opening. Usually, some sort of bloodbath could be counted on to kick off the Games, but with so many of the competitive tributes dead, the field consisted largely of prey.

  The arena shrank to a small window at the corner of the screen as Lucky appeared, giving more district background and dropping in a weather report for good measure. Having a full-time host for the Games was new territory, and he struggled to create the role. When Tanner climbed up and strolled along the top row of the arena, he quickly threw the broadcast back, but the tribute only sat awhile in the sun before vanishing into the passages beneath the stands.

  A rustling in the back of Heavensbee Hall turned heads, and Coriolanus spotted Lepidus Malmsey making his way up the aisle with his camera crew. He invited Pup to join him, and their interview went live. Pup, a previously untapped source, rattled off every detail he could think of about Lamina and then added several more that Coriolanus felt were fabricated, but even that only took a few minutes. This set the pattern for the morning. Brief informational interviews with mentors. Long expanses of inactivity in the arena. Everyone welcomed the lunch break.

  “You lied about it being over quickly,” Lysistrata muttered as they lined up for the bacon sandwiches stacked on a table in the hall.

  “Things will pick up,” Coriolanus said. “They have to.”

  But it seemed they didn’t. The long, hot afternoon brought only a few more tribute sightings and a quartet of carrion birds that circled lazily above Marcus. Lamina managed to hack away at his restraints enough to send him tumbling to the ground. For her efforts, Pup sent her a slice of bread, which she broke up, rolled into small balls, and ate one at a time. Then she stretched out on her stomach, secured her spindly frame by tying her rope belt around the beam, and dozed off.

  Capitol News found short-lived relief by streaming the plaza in front of the arena, where concession stands had been set up to sell drinks and sweets to citizens who’d come down to watch the Games on two large screens flanking the entrance. With so little happening in the arena, most of the attention ended up on a pair of dogs whose owner had dressed them up like Lucy Gray and Jessup. Coriolanus felt conflicted about it — he didn’t really like seeing that silly poodle in her rainbow ruffles — until a couple of pings registered on his communicuff and he decided there was no bad publicity. But the dogs tired and were taken home, and still nothing happened.

  Five o’clock was nearing when Lucky introduced Dr. Gaul to the audience. He’d become visibly frazzled under the strain of keeping the coverage going. Throwing his hands up in bewilderment, he said, “What gives, Head Gamemaker?”

  Dr. Gaul basically ignored him, speaking directly to the camera. “Some of you may be wondering about the slow start to the Games, but let me remind you what a wild ride it’s been just getting here. Over a third of the tributes never made it into the arena, and those who did, for the most part, weren’t exactly the powerhouses. In terms of fatalities, we’re running neck and neck with last year.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” said Lucky. “But I think I speak for a lot of people when I say, where are the tributes this year? Usually, they’re easier to spot.”

  “Perhaps you’ve forgotten about the recent bombing,” said Dr. Gaul. “In previous years, the areas open to the tributes were largely restricted to the field and the stands, but last week’s attack opened up any number of cracks and crevices, providing easy access to the labyrinth of tunnels inside the walls of the arena. It’s a whole new Games, first finding another tribute, and then ferreting them out of some very dark corners.”

  “Oh.” Lucky looked disappointed. “So we might have seen the last of some tributes?”

  “Don’t worry. When they get hungry, they’ll start poking their heads out,” Dr. Gaul replied. “That’s another game changer. With the audience providing food, the Games could last indefinitely.”

  “Indefinitely?” Lucky said.

  “I hope you’ve got a lot more magic tricks up your sleeve!” cackled Dr. Gaul. “You know, I’ve got a rabbit mutt I’d love to see you pull out of a hat. It’s part pit bull.”

  Lucky blanched a bit and attempted a laugh. “No, thanks. I’ve got my own pets, Dr. Gaul.”

  “I almost feel sorry for him,” Coriolanus whispered to Lysistrata.

  “I don’t,” she answered. “They deserve each other.”

  At five o’clock, Dean Highbottom dismissed the student body, but the fourteen mentors with tributes stayed on, largely because their communicuffs only worked through transmitters at the Academy or the Capitol News statio
n itself.

