The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes

by Suzanne Collins

  Coriolanus went back to his room, shocked to find it was only midafternoon. Between the booze and the rain, his bunkmates had never even risen. He went to the bathroom and emptied his pockets. The lake water had reduced his mother’s rose-scented powder to a nasty paste, and he threw the whole thing in the trash. The photos stuck together and shredded when he tried to separate them, so they went the way of the powder. Only the compass had survived the outing. He peeled off his clothes and scrubbed off the last bits of the lake. When he’d dressed, he took down his duffel and began to pack, returning the compass to his box of personal items and stowing it deep in the bag. On reflection, he opened Sejanus’s locker and took his box as well. When he got to District 2, he’d mail it to the Plinths with a note of condolence. That would be appropriate as Sejanus’s best friend. And who knew? Maybe the cookies would keep coming.

  The following morning, after a tearful good-bye from his bunkmates, he boarded the hovercraft for District Two. Things improved immediately. The plush seat. The attendant. The beverage selection. Not luxurious, by any means, but a far cry from the recruit train. Comforted by comfort, he leaned his temple against the window, hoping to get in a nap. All night, while the rain had drummed on the barrack’s roof, he’d wondered where Lucy Gray was. Dead in the rain? Curled up by the fire in the lake house? If she’d survived, surely she’d abandoned the idea of returning to District 12. He dozed off with the melody to “The Hanging Tree” humming in his brain, and awoke hours later as the hovercraft touched down.

  “Welcome to the Capitol,” the attendant said.

  Coriolanus’s eyes popped open. “What? No. Did I miss my stop? I have to report to District Two.”

  “This craft goes on to Two, but we have orders to drop you here,” said the attendant, checking a list. “I’m afraid you need to disembark. We have a schedule to keep.”

  He found himself on the tarmac of a small, unfamiliar airport. A Peacekeepers’ truck pulled up, and he was ordered into the back. As he rattled along, unable to get any information from the driver, dread seeped into him. There had been a mistake. Or had there? What if they had somehow linked him to the murders? Maybe Lucy Gray had returned and accused him, and they needed to question him? Would they drag the lake for the weapons? His heart gave a little jump as they turned onto Scholars Road and drove past the Academy, quiet and still on a summer afternoon. There was the park where they’d sometimes hung out at after school. And the bakery with those cupcakes he loved. At least he’d been granted one more glimpse of his hometown. Nostalgia faded as the truck made a sharp turn and he realized they were heading up the drive to the Citadel.

  Inside, the guards waved him right through to the elevator. “She’s expecting you in the lab.”

  He held on to the thin hope that “she” meant Dr. Kay, not Dr. Gaul, but his old nemesis waved to him from across the lab as he stepped off the elevator. Why was he here? Was he going to end up in one of her cages? As he crossed to her, he saw her drop a live baby mouse into a tank of golden snakes.

  “So the victor returns. Here, hold these.” Dr. Gaul pushed a metal bowl filled with squirming, pink rodents into his hands.

  Coriolanus suppressed a gag. “Hello, Dr. Gaul.”

  “I got your letter,” she said. “And your jabberjay. Too bad about young Plinth. Although, is it, really? Anyway, I was pleased to see you were continuing your studies in Twelve. Developing your worldview.”

  He felt himself pulled right back into the old tutorial with her, as if nothing had happened. “Yes, it was eye-opening. I thought about all the things we’d discussed. Chaos, control, the contract. The three C’s.”

  “Did you think about the Hunger Games?” she asked. “The day we met, Casca asked you what their purpose was, and you gave the stock answer. To punish the districts. Would you change that now?”

  Coriolanus remembered the conversation he’d had with Sejanus as they’d unpacked his duffel. “I’d elaborate on it. They’re not just to punish the districts, they’re part of the eternal war. Each one is its own battle. One we can hold in the palm of our hand, instead of waging a real war that could get out of our control.”

  “Hm.” She swung a mouse away from a gaping mouth. “You there, don’t be greedy.”

