Chapter Text
“The District Twelve girl tribute," the mayor looked at the note with nearsighted eyes, tilting his head away, "is Lysa Prossop."
Casca Highbottom heard Adonis Flast curse loudly when a short, mouse-like girl, no older than thirteen, slowly walked to the stage. Adonis shouldn't have expected anything else. Highbottom pursed his lips. This boy always annoyed him—too cheeky, too confident and at the same time hopelessly stupid. Only his father's money helped him stay among the best. Highbottom couldn't prove that Gaul took bribes, and even if he did, how would it help him? If not this boy, someone else would have to get the worst tribute that mentors could receive. The children from the Twelfth were always the poorest, the weakest, the most pitiful.
Certainly, the boy would be no better. Some boy hunched from early work in the mines, coughing black dust, as usual. Lysistrata Vickers just had bad luck; she irritated Casca less than many of his other students.
"The boy tribute from the District Twelve..." The mayor paused again, staring at the note. To Casca's surprise he inexplicably smiled widely before announcing the name. "Coriolanus Snow!"
Casca frowned in puzzlement; the name seemed very familiar to him... Snow, what a remarkable coincidence...
"Coriolanus Snow!" the mayor shouted again when no one moved toward the stage. Only a hysterical female voice echoed, and the camera panned to the female half of the lined-up teenagers awaiting the Reaping. There a girl in a colorful dress was in shouting something with her peers trying to hold her back. Ah, young love, Caska thought with a sidelong glance as he saw Dr. Gaul smiling. She always enjoyed the dramas during the Reaping.
At that moment the camera finally focused on the boy. The boys from the Twelfth who were fortunate this time recoiled from him as if he were contaminated, afraid to catch the death from him. The boy remained still standing with his head raised, gazing at the sky. His face was poorly visible, but Casca frowned upon seeing his hair. From here, this boy resembled someone very much...
Peacekeepers rushed to the boy, dragging him towards the stage. He offered no resistance, just walked as they held him from both sides, slowly stepping forward. Meanwhile the girl in the colorful dress continued to scream, trying to break through to him.
Finally they dragged the boy onto the stage and at that moment everyone could see his face. Casca felt like he was fainting. A hallucination, he thought, it couldn't be. On the monitor he was looking at Crassus. Not the man he was when Casca last saw him fifteen years ago – this was young Crassus, the one he studied with in school.
For a few seconds, the boy's gaze was unfocused, his pupils wide as if he himseld was under the influence of morphling. Then suddenly a female voice from the crowd spoke out.
Everyone’s born as clean as a whistle —
As fresh as a daisy
And not a bit crazy.
Staying that way’s a hard row for hoeing —
As rough as a briar,
Like walking through fire.
The boy's gaze cleared when those words were sung. He looked to the side and smiled. The smile was crooked, rigid, almost but not exactly like Crassus Snow's— and at that moment a commotion erupted, the song was interrupted and the boy's face turned towards the crowd sharply changed. Fury, cold anger flashed on his face, and it was Crassus Snow himself in the flesh. He tried to break free from the Peacekeepers' grasp but received a sharp jab in the ribs and Casca heard a resentful yelp from Lysistrata Vickers.
After a short pause the singing resumed this time by several voices.
This world, it’s dark,
And this world, it’s scary.
I’ve taken some hits, so
No wonder I’m wary.
It’s why I
Need you —
You’re pure as the driven snow.
The boy grimaced, jaw clenched. He closed his eyes and then opened them again. He said something brief to the Peacekeepers standing next to him and they let him go. The boy rubbed his side and suddenly approached the microphone. He scanned the people in front of him but then lifted his head and looked directly into the camera smiling broadly. He reached to the side grabbing the hand of the girl-tribute pulling her towards him, whispering something briefly to her. Then he looked into the camera again and smiled once more, almost snarling, with a cruel wolfish grin— the smile of Crassus Snow.
"Hail Panem!" Coriolanus Snow shouted raising hand intertwined with the girl's as if in a solemn grreting. "Those marching to their death salute you!" And with a brief nod he stepped back.
Casca turned around glancing over his shoulder at the hall. He saw that Lysistrata Vickers visibly perked up, and the other mentors were noticeably puzzled; they had never seen anything like this at the Reaping.
"Tic-toc, jump-hop, who just made it, dead and drop," Casca wanted to close his eyes when he heard the voice to his right.
Dr. Gaul turned to him grinning in a cruel snarl.
“What a game the fate plays, doesn’t it,dear Highbottom?"
"You think it's..."
Who else could it be?
"Who else could it be? Your dear friend Crassus would surely be proud of his son."
________________
Lysistrata nervously paced the platform waiting for the train with the tributes. She had been waiting for two hours and it already seemed like a foolish idea as Virsavia's ideas usually were. However, her older sister convinced her that it was worth establishing a connection with her tribute in advance. Virsavia always had crazy ideas, but they worked, considering she won the Plinth Prize three years ago— unfortunately, back then, mentoring in the Hunger Games wasn't necessary.
"Your tribute made an impression," Virsavia assured her. "Everyone at the table was talking about him."
