The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes

by Suzanne Collins

  Remembering he was on the train, Coriolanus shut his eyes, afraid tears might come. It would never do to be seen bawling like a baby, so he wrestled his emotions back under control. He calmed himself with the idea that returning Lucy Gray to District 12 might be the best strategy for the Capitol anyway. Perhaps, as time passed, Dr. Gaul might produce her again, especially if he was well out of the way. Have her come back and sing to kick off the Games. Her crimes, if there had been any, were minor compared to his. And the audience had loved her, hadn’t they? Perhaps her charms would save her once again.

  Every so often the train would stop and vomit out more recruits, either at their designated district or for transfer to transports headed north or south or wherever they’d been assigned. Sometimes he stared out the windows at the dead cities they passed, now abandoned to the elements, and wondered what the world had been like when they’d all been in their glory. Back when this had been North America, not Panem. It must have been fine. A land full of Capitols. Such a waste . . .

  Around midnight, the compartment door slid open and two girls bound for District 8 fell in with a half gallon of posca they’d somehow smuggled onto the train. Times being what they were, he spent the night helping them consume it and then awoke, a full day later, to find the train pulling into District 12 as a sultry Tuesday morning dawned.

  Coriolanus stumbled onto the platform with a throbbing head and sandpaper mouth. Following orders, he and three other recruits formed a line and waited an hour for a Peacekeeper who didn’t look much older than them to lead them out of the station and through the gritty streets. The heat and humidity turned the air to some state halfway between a liquid and a gas, and he could not confirm if he was inhaling or exhaling. Moisture bathed his body with an unfamiliar sheen that defied wiping away. Sweat didn’t dry, only deepened. His nose ran freely, the snot already tinged black with coal dust. His socks squished in his stiff boots. After an hour’s trek down cinder and cracked-asphalt streets lined with hideous buildings, they arrived at the base that was to be his new home.

  The security fence enclosing the base, as well as the armed Peacekeepers at the gate, made him feel less exposed. The recruits followed their guide through an assortment of nondescript gray buildings. At the barracks, the two girls peeled off while he and the only other new male recruit, a tall, rail-thin boy named Junius, were directed to a room lined with four sets of bunk beds and eight lockers. Two of the bunks were neatly made, and two of the remaining, placed near a smeared window that looked out on a dumpster, had stacks of bedding on them. The boys clumsily followed instructions for making them up, Coriolanus taking the top bunk in deference to Junius’s fear of heights. Then they were given the rest of the morning to shower, unpack, and review the Peacekeeper training manual before reporting to the mess for lunch at eleven.

  Coriolanus stood in the shower, head back, gulping down the lukewarm water that flowed from the tap. He toweled off three times before he accepted the dampness of his skin as a perpetual state and dressed in clean fatigues. After unpacking his duffel and tucking his precious box on the top shelf of his locker, he climbed onto his bed and perused the Peacekeepers’ manual — or pretended to — to avoid conversation with Junius, a nervous fellow who needed reassurance that Coriolanus was ill-positioned to give. What he wanted to say was, Your life is over, young Junius; accept it. But that seemed likely to bring on more confidences that he lacked the energy to field. The sudden absence of responsibility in his life — to his studies, his family, his very future — had sapped his strength. Even the tiniest of tasks seemed daunting.

  A few minutes before eleven, their bunkmates — a talkative, round-faced boy named Smiley and his diminutive buddy, Bug — collected them. The quartet headed to the mess hall, which held long tables lined with cracked plastic chairs.

  “Tuesday means hash!” announced Smiley. Although he’d been a Peacekeeper for barely a week, he seemed not only to know but to revel in the routine. Coriolanus collected a slotted tray featuring something that resembled dog food studded with potatoes. Hunger and the enthusiasm of his comrades emboldened him, so he tried a bite and found the stuff quite edible, if heavily salted. He also received two canned pear halves and a big mug of milk. Not elegant, but filling. He realized that, as a Peacekeeper, he was unlikely to starve. In fact, he’d be guaranteed more consistent food than he’d had access to at home.

