𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲

── the victor

          ℑ spew the berries from my mouth, wiping my tongue with the end of my shirt to make sure no juice remains. Cato pulls me to the lake where we both flush our mouths with water and then collapse into each other's arms.

"You didn't swallow any?" I question, tilting his head back and forth as he laughs.

"No. You?"

"I'd be dead." I can see his lips moving in reply, but I can't hear him over the roar of the crowd in the Capitol that they're playing live over the speakers. 

The hovercraft materializes overhead and two ladders drop, only there's no way I'm letting go of Cato. We each place a foot on the first rung of the ladder. The electric current freezes us in place, and this time I'm glad because I'm not really sure Cato or I can hang on for the whole ride. Especially not with a dislocated shoulder and a cut up arm.

Sure enough, the minute the door closes behind us and the current stops, he slumps to the floor unconscious.

My fingers are still gripping the back of his jacket so tightly that when they take him away it tears leaving me with a fistful of fabric. Doctors in sterile white, masked and gloved, already prepped to operate, go into action. Cato's so pale and still on a silver table, tubes and wires springing out of him every which way, and for a moment I forget we're out of the Games and I see the doctors as just one more threat, one more pack of mutts designed to kill him. 

Petrified, I lunge for him, but I'm caught and thrust back into another room, and a glass door seals between us. I pound on the glass, screaming my head off. Everyone ignores me except for some Capitol attendant who appears behind me and offers me a beverage.

I slump down on the floor, my face against the door, staring uncomprehendingly at the crystal glass in my hand. Icy cold, filled with orange juice, a straw with a frilly white collar. How wrong it looks in my bloody, filthy hand with its dirt-caked nails and scars. My mouth waters at the smell, but I place it carefully on the floor, not trusting anything so clean and pretty.

Through the glass, I see the doctors working feverishly on Cato, their brows creased in concentration. I see the flow of liquids, pumping through the tubes, watch a wall of dials and lights that mean nothing to me. I'm not sure, but at one point, I think I watch him die.

I hate it.

I startle when I catch someone staring at me from only a few inches away and then realize it's my own face reflecting back in the glass. Wild eyes, hollow cheeks, my hair in a tangled mat. Rabid. Feral. Mad. No wonder everyone is keeping a safe distance from me.

The next thing I know we've landed back on the roof of the Training Center and they're taking Cato but leaving me behind the door. I start hurling myself against the glass, shrieking, begging for him to come back. 

──⭒─⭑─⭒──

When I wake, I'm afraid to move at first. The entire ceiling glows with a soft yellow light allowing me to see that I'm in a room containing just my bed. No doors, no windows are visible. The air smells of something sharp and antiseptic. My right arm has several tubes that extend into the wall behind me. I'm naked, but the bedclothes arc soothing against my skin. I tentatively lift my left hand above the cover.

Not only has it been scrubbed clean, the nails are filed in perfect ovals, the scars from the burns are less prominent. I touch my cheek, my lips, the puckered scar above my eyebrow, and am just running my fingers through my silken hair when I freeze. I remember the cut on my stomach.

I try and sit up, but some sort of wide restraining band around my waist keeps me from rising more than a few inches. The physical confinement makes  me panic and I'm trying to pull myself up and wriggle my hips through the band when a portion of the wall slides open and in steps someone with a tray of food. Obviously I am being closely monitored.

She sets the tray across my thighs and presses something that raises me to a sitting position. While she adjusts my pillows, I risk one question. I say it out loud, as clearly as my rusty voice will allow, so nothing will seem secretive. "Did Cato make it?" She gives me a nod, and slides a spoon into my hand.

A weight falls off of my shoulders, and I take a moment to thank everything that he had made it too. When I'm done, I open my eyes to find that the woman has left, and that I was incredibly hungry. A bowl of clear broth, a small serving of applesauce, and a glass of water was on the tray ahead of me. My eyebrow cocked. This is it? But I find it's an effort to finish the meal before me.

My stomach seems to have shrunk to the size of a chestnut, and I have to wonder how long I've been out because I had no trouble eating a fairly sizable breakfast that last morning in the arena. There's usually a lag of a few days between the end of the competition and the presentation of the victor so that they can put the starving, wounded, mess of a person back together again. Somewhere, Varya, and Cato's stylist, will be creating a wardrobe for the public appearances. Geare, Jasmine, Aurelia and Cato's team will be arranging the banquet for our sponsors, reviewing the questions for our final interviews. Back home, District 11 is probably in chaos as they try to organise a homecoming celebration for one of their tributes, and a funeral for the other.

