The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes

by Suzanne Collins

  Coriolanus didn’t know how to respond. He could barely remember his father, let alone divine his imaginings.

  “What was it like? In the arena?” asked Dr. Gaul.

  “Terrifying,” said Coriolanus flatly.

  “It’s designed to be.” She checked his pupils, shining a light into each of his eyes. “What about the tributes?”

  The light hurt his head. “What about them?”

  Dr. Gaul moved on to his stitches. “What did you think of them, now that their chains have been removed? Now that they’ve tried to kill you? Because it was of no benefit to them, your death. You’re not the competition.”

  It was true. They’d been close enough to recognize him. But they’d hunted down him and Sejanus — Sejanus, who’d treated the tributes so well, fed them, defended them, given them last rites! — even though they could have used that opportunity to kill one another.

  “I think I underestimated how much they hate us,” said Coriolanus.

  “And when you realized that, what was your response?” she asked.

  He thought back to Bobbin, to the escape, to the tributes’ bloodlust even after he’d cleared the bars. “I wanted them dead. I wanted every one of them dead.”

  Dr. Gaul nodded. “Well, mission accomplished with that little one from Eight. You beat him to a pulp. Have to make up some story for that buffoon Flickerman to tell in the morning. But what a wonderful opportunity for you. Transformative.”

  “Was it?” Coriolanus remembered the sickening thuds of his board against Bobbin. So he had what? Murdered the boy? No, not that. It was an open-and-shut case of self-defense. But what, then? He had killed him, certainly. There would never be any erasing that. No regaining that innocence. He had taken human life.

  “Wasn’t it? More than I could’ve hoped. I needed you to get Sejanus out of the arena, of course, but I wanted you to taste that as well,” she said.

  “Even if it killed me?” asked Coriolanus.

  “Without the threat of death, it wouldn’t have been much of a lesson,” said Dr. Gaul. “What happened in the arena? That’s humanity undressed. The tributes. And you, too. How quickly civilization disappears. All your fine manners, education, family background, everything you pride yourself on, stripped away in the blink of an eye, revealing everything you actually are. A boy with a club who beats another boy to death. That’s mankind in its natural state.”

  The idea, laid out as such, shocked him, but he attempted a laugh. “Are we really as bad as all that?”

  “I would say yes, absolutely. But it’s a matter of personal opinion.” Dr. Gaul pulled a roll of gauze from the pocket of her lab coat. “What do you think?”

  “I think I wouldn’t have beaten anyone to death if you hadn’t stuck me in that arena!” he retorted.

  “You can blame it on the circumstances, the environment, but you made the choices you made, no one else. It’s a lot to take in all at once, but it’s essential that you make an effort to answer that question. Who are human beings? Because who we are determines the type of governing we need. Later on, I hope you can reflect and be honest with yourself about what you learned tonight.” Dr. Gaul began to wrap his wound in gauze. “And a few stitches in your arm is a cheap price to pay for it.”

  Coriolanus felt nauseous at her words but even more enraged that she had forced him to kill for the sake of her lesson. Something that significant should have been his decision, not hers. No one’s but his. “So, if I’m a vicious animal, then who are you? You’re the teacher who sent her student to beat another boy to death!”

  “Oh, yes. That role has fallen to me.” She neatly finished the bandage off. “You know, Dean Highbottom and I read your essay through. What you liked about the war. A lot of fluff. Drivel, really. Until that bit in the end. The part about control. For your next assignment, I’d like you to elaborate on that. The value of control. On what happens without it. Take your time with it. But it might be a nice addition to your prize application.”

  Coriolanus knew what happened without control. He’d seen it recently, at the zoo when Arachne died, in the arena when the bombs went off, and then again tonight. “Chaos happens. What else is there to say?”

  “Oh, a good deal, I think. Start with that. Chaos. No control, no law, no government at all. Like being in the arena. Where do we go from there? What sort of agreement is necessary if we’re to live in peace? What sort of social contract is required for survival?” She removed the drip from his arm. “We’ll need you back in a couple of days to check those stitches. Until then, I would keep the night’s events to yourself. Better get home and catch a few hours of sleep. Remarkably, your tribute still needs you.”

