Chapter Three
District 9’s train station was only a short distance from the Justice Building, so it was only minutes until Clark, Becky, Marcius, and District 9’s two victors boarded the train for the Capitol. Becky kept her head ducked the whole time, trying to hide her tear-stained face, while Clark kept his face carefully blank. Any sign of weakness made a tribute a target.
The Peacekeepers surrounded them until they were aboard the train and it had begun to move. The tributes stood at a window, watching the grain fields of District 9 as they flashed past.
Marcius and the victors looked at the tributes, Marcius smiling, the victors looking grim.
“Why don’t I show you to your compartments?” Marcius said, gesturing to Clark and Becky. “I’ll bet you’ve never seen anything like this before — fine clothing, the latest technology — not what you’d see on the farm! Oh, and dinner is in two hours, so be sure you’re back out here by then.”
Once there, it occurred to Clark that most of what was in his train compartment wouldn’t be found anywhere in District 9. Everything was new and bright — not the well-worn items that most of the people of District 9 made do with. Well-crafted wood without splinters, metal without the patina of age, a deep, soft carpet, faucets with both cold and
hot running water … all of them were almost unimaginable luxuries.
He had never used a shower before, and it took him a few minutes to figure out how it worked, drenching himself in the process.
Hot running water was unavailable on the Kent farm. Water from the faucets there was cold and had to be heated on the stove, although in recent years Clark had used his heat vision to warm water, something his parents appreciated at the end of a long day in the fields.
When Clark went looking through the drawers for dry clothes, he was surprised at the variety of sizes and styles. Some of the clothes were so small that the boys they were made for couldn’t have been much bigger than toddlers, while others were so large that he marveled that anyone could be so wide and tall.
He knew little about fashion or fine fabrics, but he did recognize quality — and much of what was in the drawers wouldn’t last a day on the farm. He was relieved when he finally found some familiar-looking clothes that fit him.
When Clark left his compartment and went looking for the others, he found them sitting in a dining room around a table made from some dark wood he didn’t recognize. Only Becky was absent.
Marcius looked past him. “Where’s Becky?” he asked Clark.
“I don’t know.”
Grumbling, Marcius got up to look for her. He returned a few minutes later, Becky trailing behind him, still clad in her worn District 9 clothing.
Matilda, far more alert now than she had been during the Reaping, looked at the girl critically. “Why didn’t you change?”
Becky shrugged, avoiding Matilda’s gaze. “I already put on fresh clothes today.”
“
He figured it out,” Matilda told her, gesturing to Clark.
“My clothes got soaked while I was trying to figure out how to use the shower.”
Marcius mumbled something about the ignorance of District 9 tributes, then sighed. “Well, the Avoxes are about to serve dinner, so sit down.”
In moments, three servants appeared in the dining room, laden with platters of food. Others moved silently around the table, hurrying to put out plates and cutlery and then setting out the meal on the table.
Clark looked at the Avoxes curiously. He had heard that they were traitors to Panem who were punished by having their tongues cut out and being forced into servitude. A few people had disappeared from District 9 over the years and were rumored to have become Avoxes, but no one knew for sure.
Pushing his glasses down as though to rub the bridge of his nose, Clark quickly X-rayed the servants’ mouths, confirming that their tongues were missing. Appalled, he pushed his glasses back into place, wondering what constituted treason and why it was bad enough to warrant permanently disabling a person.
“Go ahead and eat,” Marcius told them, signaling to one of the Avoxes to bring him a drink. “After dinner, we’ll watch the recaps of the Reaping.”
Haver groaned, tossing back the alcoholic beverage he had been consuming and pointing to his glass for a refill. “It’s the same thing every year. The Careers fight over who gets to be in the Games while everyone else looks like they’re going to their executions.”
“Which they are,” Matilda added, taking a sip of the brightly-colored concoction in front of her.
Haver narrowed his eyes at her. “
We survived.”
Matilda shrugged. “If you can call this surviving.”
Clark glanced from the bickering victors to Becky, who was piling her plate with the delicacies in front of her.
“You might want to go easy on that,” Haver told her. “Too much of this rich stuff will make you sick if you’re not used to it.”