But I would be going home. I'd be going back to my parents, and Rue, and my cows and my dogs.

It was only then that another thought crossed my mind, what about Cato? What would we do now? I wouldn't be able to leave to District 2, the farm needed me, and he wouldn't be able to leave to District 11, because his family needed him. Would we be split up again?

As I start to panic, I feel a cold liquid seeping into my vein from one of the tubes and almost immediately lose consciousness. 

This happens on and off for an indeterminate amount of time. My waking, eating, and, even though I resist the impulse to try and escape the bed, being knocked out again. I seem to be in a strange, continual twilight. Only a few things register. My scars are disappearing, and do I imagine it? Or do I hear a man's voice yelling? Not in the Capitol accent, but in the rougher cadences of home. And I can't help having a vague, comforting feeling that someone is looking out for me.

I want my parents.

Then finally, the time arrives when I come to and there's nothing plugged into my right arm. The restraint around my middle has been removed and I am free to move about. I start to sit up but am arrested by the sight of my hands. The skin's perfect, smooth and glowing. Not only are the scars from the arena gone, but the calluses from years of working on the farm are gone.

The scar on my forehead is gone, and there's no trace of injuries on my stomach, or from my dislocated shoulder. I slip my legs out of bed, nervous about how they will bear my weight and find them strong and steady.

Lying at the foot of the bed is an outfit that makes me flinch. It's what all of us tributes wore in the arena. I stare at it, still hearing Peeta's screams as he died echoing around my head, before remembering that this is what I will wear to greet my team.

I'm dressed in less than a minute and fidgeting in front of the wall where I know there's a door even if I can't see it when suddenly it slides open. I step into a wide, deserted hall that appears to have no other doors on it. But it must. And behind one of them must be Cato. Now that I'm conscious and moving, I'm growing more and more anxious about him. 

"Cato?" I call out, but there's nothing around. For a moment, there's nothing, before someone calls my name in response. I recognise it, and even though it's not who I want, I smile.

I turn and see them all waiting in a big chamber at the end of the hall — Aurelia, Geare, Jasmine and Varya. My feet take off without hesitation. Maybe a victor should show more restraint, more superiority, especially when she knows this will be on tape, but I don't care. 

I run for them and surprise even myself when I land in Geare's arms first. He squeezes back, as I hug him.

"Nice job, kid." He whispers, and Jasmine says something similar as she hugs me. Aurelia is a little teary, and keeps stroking my hair as she beams and tells me that she knew I was special. Varya just hugs me, not even saying a word, which I accept.

"Where's Cato? Where's his team."

"He's alright." Geare placates. "They want to do your reunion live on air at the ceremony."

Despite knowing he was still alive, I wanted to see him. I wanted to make sure that he was alright. Last time I'd seen him, he'd been lying flat on a table top.

"Go, with Varya. She's gonna get you ready." Geare squeezes my shoulder and nods. "Well done, kid."

Varya wraps an arm around my shoulder, guiding me away from the cameras, down a few passages and to an elevator that leads to the lobby of the Training Center. The hospital then is far underground, even beneath the gym where we trained. The windows of the lobby are darkened, and a handful of guards stand on duty. 

No one else is there to see us cross to the tribute elevator. Our footsteps echo in the emptiness. And when we ride up to the eleventh floor, the faces of all the tributes who will never return flash across my mind and there's a heavy, tight place in my chest.

When the elevator doors open, Lish, Mist, and Saphi engulf me, talking so quickly and ecstatically I can't make out their words. The sentiment is clear though. They are truly thrilled to see me and I'm happy to see them, too, although not like I was to see Varya. It's more in the way one might be glad to see an affectionate trio of pets at the end of a particularly difficult day.

They sweep me into the dining room and I get a real meal— roast beef and peas and soft rolls — although my portions are still being strictly controlled. Because when I ask for seconds, I'm refused. 

"No, no, no. They don't want it all coming back up on the stage," says Lish, but she secretly slips me an extra roll under the table to let me know she's on my side.

We go back to my room and Varya disappears for a while as the prep team gets me ready. 

"Oh, they did a full body polish on you," says Saphi enviously. "Not a flaw left on your skin."

But when I look at my naked body in the mirror, all I can see is how skinny I am. I mean, I'm sure I was worse when I came out of the arena, but I can easily count my ribs.

They take care of the shower settings for me, and they go to work on my hair, nails, and makeup when I'm done. They chatter so continuously that I barely have to reply, which is good, since I don't feel very talkative. It's funny, because even though they're rattling on about the Games, it's all about where they were or what they were doing or how they felt when a specific event occurred.