About him, about beauty of his person, and about the girl who cried for him, the one who sang about him. On the second day after the Reaping Lysistrata even heard someone humming "you're as pure as the driven snow" in the Academy halls and Persephone mused that it was a shame those singers weren't allowed to finish the song. Still Virsavia insisted that her friend Clarissa, the daughter of the nightclub owner, said her father instructed all the familiar musicians to complete the song adding a couple more verses.
Finally, the sound of an arriving train echoed in the tunnel and Lysistrata breathed a sigh of relief thinking her time standing in the heat was over. However she immediately muttered under her breath, and quite unladylike in that. They were freight cars.
She was about to finish this nonsense and leave when suddenly she heard a human scream from one of the cars and noticed Peacekeepers gathering around. Then the door of the car opened and a dark-skinned boy almost tumbled out his hands chained in front of him. The tribute of Clemensia, from the District Eleven. Lysistrata eagerly scrutinized the new tributes emerging from the car, weak, barely able to stand. Were they fed at all during these two days of travel after the Reaping?
The door of the second car opened, and finally Lysistrata saw her tribute. He gracefully leaped onto the platform, only slightly staggering then turned towards the car extending his chained hands. The girl from the Twelfth grabbed him jumping out of the car and he said something to her nodding briefly.
Lysistrata studied him attentively. For a District boy, he was surprisingly handsome. No, she thought, he would be handsome even if he lived in the Capitol. He was more attractive than many of her classmates, and that should work in her favor, Virsavia said. "Make the audience love him, make them cheer for him, make them bet on him."
Lysistrata sharply exhaled, lifted her chin and stepped towards her tribute. But as she stood before him and looked into his eyes, her confidence suddenly deserted her.
He had remarkably blue eyes, a pure shade like water in paintings. He looked at her questioningly, almost ironically.
"Gent..." the girl from the Twelfth whispered quietly, but Snow sharply shook his head, silencing her, and looked at Lysistrata again.
"Welcome to the Capitol," Lysistrata finally managed to say, and the boy raised his eyebrows, gazing at her mockingly.
"Why, thank you, miss. Didn’t have a heart to refuse your most gracious invitation."
"Gent!" This time it was the redhead girl from the Seventh who hissed.
Gent? Wasn't he called Coriolanus Snow?
"You don't look like a Peacekeeper, miss," Snow looked at her with a charming smile and suddenly, Lysistrata's knees went weak. Seeing that bright smile on the monitor was like a breath of fresh air, but in person – she wondered how she managed to stay alive.
"I'm Lysistrata Vickers, I'll be your mentor. Actually, I shouldn't be here..."
"But you came to welcome me. I'm flattered."
Lysistrata was confused. He spoke completely differently than she expected from a District native. He spoke as if he took lessons in rhetoric.
The Peacekeepers suddenly pushed her, and the tributes began to be herded into a truck that was supposed to take them somewhere, but where?
As if an invisible thread pulled her towards her tribute, Lysistrata found herself in the car with dirty, sweaty, and smelly tributes, she shouted something about the Academy and mentoring to the Peacekeeper commander and it did help.
"And what's she doing here?"
"What's the matter, beauty?" The tribute from Clemensia smirked. "You ended up in the wrong cage?"
"I think she ended exactly where she wanted to be," Snow lazily remarked, settling on the floor.
"You're dead," the girl from the District-11 said. "Back home he killed a Peacekeeper, and no one found out who did it."
"Shut it, Dill!"
"Who cares now!"
"Let's kill her!" someone shouted, but Lysistrata couldn't make out who. "We've got nothing to lose now!"
"And what about your families?" Snow, as if reluctantly, remarked, sitting down and leaning against the cage wall. "In the Twelfth, you won't get through the Hanging Tree. How do they execute in the Eleventh, Reaper? Bury alive?"
"They shoot," Dill reluctantly answered, and Snow smirked.
"How boring. So, they'll shoot yours. Is it worth it?"
"No, don't," the Twelfth District tribute whispered quietly. "Gent is right, don't."
"Gent?" Lysistrata asked him when the other tributes, grumbling discontentedly, turned away from her.
"That's what friends call me," Snow replied, looking at her cheerfully. "I'm not asking you to call me that, mentor." He said the last word with a hint of mockery. "Mentor. So, you're the mentor."
“How come you get a mender?" someone suddenly asked.
"Not a mender," Snow corrected. "Mentor. Someone who is supposed to teach"
"Gent was going to be a teacher at our school," suddenly said the girl tribute from the Twelfth. "He knows a lot of smart words."
“Yes, I was to be a mentor myself” Gent smirked. "What are you planning to teach me, Capitol girl?"
"Not just you," Lysistrata shivered uncertainly. "All of you will have mentors."
"And where are ours?" a girl's voice asked. "Why haven't they come?"
"Because I'm handsome, Coral. So you came to see me Capitol girl, didn’t you? I’m afraid , I'm already spoken for."
Lysistrata blushed, suddenly wanting to say something rude to him, but before she could, the girl from the Twelfth spoke again. Damn, what was her name?
