Chapter Text
PART 1, THE SPARK.
I clasp the flask between my hands even though the warmth from the tea has long since
leached into the frozen air. My muscles are clenched tight against the cold. If a pack of wild
dogs were to appear at this moment, the odds of scaling a tree before they attacked are not in my favor. I should get up, move around, and work the stiffness from my limbs. But instead I sit, as motionless as the rock beneath me, while the dawn begins to lighten the woods. I can't fight the sun. I can only watch helplessly as it drags me into a day that I've been dreading for months.
By noon they will all be at my new house in the Victor's Village. The reporters, the
camera crews, even Carol Danvers, my old escort, will have made their way to District 12 from the Capitol. I wonder if Carol will still be wearing that silly pink wig, or if she'll be sporting some other unnatural color especially for the Victory Tour. There will be others waiting, too.
A staff to cater to my every need on the long train trip. A prep team to beautify me for public appearances. My stylist and friend, Maria, who designed the gorgeous outfits that first made the audience take notice of me in the Hunger Games.
If it were up to me, I would try to forget the Hunger Games entirely. Never speak of them.
Pretend they were nothing but a bad dream. But the Victory Tour makes that impossible.
Strategically placed almost midway between the annual Games, it is the Capitol's way of
keeping the horror fresh and immediate. Not only are we in the districts forced to remember the iron grip of the Capitol's power each year, we are forced to celebrate it. And this year, I am one of the stars of the show. I will have to travel from district to district, to stand before the cheering crowds who secretly loathe me, to look down into the faces of the families whose children I have killed...
The sun persists in rising, so I make myself stand. All my joints complain and my left leg
has been asleep for so long that it takes several minutes of pacing to bring the feeling back
into it. I've been in the woods three hours, but as I've made no real attempt at hunting, I have nothing to show for it. It doesn't matter for my mother and little sister, Adelaide, anymore. They can afford to buy butcher meat in town, although none of us likes it any better than fresh game. But my best friend, Harley Keener, and his family will be depending on today's haul and I can't let them down.
Back when we were in school, we had time in the afternoons to check the line and hunt and
gather and still get back to trade in town. But now that Harley has gone to work in the coal
mines — and I have nothing to do all day—I've taken over the job.
When I go back home a wailing at the back door demands my attention. I open it to find Buttercup, Adelaide's scruffy old tomcat. He dislikes the new house almost as much as I do and always leaves it when my sister's at school. We've never been particularly fond of each other, but now we have this new bond. I let him in, feed him a chunk of beaver fat, and even rub him between the ears for a bit. “You're hideous, you know that, right?” I ask him. Buttercup nudges my hand for more petting, but we have to go. “Come on, you.” The cat springs free and disappears under a bush.
I make it to Bucky's house soon enough. Knocking harshly on his door.
"Bucky!" I call out, knocking again.
I brace myself at his front door, knowing it will be foul, then push inside.
My nose immediately wrinkles in disgust. Haymitch refuses to let anyone in to clean and
does a poor job himself. Over the years the odors of liquor and vomit, boiled cabbage and
burned meat, unwashed clothes and mouse droppings have intermingled into a stench that
brings tears to my eyes. I wade through a litter of discarded wrappings, broken glass, and
bones to where I know I will find Bucky. He sits at the kitchen table, his arms sprawled
across the wood, his face in a puddle of liquor, snoring his head off.
"Bucky wake up, it's tour day" I say, but he doesn't respond. So I take a glass fill it up with water and I throw it at him. A guttural animal sound comes from his throat. He jumps up, kicking his chair ten feet behind him and wielding a knife. I forgot he always sleeps with one clutched in his hand. I should have pried it from his fingers, but I've had a lot on my mind. Spewing profanity, he slashes the air a few moments before coming to his senses.
"What are you doing?" He asks
"Camera's will be here in an hour" I answer, making him sit again "If you wanted to be babied you should have asked Peter" I add putting the glass back on the table.
"Ask me what?" I watch as Peter crosses to the table, the sunlight from the window picking up the glint of fresh snow in his hair. He looks strong and healthy, so different from the sick, starving boy I knew in the arena. He sets a loaf of fresh baked bread on the table and holds out his hand to Bucky.
"Asking you to wake me without giving me pneumonia" He says, being very dramatic for my licking "You are a strangely dislikable person" he says. Then I pull out the two bottles of liquor I got him in the hob "But you do have your virtues" he adds.
Peter cuts another piece of bread and looks at me.
"You'd like some bread MJ?" Peter asks and I shake my head a no
"I ate at the hob, but thanks"
"You're welcome" He adds, continuing with the task at hand.
"Wow, you two have a lot of warming up to do before show time" Bucky says, taking a sip of the liquor. He's right, of course. The audience will be expecting the pair of lovebirds who won the Hunger Games. Not two people who can barely look each other in the eye.
"Which is in an hour, so take a bath Bucky" I say before leaving both of them behind.
"I just did" I hear him say before I close the door.
The snow has begun to stick and I leave a trail of footprints behind me. At the front door, I
pause to knock the wet stuff from my shoes before I go in. My mother's been working day
and night to make everything perfect for the cameras, so it's no time to be tracking up her
shiny floors. I've barely stepped inside when she's there, holding my arm as if to stop me.
“Don't worry, I'm taking them off here,” I say, leaving my shoes on the mat. My mother gives an odd, breathy laugh and removes the game bag loaded with supplies from my shoulder.
“It's just snow. Did you have a nice walk?”
“Walk?” She knows I've been in the woods half the night. Then I see the man standing
behind her in the kitchen doorway. One look at his tailored suit and surgically perfected
features and I know he's from the Capitol. Something is wrong. “It was more like skating. It's really getting slippery out there.”
“Someone's here to see you,” says my mother. Her face is too pale and I can hear the
anxiety she's trying to hide.
“I thought they weren't due until noon.” I pretend not to notice her state. “Did Maria come
early to help me get ready?”
“No, MJ, it's —” my mother begins.
“This way, please, Miss Jones,” says the man. He gestures down the hallway. It's
weird to be ushered around your own home, but I know better than to comment on it.
As I go, I give my mother a reassuring smile over my shoulder.
“Probably more instructions for the tour.” They've been sending me all kinds of stuff about my itinerary and what protocol will be observed in each district. But as I walk toward the door of the study, a door I have never even seen closed until this moment, I can feel my mind begin to race. Who is here? What do they want? Why is my mother so pale?
“Go right in,” says the Capitol man, who has followed me down the hallway.
I twist the polished brass knob and step inside. My nose registers the conflicting scents of
roses and blood. A small, white-haired man who seems vaguely familiar is reading a book.
He holds up a finger as if to say “Give me a moment.” Then he turns and my heart skips a
beat.
I'm staring into the snakelike eyes of President Fury.