Becky glanced at him briefly, then grabbed a spoon, shoveling food into her mouth as though she hadn’t eaten in days — which she probably hadn’t.
Clark looked at the platters. Being from a smaller family, he was better fed than Becky, and needed less food, too, but it still looked and smelled good. More calmly than Becky, he served himself, taking Haver’s warning to heart — though he doubted that overeating would make him sick. There was very little he couldn’t eat.
Watching what Becky was doing, Marcius looked disgusted. “At least we have one tribute with decent manners,” he said, looking approvingly at Clark.
“Leave the girl alone.” Matilda came to Becky’s defense. “She’s probably never had a decent meal in her life. Besides, what does it matter? She’ll be dead in a week anyway.”
At this, Becky went white. She choked on her mouthful of food for a moment, then dropped her spoon and ran from the table.
Everyone else turned to stare at Matilda. Even Marcius looked faintly appalled.
“That was uncalled for!” Haver thundered at Matilda.
“It’s the truth!” Matilda snapped back. “Sometimes the truth hurts!”
“Haven’t we lost enough tributes without taking away their hope before they ever get to the arena?”
“I’m sick of mentoring kids who die five minutes after the Games start. Hell, even if they win, they’ll wish they hadn’t. Once Snow gets his hands on them —“
“Shut up, Matilda!” Haver roared.
Matilda looked at him defiantly, grabbing her glass and taking a swig. She was about to reply to Haver when Clark spoke up.
“I thought you were supposed to mentor us. You know, teach us how to stay alive.”
Matilda laughed bitterly. “That’s easy. All that takes is two words. Don’t die.”
“Why don’t you tell us something we don’t know?” Clark slammed his fork down with unnecessary force, cracking his plate. His appetite gone, he stood up. “Excuse me.”
Clark made his way down the hall. When he reached Becky’s door, he knocked gently.
“Becky? Are you okay?”
His only answer was a sob.
“Becky?” Clark eased the door open.
It took him a moment to find her. She was curled up in a corner of the bed, the bedspread over her head.
“Go away!” Her words were muffled. She peeked out at him, her eyes wide and terrified.
Clark sat down in a chair by the door, realizing how she viewed him — not as a boy from her district, but as her potential murderer.
“Becky, I’m not going to hurt you,” he said gently.
Becky didn’t reply. She curled up tighter, clutching the bedspread as though it could protect her.
“Becky, we’re allowed to have allies in the arena. I can protect you —“
“Until you kill me!” Becky looked out at him again. “Or until someone kills you.”
“It won’t be me that hurts you, Becky. I promise you that.”
“Then someone else will.”
“You don’t know that. A fourteen-year-old won last year.”
“From a Career district!”
Seeing that there was no reassuring her, Clark fell silent. He knew as well as she did that there was little hope for her, but he still hated seeing her give up so easily.
Not wanting to go back to the tension-filled dining room, Clark tried to think of something else to say. When he couldn’t think of anything, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the picture of his family. He sat staring at it and remembering his father’s words until Becky’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
“What’s that?”
Clark looked up to see Becky looking at him cautiously from beneath the bedspread. After he had fallen silent, she had become curious enough to wonder what he was doing.
“This is a picture of my family. My dad gave it to me as my token in the arena.” He held it out to her. “Would you like to see it?”
Becky nodded, taking the photo from him. She looked at it for a moment before handing it back to him.
“I don’t think my family has any pictures,” she whispered. She looked up at him. “I do have a token, though.” Reaching into a pocket of her dress, she pulled out a small wooden ball. “This is my little brother’s. He said he always wins the games he plays with it, so he gave it to me so I would win.” Holding it out, she offered it to him to look at.
Clark took the toy and examined it. It was well-worn and had clearly been played with for a long time, but it was something that few children would want to give up. He’d had a similar toy when he was a child.
He handed it back to her. “May the odds be ever in your favor, Becky Rasen.”
She looked down, tears threatening again. “Only one person gets to go home. I just hope it doesn’t hurt too much when … when I —“
“It’s time to watch the Reaping recaps.”
Clark and Becky looked up, startled, as Marcius stuck his head in the door. He gestured to them somewhat impatiently. “It’s much too early to go to bed,” he told Becky, “and
you —“ He pointed to Clark. “— shouldn’t be in here anyway.”