  After she left, Coriolanus slowly pulled on his sliced, torn, bloody shirt and fastened the buttons. He wandered until he found the elevator to street level, and the disinterested guards waved him out. The trolleys ended at midnight, and the Capitol clock showed two, so he pointed his filthy shoes toward home.

  The Plinths’ luxurious car slid up beside him, and the window lowered to reveal the Avox, who stepped out and opened the back door for him. Coriolanus guessed he’d already taken Sejanus home, and Ma had sent him back. Since the car was empty of Plinths, he got in. One last ride, then he wanted nothing to do with that family ever again. When the driver let him out at his apartment, Coriolanus was presented with a large paper bag. Before he could object, the car pulled away.

  Upstairs, he peeked in to see Tigris waiting by the tea table, wrapped in a ratty fur coat that had been her mother’s. It was her security blanket, much as the rose powder compact had been his before he revamped it as a weapon. He grabbed a school jacket from the coatrack and pulled it over his damaged shirt before he went in to see her.

  Coriolanus tried to make light of the dreadful night. “Surely, it’s not so bad you need the coat?”

  Her fingers dug into the fur. “You tell me.”

  “I will. Every bit of it. But in the morning, okay?” he said.

  “Okay.” When she reached up to hug him good night, her hand felt the bulge of the bandage on his arm. Before he could stop her, she pulled back the jacket and saw the blood. She bit her lip. “Oh, Coryo. They made you go into the arena, didn’t they?”

  He hugged her. “Not that bad, really. I’m here. Got Sejanus out, too.”

  “Not that bad? It’s horrific to think of you in there. To think of anyone in there!” she cried. “Poor Lucy Gray.”

  Lucy Gray. Now that he’d been in the arena himself, her circumstances seemed even more dire than before. The thought of her huddled somewhere in the cold blackness of the arena, too petrified to close her eyes, made him ache. For the first time, he felt glad he’d killed Bobbin. At least he’d saved her from that animal. “It’s going to be okay, Tigris. But you have to let me get some rest. You need to sleep, too.”

  She nodded, but he knew she’d be lucky to snatch an hour or two. He handed her the bag. “Courtesy of Ma Plinth. Breakfast, by the smell of it. See you then?”

  Not bothering to bathe, he collapsed into a comatose sleep until the sound of the Grandma’am singing the anthem woke him. Time to be getting up anyway. Aching head to toe, he teetered to the shower, removed the gauze from his arm, and let the hot water scream over his scraped flesh. He had a tube of ointment from his time in the hospital and, although unsure of its use, dabbed it on his raw face and chin. The stitches on his arm snagged on his clean shirt, but no new bleeding appeared. He’d wear his jacket today just in case. Throwing a toothbrush and fresh uniform in his book bag, he took one last look in the mirror and sighed. Bicycle accident, he thought. That’s the story. Not that I’ve had a working bicycle in years. Well, now he had an excuse for its broken condition.

  Once he was presentable, the first thing he did was check the television to make sure no harm had come to Lucy Gray. But the camera hadn’t shifted, and the only tribute v
isible in the early morning light was Lamina on her beam. Avoiding the Grandma’am, he came into the kitchen, where Tigris was warming up the leftover jasmine tea.

  “Running late,” he said. “I better get going.”

  “Take this for breakfast.” She put a packet in his hands and placed a pair of tokens in his pocket. “And take the trolley today.”

  Needing to conserve energy, he did as he was told, riding the trolley and eating two loaded egg-and-sausage rolls Mrs. Plinth had sent over. His only regret about ditching the Plinths would be the loss of her cooking.

  The main student body had been told to report at a quarter to eight, so the early birds consisted of the active mentors and a few Avoxes tidying the hall. Coriolanus couldn’t help throwing a guilty look at Juno Phipps, who sat discussing her strategy with Domitia when she could have slept in. He didn’t much like her — she was always throwing her family lineage in his face, as if his wasn’t as good — but last night hadn’t been fair to her either. He wondered how they would reveal Bobbin’s death and how he would feel when they did. Besides queasy.