  “And they’re a reminder of what we did to each other, what we have the potential to do again, because of who we are,” he continued.

  “And who are we, did you determine?” she asked.

  “Creatures who need the Capitol to survive.” He couldn’t help getting in a dig. “It’s all pointless, though, you know. The Hunger Games. No one in Twelve even watches it. Except for the reaping. We didn’t even have a working television on base.”

  “While that could be a problem in the future, it’s a blessing this year, given that I’ve had to erase the whole mess,” said Dr. Gaul. “It was a mistake getting the students mixed up in it. Especially when they started dropping like flies. Presented the Capitol as far too vulnerable.”

  “You erased it?” he asked.

  “Every last copy gone, never to be aired again.” She grinned. “I’ve a master in the vault, of course, but that’s just for my own amusement.”

  He was glad about the erasure. It was just one more way to eliminate Lucy Gray from the world. The Capitol would forget her, the districts barely knew her, and District 12 had never accepted her as one of their own. In a few years, there would be a vague memory that a girl had once sung in the arena. And then that would be forgotten, too. Good-bye, Lucy Gray, we hardly knew you.

  “Not a total loss. I think we’ll bring Flickerman back next year. And your idea about the betting is a keeper,” she said.

  “You need to somehow make the viewing mandatory. No one in Twelve will tune in to something that depressing by choice,” he told her. “They spend what little free time they have drinking to forget the rest of their lives.”

  Dr. Gaul chuckled. “It seems you’ve learned a lot on your summer vacation, Mr. Snow.”

  “Vacation?” he said, perplexed.

  “Well, what were you going to do here? Laze around the Capitol, combing out your curls? I thought a summer with the Peacekeepers would be far more educational.” She took in the confusion on his face. “You don’t think I’ve invested all this time in you to hand you off to those imbeciles in the districts, do you?”

  “I don’t understand, I was told —” he began.

  She cut him off. “I’ve ordered you an honorable discharge, effective immediately. You’re to study under me at the University.”

  “The University? Here in the Capitol?” he said in surprise.

  She dropped one last mouse into the tank. “Classes start Thursday.”

  On a brilliant October afternoon halfway into fall term, Snow descended the marble steps of the University Science Center, modestly ignoring the turning heads. He looked gorgeous in his new suit, especially with the return of his curls, and his stint as a Peacekeeper had given him a certain cachet that drove his rivals wild.

  He’d just finished a special honors class in military strategy with Dr. Gaul, after a morning at the Citadel, where he’d reported for his Gamemaker internship. If you wanted to call it that — really the others treated him as a full-fledged member of the team. They were already working on ideas to engage the districts, as well as the Capitol, in next year’s Hunger Games. Snow had been the one to point out that, other than the life of two tributes they might not even know, the people in the districts had no stake in the Games. A tribute’s win needed to be a win for the whole district. They’d come up with the idea that everyone in the district would receive a parcel of food if their tribute took the crown. And to tempt a better class of tributes to possibly volunteer, Snow suggested that the victor should be given a house in a special area of town, tentatively called the Victor’s Village, which would be the envy of all those people in the hovels. That, and a token monetary
prize, should go a long way toward bringing in a decent crop of performers.

  His fingers stroked his butter-soft leather satchel, a back-to-school gift from the Plinths. He still tripped over what to call them. “Ma” was easy enough, but it didn’t suit to call Strabo Plinth his father, so he used “sir” a lot. It wasn’t as if they’d adopted him; he’d been too old at eighteen. Being designated an heir worked better for him anyway. He’d never give up the name Snow, not even for a munitions empire.