  Around seven o’clock, a real dinner appeared for the “talent,” which made Coriolanus feel important and right at the center of things. The pork chops and potatoes were certainly better fare than what they had at home — another reason for wanting Lucy Gray to stay alive. Sopping up the gravy on his plate, he wondered if she was hungry. As they collected their blueberry tarts and cream, he pulled Lysistrata aside to discuss the situation. Their tributes should have a nice little stash of food from the good-bye meeting, especially if Jessup had lost his appetite, but what about water? Was there a source inside the arena? And even if they wanted to, how would they go about sending in supplies without revealing their tributes’ hiding spot? Dr. Gaul was likely right about the tributes poking their heads out if they wanted something. Until then, they reasoned, the best strategy would be to sit tight.

  As they finished dessert, some activity in the arena drew the mentors back to their seats. Io Jasper’s District 3 boy, Circ, crawled out of the barricade near the entrance and looked around before waving someone in. A small, scruffy girl with dark, frizzy hair scrambled out after him. Lamina, still napping on the beam, opened one eye to determine their threat level.

  “No worries, my sweet Lamina,” said Pup to the screen. “Those two couldn’t climb a stepladder.” Apparently, Lamina agreed, because all she did was adjust her body to a more comfortable position.

  Lucky Flickerman came up in the corner of the screen, a napkin tucked into his collar and a smudge of blueberry on his chin, and reminded the audience that the children were the tributes from District 3, the technology district. Circ was the boy who’d claimed he could ignite things with his glasses. “And the girl’s name is . . .” Lucky glanced off-screen for a cue card. “Teslee! Teslee from Three! And she’s being mentored by our own . . .” Lucky looked off again, but this time seemed lost. “That would be our own . . .”

  “Oh, make an effort,” Urban Canville grumbled from the first row. Like Io, his parents were some kind of scientists, physicists maybe? Urban was so ill-tempered everyone felt fine resenting the perfect scores he brought in on calculus tests. Coriolanus thought he could hardly blame Lucky for laziness after ditching the interview. Teslee looked small but not hopeless.

  “Our own Turban Canville!” said Lucky.

  “Urban, not Turban!” said Urban. “Honestly, could they get a professional?”

  “Unfortunately, we did not see Turban and Teslee at the interview,” said Lucky.

  “Because she refused to speak to me!” Urban snapped.

  “Somehow immune to his charms,” said Festus, causing the back row to laugh.

  “I’m going to send Circ something right now. No telling when I’ll see him again,” announced Io, working her communicuff. Coriolanus could see Urban following suit.

  Circ and Teslee quickly skirted around Marcus’s body and crouched down to examine the broken drones. Their hands moved delicately over the equipment, assessing the damage, probing into compartments that would have gone unnoticed otherwise. Circ removed a rectangular object that Coriolanus took for a battery and gave Teslee a thumbs-up. Teslee reattached some wires on hers, and the drone lights blinked. They grinned at each other.

  “Oh, my!” exclaimed Lucky. “Something exciting happening here!”

  “It would be more exciting if they had the controllers,” said Urban, but he seemed a little less angry.

  The pair was still examining the drones when two more flew in and dropped some bread and water in their general vicinity. As they gathered up their gifts, a figure appeared deep in the arena. They consulted, then each picked up a drone and hastily beat a path back to the barricade. The figure turned out to be Reaper, who ducked into one of the tunnels and emerged carrying someone in his arms. As the cameras trained on them, Coriolanus saw it was Dill, who seemed to have shrunk, her body curled up in the fetal position. She stared dully into the evening sun that dappled her ashen skin. A cough brought a strand of bloody spittle out of the side of her mouth.

  “I’m surprised she lasted the day,” Felix commented to no one in particular.

  Reaper stepped around the debris from the bombing until he reached a sunny spot and laid Dill down on a charred piece of wood. She shivered despite the heat. He pointed up at the sun and said something, but she didn’t react.

  “Isn’t he the one who promised to kill all the others?” asked Pup.

  “Doesn’t look so tough to me,” said Urban.

  “She’s his district partner,” said Lysistrata. “And she’s almost dead now. Tuberculosis, probably.”

  That quieted people down, as a bad strain of the stuff still cropped up around the Capitol, where it was barely managed as a chronic condition, let alone cured. In the districts, of course, it was a death sentence.

  Reaper paced restlessly for a minute, either eager to get back to the hunt or unable to handle Dill’s suffering. Then he gave her one last pat and loped toward the barricade.

  “Shouldn’t you send him something?” Domitia said to Clemensia.

  “What for? He didn’t kill her; he just carried her. I’m not going to reward him for that,” Clemensia retorted.