“We were just talking —“ Clark began, but Marcius waved him off.
“Hurry, or you’ll miss the recaps. In spite of what Haver says, they’re always exciting.”
Reluctantly, Clark and Becky followed him to the viewing compartment. They had seen the recaps of the Reapings every year of their lives — it was mandatory viewing — and neither had ever found it exciting, especially not when viewing their own district.
For the most part, the Reaping was exactly as Haver had predicted.
The kids from the Career districts — Districts 1, 2, and 4 — argued furiously over who got the honor of going into the arena. A fight broke out between two large boys from District 4 before one emerged triumphant to volunteer for the Games.
Becky gave an involuntary whimper at the sight of the boy from District 4, burying her face in her hands before Haver gently reminded her that she was required to watch.
The Reapings in the non-Career districts were largely predictable — names were drawn and the tributes walked miserably to the stage. No one volunteered.
Clark’s attention was drawn for a moment to the female tribute from District 3, a pretty brunette who faced the audience with her chin raised proudly, her eyes defiant.
That girl isn’t going down without a fight, he thought to himself.
His thoughts were soon pulled from her, though, when the Reaping from District 11 was shown. When the male tribute was selected, a woman in the audience screamed. “No! Not my baby! Please, no! He’s my only son!”
She shoved her way through the crowd, grabbing the boy — a skinny twelve-year-old — and refusing to let go of him. “Take someone else! Not my —“
In an instant, things turned ugly. Several Peacekeepers came running, pulling the boy from her arms and forcing her to her knees. Before the woman had time to say another word, one of the Peacekeepers pressed a gun to the back of her head and a shot rang out. There was ugly laughter from the Peacekeepers as the dead woman slumped to the ground, blood pooling around her.
Three small girls tried to run to her, screaming for their mother. Before they could, an elderly man pushed through the crowd to them. He was holding them as tightly as he could as the Peacekeepers shoved their brother up onto the stage.
Apparently the Capitol couldn’t get enough of this “exciting” tragedy, as it was replayed in slow motion and close detail a second time. When it began to play a third time, Clark, sickened by what he had seen, glanced around to make sure no one was watching him and then aimed a quick blast of heat vision at the television.
It shorted out with a popping sound. Marcius jumped up, fiddling angrily with it. When it became obvious that it was broken, he began to rant angrily.
“
Great! Just great! We’ll have to wait until we’re in the Capitol to finish the recaps. District 12 is almost never a contender,” he informed Clark and Becky, “but their Reaping is always good for a laugh. Just last year, the female tribute had to be dragged up to the stage kicking and screaming, and then that drunken victor of theirs puked on a camera. 12 is the laughingstock of Panem — with an emphasis on laughing! We’ll be able to see it in the Capitol, but it’s never as much fun to watch later as it is the first night!”
He sounded genuinely disappointed.
Becky had started crying again. A moment later, she rushed from the compartment, running to her room. No one tried to stop her.
Clark clasped his hands together, keeping them away from the arms of his chair, which had already splintered slightly in his grip. He had seen the recaps of the Reapings every year of his life, but it had never seemed so horrific as it did this year. He didn’t know why he felt that way — perhaps it was because he was now a tribute himself. Perhaps it was because the mother in District 11 had reminded him of his own mother, with her boundless determination to protect her son, or it might be because of the girl from District 3, with her pride and defiance, who was almost certainly doomed.
He got up abruptly, his chair falling over backwards unnoticed.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Marcius demanded.
“I’m tired. I’m going to go lay down.” Without waiting for a reply, Clark stalked from the room.
All the way back to his compartment, he fought the urge to simply keep going, to crash through the last car of the train and fly off, getting himself and Becky to someplace safe.
He didn’t because there wasn’t any place safe. There wasn’t any place he could go where innocent people wouldn’t suffer the consequences of his actions.
When Clark reached his room, he threw himself down on the bed. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to block out the images of the Reaping, but he couldn’t.
In the end, he tucked himself tightly into bed so he wouldn’t float when he fell asleep.
Sleep never came to him, though. Clark lay awake the whole night, staring at the ceiling and dreading the days to come.
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