  It had all happened very naturally. His homecoming. Their grief. The merging of the families. Sejanus’s death had totaled the Plinths. Strabo had put it simply: “My wife needs something to live for. So do I, for that matter. You’ve lost your parents. We’ve lost our son. I was thinking perhaps we could work something out.” He’d bought the Snows’ apartment so they didn’t have to move, and the Dolittles’ below it for himself and Ma. There was talk of renovating, of building a spiral staircase and perhaps a private elevator to connect the two, but there was no rush. Ma already came by daily to help with the Grandma’am, who’d resigned herself to having a new “maid,” and she and Tigris got on swimmingly. The Plinths paid for everything now: the taxes on the apartment, his tuition, the cook. They gave him a generous allowance as well. This was helpful because, although he’d intercepted and pocketed the envelope of money he’d sent Tigris from District 12, university life was expensive when done right. Strabo never questioned his expenditures or nitpicked over a few new additions to his wardrobe, and he seemed pleased when Snow asked for advice. They were surprisingly compatible. At times, he almost forgot old Plinth was district. Almost.

  Tonight would’ve been Sejanus’s nineteenth birthday, and they were gathering for a quiet dinner to remember him. Snow had invited Festus and Lysistrata to join the party, as they’d liked Sejanus better than most of his classmates and could be counted on to say nice things. He planned to present the Plinths with the box from Sejanus’s locker, but first he had one more thing to do.

  The fresh air on the walk to the Academy left his mind razor sharp. He hadn’t bothered to make an appointment, preferring to drop in unexpectedly. The students had been let out an hour ago, and his footsteps rang in the hallways. Dean Highbottom’s secretary’s desk was empty, so he crossed to the dean’s office and tapped on the door. Dean Highbottom bid him enter. Between the weight loss and the tremor, he looked worse than ever, slumped over his desk.

  “Well, to what do I owe this honor?” he asked.

  “I was hoping to recover my mother’s compact, since you should have no further need of it,” Snow replied.

  Dean Highbottom reached into a drawer and slapped the compact on the desk. “Is that all?”

  “No.” He removed Sejanus’s box from his satchel. “I’m returning Sejanus’s personal effects to his parents tonight. I’m not sure what to do with this.” He emptied the contents onto the desk and picked up the framed diploma. “I didn’t think you’d want it floating around out there. An Academy diploma. Awarded to a traitor.”

  “You’re very conscientious,” said Dean Highbottom.

  “That’s my Peacekeeper training.” Snow loosened the back of the frame and slipped out the diploma. Then, as if on impulse, he replaced it with a photo of the Plinth family. “I think his parents will prefer this anyway.” They both stared at the remains of Sejanus’s life. Then he swept the three medicine bottles into Dean Highbottom’s trash can. “The fewer bad memories, the better.”

  Dean Highbottom eyed him. “So, you grew a heart in the districts?”

  “Not in the districts. In the Hunger Games,” Snow corrected him. “I have you to thank for that. After all, you’re responsible for them.”

  “Oh, I think half the credit for that goes to your father,” said the dean.

  Snow frowned. “How do you mean? I thought the Hunger Games were your idea. Something you came up with at the University?”

  “For Dr. Gaul’s class. Which I was failing, since my loathing of her made participation impossible. We paired off for the final project, so I was with my best friend — Crassus, of course. The assignment was to create a punishment for one’s enemies so extreme that they would never be allowed to forget how they had wronged you. It was like a puzzle, which I excel at, and like all good creations, absurdly simple at its core. The Hunger Games. The evilest impulse, cleverly packaged into a sporting event. An entertainment. I was drunk and your father got me drunker still, playing on my vanity as I fleshed the thing out, assuring me it was just a private joke. The next morning, I awoke, horrified by what I’d made, meaning to rip it to shreds, but it was too late. Without my permission, your father had given it to Dr. Gaul. He wanted the grade, you see. I never forgave him.”

  “He’s dead,” said Snow.

  “But she isn’t,” Dean Highbottom shot back. “It was never meant to be anything more than theoretical. And who but the vilest monster would stage it? After the war, she pulled my proposal out, and me with it, introducing me to Panem as the architect of the Hunger Games. That night, I tried morphling for the first time. I thought the thing would die out, it was so ghastly. It didn’t. Dr. Gaul took it and ran, and she has dragged me along with it for the last ten years.”