  Smiley declared them all fast friends, and by the end of lunch, Coriolanus and Junius had been dubbed Gent and Beanpole respectively, one by way of table manners, the other because of his frame. Coriolanus welcomed the nickname, because the last thing he wanted to hear was the name Snow. None of his bunkmates commented on it, though, or made any mention of the Hunger Games. It turned out the enlisted only had access to one television in the rec room, and the reception proved so poor it was rarely on. If Beanpole had seen Coriolanus in the Capitol, he hadn’t made the connection between the Hunger Games mentor and the grunt beside him. Perhaps no one recognized him because no one expected him to be there. Or perhaps his celebrity had only extended to the Academy and a handful of unemployed in the Capitol who’d had time to follow the drama. Coriolanus relaxed enough to admit to a military father killed in the war, a grandmother and cousin back home, and school having ended the previous week.

  To his surprise, he discovered that Smiley and Bug, as well as many of the other Peacekeepers, were not Capitol but district-born. “Oh, sure,” said Smiley. “Peacekeeping’s good work if you can get it. Better than mill work. Lots of food, and money enough to send back to my folks. Some people sneer at it, but I say the war’s history and a job’s a job.”

  “So you don’t mind policing your own people?” Coriolanus couldn’t help asking.

  “Oh, these aren’t my people. My people are in Eight. They don’t leave you where you’re born,” said Smiley with a shrug. “’Sides, you’re my family now, Gent.”

  Coriolanus got introduced to more of his new family that afternoon when he was assigned to kitchen detail. Under the guidance of Cookie, an old soldier who’d lost his left ear in the war, he stripped to the waist and stood over a sink of steaming water for four hours, scrubbing pots and hosing off meal trays. Then he was allowed fifteen minutes to eat another round of hash before he spent the next few hours mopping the mess hall and hallways. He had about half an hour back in the room before lights went out at nine and he collapsed into bed in his undershorts.

  By five the next morning, he was dressed and on the field to begin training in earnest. The first stage was designed to bring the new troops up to an acceptable level of fitness. He squatted and sprinted and drilled until his clothes were sodden and his heels blistered. Professor Sickle’s instruction served him well; she’d always insisted on rigorous exercise, and he’d been marching in formation since he was twelve. Beanpole, on the other hand, with his two left feet and concave chest, had the drill sergeant baiting and abusing him by turns. That night, as Coriolanus drifted off to sleep, he could hear the boy trying to stifle his sobs with his pillow.

  Blocks of training, eating, cleaning, and sleeping made up his new life. He moved through them mechanically but with enough competence to avoid reproach. If he was lucky, he had a precious half hour to himself before lights-out at night. Not that he accomplished anything. It was all he could do to shower and climb into his bunk.

  The thought of Lucy Gray tormented him, but it was tricky getting information about her. If he went around the base asking questions, someone might figure out his role in the Games, and he wanted to avoid that at all costs. The squad’s designated day off was Sunday, and their duties ended Saturday at five. As new recruits, they were confined to base until the following weekend. Then Coriolanus planned to go into town and surreptitiously ask the locals about Lucy Gray. Smiley said the Peacekeepers hung out at an old coal warehouse called the Hob, where you could purchase homemade liquor and maybe buy yourself some company. District 12 had a town
square as well, the same one used for the reaping, with a smattering of small shops and tradespeople, but that was more active in the daytime.

  Except for Beanpole, who pulled latrine duty for his shortcomings, his bunkmates headed to the rec room to play poker after Saturday’s dinner. Coriolanus lingered over his noodles and canned meat in the mess hall. Since Smiley was usually distracting them all with his prattle, it was the first time he had to really take stock of the other Peacekeepers. They ranged in age from late teens to one old man who looked to be the Grandma’am’s contemporary. Some chatted among themselves, but most sat silent and depressed, sucking down their noodles. Was he looking, he wondered, at his future?