Everything is about them, not the dying boys and girls in the arena.

We don't wallow around in the Games this way in District 11. We grit our teeth and watch because we must and try to get back to business as soon as possible when they're over. To keep from hating the prep team, I effectively tune out most of what they're saying. 

Varya comes in with what appears to be an unassuming white dress across her arms. 

"Have you given up the whole golden girl thing?" I ask. 

"You tell me," she says, and slips it over my head. I immediately notice the padding over my breasts, adding curves that hunger has stolen from my body. 

My hands go to my chest and I frown, not liking it at all.

"I know," says Varya before I can object. "But the Gamemakers wanted to alter you surgically. Geare and Jasmine had a huge fight with them over it. This was the compromise." 

My stomach drops at the thought.

"Wait, don't forget the shoes." Mist helps me into a pair of white heels, golden butterflies on them, and I turn to the mirror. I'm still the golden girl. The white material is loose and flowing, but inlaid with elements of gold that sparkle unassumingly until it looks like there's a sort of halo around me. My mother's ring is back on my hand, and I look innocent, and pure, and sweet. It's a complete change from the feral dog they dragged in from the arena.

"What do you think?" Varya stands next to me, an eyebrow cocked.

"I think it's the best yet," I say. The dress is gathered at my ribs, not my waist, largely eliminating any help the padding would have given my figure. The hem falls just to my knees, but the white heels with golden butterflies are a nice touch. 

This is calculating, a very calculated look. You would expect, as the winner of the games, to look strong of powerful, but in this, I look somewhat weak.

"I thought Cato would like this better," she tells me, and I narrow my eyes. This isn't about Cato. It's about the Capitol and the Gamemakers and the audience. 

We take the elevator to the level where we trained. It's customary for the victor and his or her support team to rise from beneath the stage. First the prep team, followed by the escort, the stylist, the mentor, and finally the victor. Only this year, with two victors from two different districts, the whole thing has had to be rethought. 

I find myself in a poorly lit area under the stage. A brand-new metal plate has been installed to transport me upward. You can still see small piles of sawdust, smell fresh paint. Varya and the prep team peel off to change into their own costumes and take their positions, leaving me alone.

In the gloom, I see a makeshift wall about ten yards away and assume Cato's behind it. 

The rumbling of the crowd is loud, so I don't notice Geare until he touches my shoulder. I spring away, startled, still half in the arena, I guess.

"Easy, just me. Let's have a look at you, kid." Geare steps back, as I hold my arms out and turn. "Good."

"But?" I know that tone.

Geare's eyes shift around my musty holding space, and he seems to make a decision. "But nothing. How about a hug for luck?" 

I oblige, as he traps me in his embrace, hiding both his and my face from anyone around us. As soon as he did, he starts talking very fast, quietly in my ear.

"Listen, Mitzi. You're in trouble. Word is the Capitol's furious about you showing them up in the arena. The one thing they can't stand is being laughed at and they're the joke of Panem," Geare explains, as I feel dread deep in my stomach. I laugh as though he's saying something funny.

"And?"

"Your only defense can be you were so madly in love you weren't responsible for your actions." Geare explains, pushing my hair back. "Got it, kid?"

"Got it." I nod. "You spoken to Cato?"

"Not my kid." Geare points out. "Better take our places. This is your night, kid. Enjoy it."

He leads me to the circle, kissing my cheek before disappearing into the gloom.

I take a deep breath, smoothing my skirt and fidgeting with the ring on my hand. The damp, moldy smell beneath the stage threatens to choke me. A cold, clammy sweat breaks out on my skin and I can't rid myself of the feeling that the boards above my head are about to collapse, to bury me alive under the rubble. When I left the arena, when the trumpets played, I was supposed to be safe. From then on. For the rest of my life. 

But if what Geare says is true, I've never been in such a dangerous place in my life.

It's so much worse than being hunted in the arena. There, I could only die. End of story. But out here my parents, Rue, the people of District 11, everyone I care about back home could be punished if I don't convince people.

And Cato...Cato will suffer, too, if this goes wrong. 

These are thoughts to be unraveled back home, in the peace and quiet of the milking parlour, when no one is watching. Not here with every eye upon me. But I won't have that luxury for who knows how long. And right now, the most dangerous part of the Hunger Games is about to begin.

──⭒─⭑─⭒──

Hiya,

So Mitzi and Geare are really sweet, definitely parent and child vibe. Honestly love that man, and Mitzi is just worried about Cato, which is great. But we get their reunion next chapter, so yay!

Let me know what you think,

Love Li xx