Chapter Text
KATNISS
"That's it, keep your neck still. Don't move." I try not to groan in frustration as I listen to the doctor repeat the same thing he's been saying for the last ten minutes. Does he even know what he's doing?
This rigid posture is really testing my patience. After what feels like an eternity, I hear him taking off my neck brace. First one side, then the other, and when he finally removes it from my neck, I feel like I can breathe properly after having that thing on my throat for so long.
"Oh, no!" my stylist Viora squeals. "You still have bruises on your neck! Don't worry, it's nothing a little makeup can't fix." In moments like these, I miss Venia, Octavia, and Flavius. At least with them, I'd gotten used to their annoying comments, but Viora and the others are on another level of annoyance.
"Try moving your neck carefully and tell me if it hurts," the doctor says, adjusting his glasses. I do as he says and am grateful not to feel any pain.
"Everything's fine," I say, my voice hoarse and low.
“I’ll give you some medicine, so your vocal cords heal quickly.” I watch him rummage in his briefcase and pull out a syringe filled with clear liquid. “Please raise your head a little.” I do as he asks, and when I see him uncap the needle, I tense up. I try to take a deep breath because my whole body wants to push his hands away from me; the memory of what happened is still too fresh, but I have no other choice. I feel the prick just below my jaw and a cold liquid spread through that area. I can almost feel it restoring my damaged cells and healing my bruised tissues.
“Try not to speak for ten minutes so the medicine can take effect,” he says as he gathers his briefcase. He takes his bright yellow hat, says goodbye, and leaves through the door.
"Perfect! I'll go find Cinna so he can come and dress you," Viora says, and without waiting for a reply, she leaves through the door, leaving me alone.
Slowly, I approach the mirror to inspect the damage. Viora is right; the bruises are quite visible. With trembling hands, I trace the marks he left on my neck. I can feel the ghost of his hands squeezing my neck and his savage gaze upon me. Domitus Verrin has always seemed despicable to me—well, all the clients who buy from me are—but every time I have an appointment with Domitus, the anxiety is greater because he's demanding and possessive. And although he's not the only client with those characteristics, he's the most aggressive; he enjoys other people's pain. Every appointment I have with him ends with me covered in bruises and marks on my skin, and a series of nightmares where his dark eyes and devilish smile haunt me.
But on this last date, he was out of control. I don't know if he was drugged or drunk or both. I only know that when I arrived, I was being roughly pushed onto the bed, his hands all over my body, and I had no other choice but to let him. But everything spiraled out of control when, suddenly, he placed his hands on my neck and squeezed harder than usual. He didn't stop; I couldn't breathe, and he just kept going as if nothing was wrong. But I was terrified when I saw his expression. He was gone, lost in his own pleasure, and seemed to revel in my futile attempts to stop him. I was helpless, my hands cuffed to the bed, and all I could do was writhe on top of him. The last thing I saw before darkness swallowed me was his sadistic smile.
I woke up with a sharp pain in my throat. I was in a room of the mansion they had furnished for my recovery, as the doctor who treated me explained. Of course, Snow wasn't going to risk taking me to a hospital and having someone see me. For that reason, my appointments are in specific, private places and with people who have signed a confidentiality agreement.
Cinna explained what happened after I lost consciousness. Apparently, there were cameras in the room, and when the security personnel saw what was happening, they burst in and stopped Domitus before he could kill me. According to what they told Cinna; the cameras are there to prevent these kinds of situations. When Cinna said that I could only roll my eyes. Having spent enough time in the Capitol, I've learned a few things, and I'm sure those videos they record are uploaded to some platform for perverts to watch for a sum of money. It was so strange not to be shocked by this discovery, and it scared me how my brain normalized this. But what else could I expect from the Capitol? How else could they degrade me?
I blink several times to hold back tears, and not for the first time, I wonder if it wouldn't have been better if Domitus had killed me.
The only thing keeping me sane is Cinna's presence and the hope that a rebellion will happen.