  Coriolanus opted to spend his evening in the barrack. Having left his last coins with his family, he would have no money for gambling, not even pocket change, until he was paid on the first of the month. More importantly, he had received a letter from Tigris that he wanted to read in private. He soaked in his solitude, free of the sight, sound, and smell of his comrades. All the together-ness overwhelmed him, used as he was to ending his days alone. He climbed onto his bunk and carefully opened his letter.

  My dearest Coryo,

  It’s Monday night now, and the apartment echoes with your absence. The Grandma’am doesn’t quite seem to know what’s going on, as twice today she asked when you’d be home and should we wait on dinner. Word of your situation has begun to spread. I went to see Pluribus, and he said he’d heard any number of rumors: that you’d followed Lucy Gray to Twelve out of love, that you’d gotten drunk celebrating and signed up on a dare, that you’d broken the rules and sent Lucy Gray gifts in the arena yourself, that you had some kind of falling out with Dean Highbottom. I tell people that you’re doing your duty to your country, just as your father did.

  Festus, Persephone, and Lysistrata came by this evening, all very concerned about you, and Mrs. Plinth called to get your address. I think she means to write you.

  Our apartment is officially going on the market now, thanks to some help from the Dolittles. Pluribus says that, if we can’t find a place immediately, he has a couple of spare rooms we can use above the club, and that maybe I can help out with the costumes if he reopens it. He’s also placed several pieces of our furniture with buyers. He’s been very kind and says to send his regards to you and Lucy Gray. Have you been able to see her? That’s the one sweet spot in all this madness.

  I’m sorry this is so short, but it’s quite late, and I’ve so much to do. I just wanted to get something off to remind you how much you are loved and missed. I know how hard things must be, but don’t lose hope. It has sustained us through the darkest of times and will do so now. Please write and tell us of your life in 12. It may not seem ideal, but who knows where it may lead?

  SLOT,

  Tigris

  Coriolanus buried his face in his hands. The Capitol making a mockery of the Snow name? The Grandma’am losing her mind? Their home a pair of shabby rooms above a nightclub, where Tigris stitched sequined unitards? Was this the fate of the magnificent Snow family?

  And what of him, Coriolanus Snow, future president of Panem? His life, tragic and pointless, unspooled before him. He saw himself in twenty years’ time, grown stout and stupid, the breeding beaten out of him, his mind atrophied to the point where nothing but base, animal thoughts of hunger and sleep ever crossed it. Lucy Gray, having languished in Dr. Gaul’s lab, would be long dead, and his heart dead with her. Twenty wasted years, and then what? When his time had been served? Why, he’d just reenlist, because even then the humiliation would be too great. And what would await him in the Capitol if he did return? The Grandma’am passed on. Tigris, middle-aged but seeming older, sewing away in servitude, her kindness transformed to insipidity, her existence a joke to those she had to please to earn her keep. No, he’d never return. He’d stay on in 12 like that old man in the mess hall had, because this was his life. No partner, no children, no address but the barrack. The other Peacekeepers, his family. Smiley, Bug, Beanpole, his band of brothers. And he would never see anyone from home again. Never, ever again.

  A terrible pain clutched his chest as a toxic wave of homesickness and despair swamped him. He felt sure he was having a heart attack but made no attempt to call for help, instead curling into a ball and pressing his face against the wall. Perhaps it was for the best. Because there was no out. Nowhere to run. No hope of rescue. No future that was not a living death. What did he have to look forward to? Hash? A weekly cup of gin? A promotion from dish washing to dish scraping? Wasn’t it better to die now, quickly, than to drag it out painfully for years?

  Somewhere — it seemed very distant — he heard a door bang shut. Footsteps came down the hall, pausing for a minute and then continuing toward him. He gritted his teeth, willing his heart to stop at once, because the world and he had finished with each other and it was time to part ways. But the footsteps grew louder and came to a halt at his door. Was the person looking at him? Was it the patrol? Staring at him in this mortifying position? Lapping up his wretchedness? He waited for the laughter, the derision, and the latrine duty that was sure to follow.