  The only thing being served at Heavensbee Hall was tea, which brought grumblings from Festus. “If we have to be here early, you’d think they could at least feed us. What happened to your face?”

  “Bike accident,” Coriolanus said, loud enough for everyone to hear. He tossed the bag with the last roll to Festus, happy to be able to offer food for a change. He owed the Creeds more meals than he cared to remember.

  “Thanks. This looks great,” said Festus, digging in immediately.

  Lysistrata recommended a cream to prevent infection, and they went ahead and took their seats as their schoolmates began to arrive.

  Although the sun had been up for a few hours, nothing much appeared changed on the screen except the disappearance of Marcus’s body. “I guess they removed it,” said Pup. But Coriolanus thought it might still be by the barricade where he and Sejanus had abandoned it last night, just out of range of the shot.

  At the stroke of eight, they all rose for the anthem, which his classmates finally seemed to be getting a handle on, and then Lucky Flickerman appeared, welcoming them to day two of the Hunger Games. “While you were sleeping, something pretty important happened. Let’s take a look, shall we?” They cut back to the wide shot of the arena, and then slowly panned the camera round to the barricade, zooming in. As Coriolanus had suspected, Marcus’s body lay where he and Sejanus had dropped it. A few feet away, Bobbin’s battered form slumped against a chunk of concrete. It looked much, much worse than he’d imagined. The bloody limbs, the dislodged eye, the face so swollen it was unrecognizable. Had he really done that to another boy? And such a young boy, too, for in death Bobbin looked tinier than ever. Lost in that dark web of terror, it seemed he had. Perspiration beaded Coriolanus’s forehead, and he wanted to leave the hall, the building, the entire event behind. But, of course, that wasn’t an option. Who was he — Sejanus?

  After a good long look at the bodies, the show cut back to Lucky as he pondered who might have done the deed. Then his mood changed abruptly. “One thing we do know is that we’ve got something to celebrate!” Confetti fell from the ceiling, and Lucky blew madly away on a plastic horn. “Because we’ve just hit the halfway mark! That’s right, twelve tributes down, and only twelve to go!” A string of brightly colored handkerchiefs shot out of his hand. He swung it around his head, dancing and cheering, “Whoowee!” When he finally wound down, he adopted a sad expression. “But that also means we’ve got to say our farewells to Miss Juno Phipps. Lepidus?”

  Lepidus had already positioned himself at the end of the unsuspecting Juno’s aisle, and she had no choice but to join him and work through her disappointment on camera. Given a little notice, Coriolanus imagined she’d have comported herself more graciously, but as it was, she came off as sour and suspicious, questioning the recent developments as she flashed a leather binder inlaid with the Phipps family crest. “Something seems fishy to me,” she told Lepidus. “I mean, what’s he doing over there with Marcus’s body? Who moved it? And how did Bobbin end up dead? I can’t even imagine a likely scenario. I feel like there might have been foul play!”

  The reporter sounded genuinely puzzled. “What would qualify as foul play, exactly? I mean, in the arena?”

  “Well, I don’t know exactly,” steamed Juno, “but I, for one, would really like to see a replay of last night’s events!”

  Good luck with that, Juno, thought Coriolanus. Then he realized it did exist. In the back of the van, Dr. Gaul and Dean Highbottom had been watching both versions, the real feed and the one they’d darkened to obscure his mission. Even the regular one would be hard to make out. Still, he didn’t like it, the idea that somewhere there was a record, however shadowy, of him killing Bobbin. If it were ever to get out . . . well, he didn’t know what. But it made him uneasy.

  Lepidus didn’t dally with Juno, a sore loser who lacked Felix’s grace in defeat, and she was directed back to her seat with a consoling pat on the back.

  Still sparkly with confetti, Lucky seemed oblivious to her pain. He leaned in toward the camera with barely contained glee. “And now, what do you suppose? We’ve got an extra-big surprise — especially if you’re one of the twelve remaining mentors!”