When Cinna first appeared, I cried from pain and relief at having him with me. I had to explain everything that had happened, and he was very understanding. He's helped me cope with everything I've had to do. At first, I knew nothing about the rebels, but there were certain suspicious things about him, and I knew he was hiding something from me. It wasn't until I discovered a device among his things that I confronted him, and he told me he was a rebel. He told me about District 13 and confirmed what Snow had told me about the uprisings. I don't know how I hadn't realized before that Cinna was a rebel. The burning suit alone smelled like rebellion. I realized this was my chance and decided to join. He didn't want to at first, but we had to take advantage of the perks of living with Snow. He told me about those involved in the rebellion, including Finnick, which didn't surprise me considering what Snow forces him to do. Cinna told me how Finnick collaborated with the rebellion by taking advantage of his clients. I thought about that a lot and told myself I could do it too, but Haymitch himself said it: I have the charm of a dead slug.
Cinna didn't agree with it, but he helped me improve my acting and be more flirtatious. It's hard work, but I'm willing to help spark the rebellion.
The screen in my room lights up, showing footage of Lior's Victory Tour, the boy from District 4. In all his appearances, he looks nervous in his costumes, with those timid green eyes. If we don't stop this, in a few years, this boy will be the Capitol's next plaything. With that blond hair and those eyes, he'll be quite popular with the lustful people of the Capitol.
This year, the Quarter Quell was horrifying to watch. Every child I saw was a Prim or Peeta fighting for survival. Seeing those twelve-year-olds fighting to the death only fueled the discontent in the districts, as Cinna told me.
They show footage of the arrival in District 12. I see Haymitch and Peeta greeting the boy. Peeta looks older, his shoulders broader, his hair shorter than I remember, and I don't like those blue streaks (the Capitol's doing). When the camera zooms in, I see his smile, but it's not a real smile; it doesn't light up his eyes. In fact, his eyes look duller than I remember. I'm tempted to reach out and stroke his face, but it would be silly, so I suppress the impulse.
As the replays finish, the door opens again, and Cinna appears in his usual dark attire, with that golden glint in his green eyes. Fashion may change a lot in the Capitol, but Cinna dresses the same way he did the first time I saw him: elegant and minimalist. His style was one of the things that made me trust him so quickly.
He approaches me calmly and observes me intently. His gaze settles on my neck, and I see a crack in his kind eyes; they become darker and more piercing. I've seen that same look before when I've come back from seeing a client with some bruise or mark, but it was more evident after I woke up from the hospital a few days ago and that's when I knew what it was: anger.
He reaches out to touch me slowly, giving me a chance to pull away, but I don't. Cinna is the only person I trust to touch me without my body reacting negatively. Gently, he tucks a few loose golden strands behind my shoulder. I remember the first time he saw me with hair this color; his gaze was searching, as if he were wondering where his girl on fire had gone.
"Are you ready?" he asks gently, and I nod.
After what feels like hours, I'm finally ready in front of the mirror, wearing an icy ivory dress, fitted at the waist, but the skirt is soft and light, falling and brushing the floor. It has tiny, delicate silver thread embroidery at the waist and bust. My skin looks luminous, with pearly gray shadows around my eyes. My lips are a soft, almost natural pink.
"I don't understand why Snow wants me to go to dinner with him every Saturday," I ask, frustrated. My voice is clearer now.
"For Snow, appearances are more important than any bullet. These dinners aren't about courtesy. They're to evaluate you. To measure your reactions, your words, and your silence," he says, his voice low enough and close enough to my ear that the microphones won't pick it up.
"We can both play the same game." He smiles at my response and starts to fix my hair.
"Don't braid it," I tell him. He seems surprised for a moment but nods understandingly. And I think he knows why. The clients like to play with my braid, very different from how Peeta did it when we were on our nights on the train. Peeta's caresses were tender and delicate; it seemed as if he could find the secrets of my heart in my braid. For these people, it's just another form of possession. Every time I see myself in the mirror with a braid, I feel disgusted. I look submissive, like a porcelain doll, a prostitute. In the end, Cinna puts my hair up in a low, sleek bun with two loose strands framing my face.