  Instead he heard a quiet voice say, “Is this bunk taken?” A quiet and familiar voice . . .

  Coriolanus twisted around on the bed, his eyes flying open to confirm what his ears already knew. Standing in the doorway, looking oddly at home in a set of fatigues still creased from the package, stood Sejanus Plinth.

  Coriolanus had never been so glad to see anyone in his life. “Sejanus!” he burst out. He launched off his bunk, landed shakily on the painted concrete floor, and flung his arms around the newcomer.

  Sejanus embraced him. “This is a surprisingly warm welcome for the person who almost destroyed you!”

  A slightly hysterical laugh left Coriolanus’s lips, and for a moment he considered the accuracy of the claim. It was true, Sejanus had endangered his life by stealing into the arena, but it was too far a reach to blame him for all the rest. As aggravating as Sejanus could be, he’d had no hand in Dean Highbottom’s vendetta against his father or in the handkerchief debacle. “No, no, quite the opposite.” He released Sejanus and examined him. Dark circles shadowed his eyes and he must have lost at least fifteen pounds. But on the whole he had a lighter air, as if the great weight he’d carried in the Capitol had been lifted. “What are you doing here?”

  “Hm. Let’s see. Having defied the Capitol by entering the arena, I, too, was on the verge of expulsion. My father went before the board and said he’d pay for a new gymnasium for the Academy if they would let me graduate and sign up for the Peacekeepers. They agreed, but I said I wouldn’t take the deal unless they’d let you graduate, too. Well, Professor Sickle really wanted a new gym, and she said what did it matter if we were both tied up for the next twenty years anyway?” Sejanus set his duffel on the floor and dug out his box of personal items.

  “I got to graduate?” said Coriolanus.

  Sejanus opened the box, removed a small leather folder with the school’s emblem, and held it out with great ceremony. “Congratulations. You are no longer a dropout.”

  Coriolanus flipped open the cover and found a diploma with his name inscribed in curlicues. The thing must have been written out in advance, because it even credited him with High Honors. “Thank you. I guess it’s stupid, but it still matters to me.”

  “You know, if you ever wanted to take the officer candidate test, it might matter. You need to have graduated secondary school. Dean Highbottom brought that up as something that should be denied you. He said you broke some rule in the Games to help Lucy Gray? Anyway, he got outvoted.” Sejanus chuckled. “He’s really wearing on people.”

  “So I’m not universally reviled?” said Coriolanus.

  “For what? Falling in love? I think more people pity you. A lot of romantics among our teachers, come to find out,” said Sejanus. “And Lucy Gray made quite a good impression.”r />
  Coriolanus grabbed his arm. “Where is she? Do you know what happened to her?”

  Sejanus shook his head. “They usually send the victors back to their districts, don’t they?”

  “I’m afraid they’ve done something worse to her. Because we cheated in the Games,” Coriolanus confessed. “I tampered with the snakes so they wouldn’t bite her. But all she did was use rat poison.”

  “So that was it. Well, I haven’t heard anything about that. Or about her being punished,” Sejanus reassured him. “The truth is, she’s so talented, they’ll probably want to bring her back next year.”

  “I thought of that, too. Maybe Highbottom was right about her being sent home.” Coriolanus sat on Beanpole’s bunk and stared down at the diploma. “You know, when you came in, I was weighing the merits of suicide.”

  “What? Now? When you’re finally free from the clutches of Dean Highbottom and the evil Dr. Gaul? When the girl of your dreams is in reach? When my ma is, at this moment, packing a box the size of a truck full of baked goods for you?” exclaimed Sejanus. “My friend, your life has just begun!”

  And then Coriolanus was laughing; they both were. “So this isn’t our ruin?”

  “I’d call it our salvation. Mine anyway. Oh, Coryo, if you only knew how glad I was to escape,” said Sejanus, turning grave. “I never liked the Capitol, but after the Hunger Games, after what happened to Marcus . . . I don’t know if you were kidding about suicide, but it was no joke to me. I had the whole thing worked out. . . .”