  “It certainly supports her view of humanity,” said Snow. “Especially using the children.”

  “And why is that?” asked Dean Highbottom.

  “Because we credit them with innocence. And if even the most innocent among us turn to killers in the Hunger Games, what does that say? That our essential nature is violent,” Snow explained.

  “Self-destructive,” Dean Highbottom murmured.

  Snow remembered Pluribus’s account of his father’s falling out with Dean Highbottom and quoted the letter. “Like moths to a flame.” The dean’s eyes narrowed, but Snow only smiled and said, “But, of course, you’re testing me. You know her far better than I do.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Dean Highbottom traced the silver rose on the compact with a finger. “So, what did she say when you told her you were leaving?”

  “Dr. Gaul?” Snow asked.

  “Your little songbird,” the dean said. “When you left Twelve. Was she sad to see you go?”

  “I expect it made us both a little sad.” Snow pocketed the compact and gathered Sejanus’s things. “I’d better go. We have a new living room set being delivered, and I promised my cousin I’d be there to oversee the movers.”

  “Off you go, then,” said Dean Highbottom. “Back to the penthouse.”

  Snow did not care to talk about Lucy Gray with anyone, particularly not Dean Highbottom. Smiley had sent him a letter at the Plinths’ old address, mentioning her disappearance. Everybody thought the mayor had killed her, but they couldn’t prove it. As to the Covey, a new commander had replaced Hoff, and his first move had been to outlaw shows at the Hob, because music caused trouble.

  Yes, thought Snow. It certainly does.

  Lucy Gray’s fate was a mystery, then, just like the little girl who shared her name in that maddening song. Was she alive, dead, a ghost who haunted the wilderness? Perhaps no one would ever really know. No matter — snow had been the ruination of them both. Poor Lucy Gray. Poor ghost girl singing away with her birds.

  Are you, are you

  Coming to the tree

  Where I told you to run, so we’d both be free?

  She could fly around District 12 all she liked, but she and her mockingjays could never harm him again.

  Sometimes he would remember a moment of sweetness and almost wish things had ended differently. But it would never have worked out between them, even if he’d stayed. They were simply too different. And he didn’t like love, the way it had made him feel stupid and vulnerable. If he ever married, he’d choose someone incapable of swaying his heart. Someone he hated, even, so they could never manipulate him the way Lucy Gray had. Never make him feel jealous. Or weak. Livia Car
dew would be perfect. He imagined the two of them, the president and his first lady, presiding over the Hunger Games a few years from now. He’d continue the Games, of course, when he ruled Panem. People would call him a tyrant, ironfisted and cruel. But at least he would ensure survival for survival’s sake, giving them a chance to evolve. What else could humanity hope for? Really, it should thank him.

  He passed Pluribus’s nightclub and allowed himself a small smile. A person could get rat poison at any number of places, but he’d surreptiously scooped up a pinch of it from the back alley last week and taken it home. It’d been tricky getting it into the morphling bottle, especially using gloves, but eventually he’d squeezed what he judged to be a sufficient dose through the opening. He’d taken the precaution of making sure the bottle was wiped clean. There was nothing to make Dean Highbottom suspicious of it when he pulled it from the trash and slipped it into his pocket. Nothing when he unscrewed the dropper and dripped the morphling onto his tongue. Although he couldn’t help hoping that, as the dean drew his final breath, he’d realize what so many others had realized when they’d challenged him. What all of Panem would know one day. What was inevitable.

  Snow lands on top.

  THE END

  The story continues…

  Turn the page to read the first chapter of The Hunger Games.

  When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim’s warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course, she did. This is the day of the reaping.

  I prop myself up on one elbow. There’s enough light in the bedroom to see them. My little sister, Prim, curled up on her side, cocooned in my mother’s body, their cheeks pressed together. In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn but not so beaten-down. Prim’s face is as fresh as a raindrop, as lovely as the primrose for which she was named. My mother was very beautiful once, too. Or so they tell me.