I find myself again in front of the large, solid wood double doors that lead to the dining room where I always have dinner with Snow. It seems like only yesterday that I stopped here with two Peacekeepers guarding me, my heart pounding like a hummingbird's with terror, facing an uncertain future where I would probably be dead. Things are different now: today there is no one by my side and my heart has hardened since the last time and I also have a purpose: to end Snow from within, I will be like that strange disease that is consuming him day by day, I will see his end and hopefully my hand will be the cause of his heart stopping.
I take a deep breath, open the heavy doors, and step inside. The table is, as always, laden with all sorts of food. Snow is in his usual seat. Tonight, he's dressed entirely in black, but his ever-present white rose is on his jacket lapel. The black makes his gray hair stand out. When he sees me, he stands up with a smile. He takes what appears to be a bracelet made of tiny white roses from the table.
"You look lovely, as always," he says, taking my hand and placing the bracelet on my wrist. I try to appear indifferent to his touch.
"Thank you for the invitation, President Snow," I say, looking him in the eye. He glances at me for a moment, and another smile graces his face.
"You've gotten quite good at acting. I almost believe you," he says, pulling out a chair for me.
"That's what's expected of me. A good performance."
"It's true. I'm amazed by the work you've done so far. A performance worthy of Red Bird." I grimace at the name. I wonder if it was his idea to give me that name. "Would you mind if we waited a little while? I have a special guest. He's about to arrive."
That confuses me. It's the first time Snow has brought someone to a dinner party. Who could it be? That worries me a little; it's out of our routine. I don't let this change affect me.
"That's fine with me," I say, taking a glass of milk, the only thing served on the table, and sipping it under the watchful eye of the president, who mirrors my movements.
"While we wait, I'd like to talk to you," he says, placing the glass on the table. "Miss Everdeen, if you could change something about our country, what would it be?" His question surprises me because I wasn't expecting it.
"What?" is all my brain manages to say before I snap out of my daze.
"I think you heard me, and I'd like you to be honest. Remember our agreement about not lying to each other." I try to find the trap he's trying to set for me in his expression, but he just seems curious.
"That there would be no more Hunger Games." I answer after thinking about it. Snow gives me a smile as if he'd been expecting that response.
"That's it? What a limited mindset." I frown; this old man is insulting my intellect. "Perhaps you don't know this, but 65 years ago the games were almost canceled. People were already finding it boring to watch a bunch of kids killing each other."
"What changed?" I ask, intrigued.
"The spectacle. Gambling was implemented in the tenth Hunger Games. That drew in the audience; knowing you could decide someone's fate for a few coins was magnetic. After that, they introduced extravagant costumes and the winnings for the victor which led to volunteering—something even more exciting. The Games stopped being portrayed as a mere punishment and started being seen more as a celebration." I'm trying to process all of this. It would have been a dream come true if the Games had ended back then. I'm sure Snow had a lot to do with those reforms, since he became president just a few years after those Games. I think about what he said about volunteering and realize that every time a tribute volunteers, it causes a rise in the ratings. In other words, we do our part to keep the Games going.
"So many deaths for a war that ended a long time ago". I whisper, lost in my thoughts, which is why I'm surprised when Snow answers.
"Oh, Miss Everdeen. That's where you're wrong. To stay in power, you must always remember that war never ends, it only changes, tipping the scales from one side to the other. You can't be so naive as to expect it to end. What you can do is control the scales, which side you want the war to stay on."
"Is that what the Hunger Games do? They tip the scales in favor of the Capitol?"
"I like to think they tip the scales in favor of peace and prosperity. You know, you victors do the same thing." I feel myself frowning indignantly. "Don't look at me like that. You victors aren't so different. You control the scales of the Games in your favor. You steal other people's sponsors because you want the whole spectacle for yourselves. You kill for a bottle of water and betray each other. Have you forgotten when you raised your bow against your ally when they revoked the rule?" I feel my face burning with embarrassment. It's not my fondest memory.
"That wasn't... I...” I can't defend myself because he keeps interrupting me.
"Even Mr. Mellark, who seems innocent enough, has a dark side; you just have to know where to push." It infuriates me that he thinks this way about Peeta, but my mind drifts back to that time Peeta had a meltdown in District 11. It was as if, for a moment, he unleashed all his pent-up anger. I shake my head. I can't let Snow get into my head. He knows how to use words to persuade, much like Peeta. That intrusive thought throws me off. No, they're different. Peeta uses his talent to improve things, but if he wanted, he could use it for his own benefit, says another small voice in my head, one that sounds a lot like Snow's.