  Coriolanus only had a moment to exchange questioning looks with his friends before Lucky bounded across the studio to reveal Sejanus sitting side by side with his father, Strabo Plinth, whose stern expression seemed carved from the very granite of his home district. Lucky took the host chair and patted Sejanus on the leg. “Sejanus, I’m sorry we didn’t get a moment with you yesterday to let you comment on the demise of your tribute, Marcus.” Sejanus just stared at Lucky uncomprehendingly. Lucky seemed to notice the abrasions on his face for the first time. “What’s going on here? You look like you’ve been mixing it up yourself.”

  “I fell off my bike,” Sejanus rasped, and Coriolanus winced slightly. Two biking mishaps in the same twelve-hour period seemed more than coincidental.

  “Ouch. Well, I guess you have some pretty big news to share with us!” Lucky said with an encouraging nod.

  Sejanus lowered his eyes for a moment, and while neither father nor son acknowledged each other, a battle seemed to be occurring.

  “Yes,” Sejanus finally began. “We, the Plinth family, would like to announce that we will be giving a prize for a full ride to the University to the mentor whose tribute wins the Hunger Games.”

  Pup let out a whoop, and the other mentors grinned at one another. Coriolanus knew most of them didn’t need the money as badly as he did, if at all, but it would be a feather in anyone’s cap.

  “Sensational!” said Lucky. “What a thrill those twelve remaining mentors must be experiencing right now. Was this your idea, Strabo? To create the Plinth Prize?”

  “My son’s, actually,” said Strabo, curving the edges of his lips up in what Coriolanus thought might be an attempt at a smile.

  “Well, what a generous and appropriate gesture, especially given Sejanus’s defeat. You may not have won the Games, but you’ve certainly taken home the prize for good sportsmanship. I think I speak for the Capitol when I say many thanks!” Lucky beamed at the pair, but as nothing else was forthcoming, he made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “All right, then, back to the arena!”

  Coriolanus’s mind reeled with the new development. Sejanus had been right about his father’s hasty attempt to bury his son’s outrageous behavior in cash. Not that it didn’t merit damage control. He hadn’t heard much reaction from the others in Heavensbee Hall about the outburst with the chair, but he expected stories were going around. A prize for the victor’s mentor seemed a small price to pay, really. What would Plinth offer to prevent word of Sejanus’s trip into the arena from going public? Could he be planning to buy Coriolanus’s silence?

  Never mind, never mind that, Coriolanus told himself. The bigger
news was the possibility of winning the Plinth Prize. It was independent of the Academy, so Dean Highbottom wouldn’t have a say in it. Even Dr. Gaul would not. A full ride that would free him from their power and lift this awful anxiety about the future from his shoulders! Already high, the stakes of these Games shot into the stratosphere. Focus, he told himself, drawing slow, deep breaths. Focus on helping Lucy Gray.

  What was there to do, though, until she showed her face? As the morning passed, it seemed few of the tributes were tempted to do so. Coral and Mizzen roamed around together for a bit, collecting food and water from Festus and Persephone, their mentors. They’d been spending time together, trying to come up with a joint strategy for their tributes, and Coriolanus could see that Festus was falling for her. Did you tell your best friend his crush was a cannibal? Never a rule book when you needed one.

  When they returned to the dais after lunch they found the mentor seats had been reduced to twelve, leaving only enough space for those with tributes still in the Games.

  “The Gamemakers requested it,” Satyria told the final dozen. “It makes it easier for the audience to keep track of who’s still a contender. We’re to keep removing seats as your tributes are killed.”

  “Like musical chairs,” said Domitia with a pleased look.

  “But with people dying,” said Lysistrata.

  The decision to bump the losers from the dais made Livia even more bitter, if that was possible, and Coriolanus was glad to see her relegated to the regular audience section, where he wouldn’t have to hear her snarky comments. On the other hand, it made it harder to put distance between himself and Clemensia, who seemed to spend all her free time glaring at him. He positioned himself in the last row, bolstered by Festus and Lysistrata, and tried to look engaged.

  As the afternoon unrolled, his head got heavier and heavier, until Lysistrata had to nudge him twice to keep him awake. Perhaps it was fortunate the day required so little of him, given that the night had almost killed him. There were few tribute sightings, and Lucy Gray stayed completely hidden.