  Coriolanus, who’d been avoiding her all day, decided he’d made the right decision. Clemensia wasn’t herself. Maybe the snake venom had altered her brain.

  “Well, I might as well use what little I have. It’s hers,” Felix said, and punched something into his communicuff.

  Two bottles of water flew in by drone. Dill seemed oblivious to them. After a few minutes, the boy who Coriolanus remembered juggling sprinted out of a tunnel, his black hair flowing behind him. Without missing a step, he reached down and grabbed the water, then disappeared through a large crack in the wall. A voice-over from Lucky reminded the audience that the boy was Treech, from District 7, mentored by Vipsania Sickle.

  “Well, that’s harsh,” said Felix. “Might’ve given her one last drink.”

  “That’s good thinking,” said Vipsania. “Saves me money, and I don’t have much to work with.”

  The sun sank toward the horizon, and the carrion birds wheeled slowly over the arena. At last, Dill’s body convulsed with a final, violent bout of coughing, and a gush of blood soaked her filthy dress. Coriolanus felt unwell. The blood pouring from her mouth both horrified and disgusted him.

  Lucky Flickerman came on and announced that Dill, the girl tribute from District 11, had died of natural causes. Sadly, that meant they wouldn’t be seeing much more of Felix Ravinstill. “Lepidus, can we have a few last words with him from Heavensbee Hall?”

  Lepidus pulled Felix out and asked him how he felt about having to leave the Games.

  “Well, it isn’t a shock, really. The girl was on her last legs when she got here,” said Felix.

  “I think it’s enormously to your credit that you got her through the interview,” said Lepidus sympathetically. “Many mentors didn’t manage even that.”

  Coriolanus wondered if Lepidus’s high praise had more to do with Felix’s being the grandnephew of the president than anything else, but he didn’t begrudge it. It set a precedent for a level of success that he’d already surpassed, so even if Lucy Gray didn’t last the night, he could still be viewed as a standout. But she must last the night, and then another, and then another until she won. He had promised to help her, but so far he’d done absolutely nothing except promote her to the audience.

  Back in the studio, Lucky heaped a few more compliments on Felix and signed off. “As night falls on the arena, most of our tributes have bedded down, and so should you. We’ll keep an eye on things here, but we don’t really expect much action until morning. Pleasant dreams.”

  The Gamemakers cut to a wide shot of the arena, where the silhouette of Lamina on her beam was about all Coriolanus could make out. After dark, the arena had no lighting except what the moon provided, and that usually didn’t make for good viewi
ng. Dean Highbottom said they might as well go home, although bringing a toothbrush and a change of clothes for the future would be a good idea. They all shook hands with Felix and congratulated him on a job well done, and most of them meant it, as the day had cemented the mentor bond in a brand-new way. They were members of a special club that would dwindle down to one but always define them all.

  As he walked home, Coriolanus did the math. Two more tributes were dead, but he’d stopped counting Marcus as a contender awhile back. Still, only thirteen left, and only twelve competitors that Lucy Gray needed to survive. And, as Dill and the asthmatic boy from District 5 had proven, a lot of it could come down to a matter of her simply outliving the others. He thought back to yesterday: wiping away her tears, the promise to keep her alive, the kiss. Was she thinking of him now? Was she missing him the way he was missing her? He hoped she would make an appearance tomorrow and he could get her some food and water. Remind the audience of her existence. He’d only had a few new gifts in the afternoon, and that might’ve been due to her alliance with Jessup. Lucy Gray’s charming songbird persona was becoming less impressive with each grim moment in the Hunger Games. No one knew about the rat poison but him, so that didn’t help her standing.

  Hot and tired from the stressful day, he wanted nothing more than to shower and sink into bed, but the moment he stepped into the apartment, the fragrance of the jasmine tea reserved for company wafted over him. Who would be visiting at this hour? And on opening day, at that? It was far too late for the Grandma’am’s friends, far too late for neighbors to be dropping in, and they weren’t the dropping-in kind anyway. Something must be wrong.

  The Snows rarely used the television in the formal living room, but, of course, they had one. Its screen showed the darkened arena, just as he’d left it at Heavensbee Hall. The Grandma’am, who’d pulled a decent robe over her nightdress, perched stiffly on a straight-backed chair at the tea table while Tigris poured out a steaming cup of pale liquid for their guest.