"Perhaps you're right. There may be a darkness in all of us, but we have the choice of whether or not to let it consume us," I say, remembering Peeta and how, despite his mother's cruelty, her actions didn't define him. "We've killed, betrayed, and crossed the line between right and wrong because you pushed us to it. What's your excuse?"
"I was pushed too. If I didn't do it, someone else would. I only had two choices: to be led or to be the leader." He spits at me with hatred.
"You chose to be the oppressor while we chose to survive your macabre game." I hiss back. I don't know where this anger came from; Snow could execute me at any moment for my words. He seems to realize he's lost his temper, takes a deep breath, and regains his composure.
"Miss Everdeen, have you ever considered what would happen if everything were governed by survival? It would be the perfect excuse to get whatever one wanted and kill whomever one wanted; without consequences, there would be chaos. The Hunger Games shows that, what happens when no one enforces the rules. When survival is the goal, nothing else matters, morality doesn't matter, and that leads to decadence."
"Are you telling me we can't live civilly if we aren't oppressed?" Before I can answer, there's a knock at the door.
When the doors open again and the mysterious guest appears, I feel like the world is crashing down on me. If I weren't sitting down, I'm sure I would collapse to the floor. I resist the urge to put my hands to my neck as a protective instinct, but I hold on and dig my nails into my legs, trying not to crumble.
"Mr. Verrin. I'm glad you were able to accept my invitation," President Snow says politely and stands up; not before giving me an intense look that snaps me out of my daze, and I clumsily stand up as well.
"Am I late, sir? I apologize if that's the case." Domitus says with a cautious, almost nervous look, nothing like the predatory gaze I'm used to.
"Not at all. You're just in time," he says, accepting the hand Domitus offers. As he approaches, I feel an overwhelming urge to take a step back, but I won't let him see my fear.
"Miss Everdeen," he says, kissing my hand, which sends an unpleasant shiver down my spine.
"Mr. Domitus," I say in an icy voice.
We took our seats again, and the Avox appear to serve us our meal. Venison loin in a dark, spiced wine sauce, accompanied by white root purée and honey-glazed vegetables. For drinks, we had a rosé champagne from the Capitol. When they serve it, I drink it in one gulp, trying to quell the hatred and fear I feel. Since arriving in the Capitol, I understand why Haymitch loses himself in drink. Some things break and never go back to the way they were, no matter how hard you try. On nights when I sleep poorly because of nightmares, I think of him, because the only way I can get through many nights is by letting my mind be clouded by alcohol. My nightmares aren't about the Games anymore; they're more invasive, leaving me wanting to tear my skin off. I no longer have Peeta's arms to chase away the nightmares; I only have my glass of wine.
The conversation during dinner is mainly between Snow and Domitus, while I observe Domitus's every move. I feel like prey awaiting my predator's attack. I observe his elongated face, with its fine, angular features. His pale skin, almost ivory. His prominent cheekbones and his disgustingly thin lips, straining to form a forced smile for Snow.
His black eyes sometimes flit toward me with an unanswerable question.
I watch him run his hand through his jet-black hair, not a single strand out of place. The dark blue suit makes him look paler, or perhaps he looks pale because of the colors he wears. Whenever I see him, his suits are dark.
When we move on to dessert, they bring us an apple tart, and the Avox begin cutting it to serve us. It's a brilliant red. It has several apples that look like scarlet gems because of the bright red caramel. I can almost see my reflection in them. Hidden in the center is a filling of a deeper red, very reminiscent of blood, and for a moment I feel nauseous, but when I taste it, I can taste the wine in it, with perhaps a hint of cinnamon that convinces me to keep eating it.
"An exquisite treat, don't you think?" Snow asks, his lips red, looking like a snake after devouring its prey.
"Indeed, Mr. President," Domitus replies cordially, taking a bite.
"I heard something interesting, you know," Snow adds, wiping his red lips with his handkerchief. "I was informed that your last meeting with Miss Everdeen was... more eventful than expected." Domitus pales at Snow's words.
"I... I apologize for my behavior that day. I got carried away."
“You got carried away,” Snow says, savoring each word. “You should know that the victors are invaluable to Panem. The purchase contract specifically stipulates that no action should be taken that could be fatal to the victor. Your lack of self-control jeopardized an asset the Capitol cannot replace.” I’ve never heard Snow’s voice sound so cold, nor have I ever seen Domitus so frightened. I feel a certain satisfaction seeing him cornered; he no longer looks as imposing as before, and that somehow relieves me.
“I’m sorry, sir. I have no excuse,” he replies, trying to take a sip of wine with trembling hands. Snow, feigning composure, glance at the watch on his wrist and then back at the man who looked ready to flee.
“This dessert reminds me of a story my granddaughter loves to read. It’s about a queen who poisoned a beautiful young woman with an apple because she couldn’t bear that she was the most beautiful woman in her kingdom. The story implies the queen did it out of envy, but I don’t think so. The young woman's beauty could alter emotions and intensify feelings. A beautiful but unstable gift, because it could guide people toward goodness or toward destruction. I believe the queen poisoned her not out of hatred, but as an act of restraint, to maintain the kingdom's balance and protect it from that which is out of control." Snow finishes, taking another bite of dessert.
For a moment, everything is silent, but there's a change in Domitus. If he was frightened before, now he's horrified. He clumsily gets to his feet and takes several steps back, his expression agitated.
"What did you do?" Domitus asks, his voice choked and slurred. I don't understand anything that's happening.
"An act of restraint," Snow replies calmly. Domitus seems unable to breathe; his hands tremble uncontrollably, and suddenly his body collapses to the floor.
When my brain processes what just happened, I quickly stand to approach Domitus, but I stop dead in my tracks when I see his gaze. His gaze is empty, his black eyes like two bottomless pits, and his mouth is slightly open. I don't need to take his pulse to know he's dead; I've seen enough death, and I know it when I see it.
"I suppose I'll need a new communications commissioner," Snow says calmly as he pours himself another glass of champagne. When I see the red liquid filling the glass, the pieces fall into place, and I understand. I have the same understanding that Domitus had before he died, and I feel the same horror he felt.
"You poisoned him," I say, my gaze shifting to the dessert. I stagger back, feeling nauseous.
"Don't worry, the milk you drank at the beginning counteracts any effects. Otherwise, you'd be lying on the floor like him." I'm in shock watching him slowly sip the champagne. I've just witnessed a murder orchestrated by Snow. I've always seen him as vile, capable of enjoying watching children die and even ordering someone killed. I've used different names and adjectives to describe Snow, but now I realize I've never specifically called him a murderer, yet he is. It's not the first time he's done something like this; he's killed people before. "Don't look at me like that, Katniss. Don't say you're sorry for his death. I saw the look of satisfaction on your face when I was cornering him. You enjoyed it." I try not to dwell on his words, as another thought occupies my mind.
"It doesn't always work, does it?" I say, gesturing to the half-empty glass of milk. Snow grimaces as if the thought disgusts him.
"No, I've had some difficulties at times, but I've managed to perfect it over time. But don't worry, it won't happen to you. Unless you use it incorrectly. This scenario," he says, gesturing with his hands across the dining room, "can be a battlefield where the weapons are courtesy and kind words, and a shot can be a small bite or a sip of wine, but dinner's already been ruined for this conversation." That's a sign of farewell for me. My body numb, I take steps toward the door. "And to answer your last question, the answer is yes. A certain amount of pressure is needed for people to live civilly. Mr. Domitus will be an example to the others, and they'll know they must behave properly." I say nothing, just leave quickly and close the doors behind me.
Walking toward my room, I feel exhaustion creeping into my body. Every time I have dinner with Snow, I leave feeling drained, as if his mere presence leaves me empty.
This game I'm playing with Snow is dangerous. His actions confuse me; I don't know what he wants from me, but he himself said that these dinners are a battlefield, and it's obvious he sees me as an opponent. The question is: How can I beat Snow at his own game? How can I use his weapons against him?