"His girlfriend is Lucy Gray of Covey. Everyone knows that. He rejected the mayor's daughter, so they sent him here."
"Don't you regret it now, Gent?" the tribute from the Eighth laughed, and Snow smiled crookedly.
"If you'd seen her, you'd have volunteered for the Arena just to get away from her."
"So, she's that ugly?"
"Like Dark Days," Gent cheerfully replied. The tributes burst into laughter.
"So, what are you going to teach me, Capitol girl?" Snow tilted his head.
"We're ordered to prepare you for the Games," Lysistrata replied hesitantly.
"Can you kill?" Snow asked with curiosity, and Lysistrata shook her head. "Well, then excuse me, I can't imagine what you can teach me."
Lysistrata wanted to tell him about the audience, about attracting them to his side, about bets, about admirers, but speak about it in front of everyone?
"We were just told to help you."
Snow looked at her seriously.
"Can you bring us some food?" he asked. When Lysistrata looked at him in shock, not knowing what to say, he shrugged. "You want a spectacle, don't you? It will be a boring show if we all die of hunger before the Games start. Let us gather strength so that we kill each other more entertainingly for the Capitol's pleasure. Otherwise, I'm afraid even Facet will hardly hold a spear. It will be damn boring to watch us stagger."
The tributes laughed again, and Lysistrata struggled to suppress a tremor, but thought it was worth mentioning this to Dr. Gaul.
When they stopped, Peacekeepers suddenly rushed into the cage, threatening with weapons, and they grabbed her, pulling her out. When she emerged, she met the furious gaze of Dean Highbotom.
"Miss Vickers, have you completely lost your mind?"
"Give them something to eat," she hotly replied, not listening to him. "What's the use if they die of hunger before the Games start? Give them something to eat!"
And Highbottom fell silent, looking at her strangely.
She looked around. They were in the zoo, she realized. At the monkey enclosure, that's where they had driven the car, and Lysistrata watched in horror as the tributes were unloaded, like lifeless cargo. Cries rang out, and Lysistrata breathed a sigh of relief, seeing Gent getting up. At least he was unharmed. "Your chance for the Plinth Prize is still here," Virsavia's voice said in her head, but Lysistrata suddenly felt the urge to strangle her.
Gent looked around and walked towards her, noticing her by the fence.
"I told them," Lysistrata said heatedly, "I said they should give you food."
"What can you teach me, mentor?" he asked, attentively looking at her, ignoring her words.
Lysistrate was at loss.
"You have to appeal to the audience," she said firmly. "If you win the audience, they'll help you. They'll send packages, food, water, everything."
He looked at her mockingly.
"Well, charming strangers is a skill I mastered since childhood."
He looked around.
"I know this place," he suddenly said. "It's a zoo."
Lysistrata felt like the air had been knocked out of her. She stared at Gent in shock.
"There were monkeys here," he nodded to himself. "Yes, exactly. Tigris and I stood over there, threw them fruits, and then the keeper shouted at us."
Lysistrata stared at him in astonishment.
"You... You... You're from the Capitol?"
Snow smiled brightly again.
"Oh no," he shook his head, curling his lips mockingly. "A native of the District-12, born and bred. And now I came here to die for my people."
_______________________
Casca cursed to himself, thinking about everything that happened today. He didn't hope, not at all, that he could hide it, but he thought he could try if it weren't for that lunatic Lysistrata Vickers, who spread the news all over the Capitol.
Now everyone in the Capitol knew that one of the participants in the Hunger Games was Coriolanus Snow, the son of Crassus Snow, a member of the Founders of Panem’s family.
When the war began, Crasuss and Rhae Snow were in District Twelve, where he was the commander of the peacekeeper base, and there they died in the early days of the uprising. Their son as it turned out, was taken by a governess, a teacher from District Twelve. And when the war ended, he was not sent to the Capitol because according to documents he was born in the District, hence he was a District native, a citizen of the District-12 not the Capitol.
Doctor Gaul showed him the recording from the camera which was not broadcasted to public, from the conversation between Lysistrata and Snow, and next to her were Sejanus Plinth and Clemensia Dovecote, who rushed to the zoo when they learned that their friend was there.
"My grandmother could have taken me if she paid the fee," Coriolanus Snow's voice from the recording was horribly similar to Crassus’s voice. "But she refused." He turned to the camera, seeing it capturing him and smiled a Crassus-like smile, with nothing of Rhae in him, as if she had never existed. "Hey, old bitch, Grandma’am, how are you there? Enjoying the show? You haven't seen it all yet!"
Casca approached the fence, knowing that this boy, Coriolanus Snow, was sitting right next to it.
Casca thought the boy died during the uprising. He didn't even assume he had survived. He didn't assume that Mrs. Snow refused to take him because their family lost its wealth back then during the Dark Days.
He didn't even know the name of Crassus Snow's son.
Tigris Snow came to him today, but Casca refused to see her. Whatever she wanted to say, he didn't want to hear it.
Surely, she wanted to plead for Coriolanus life, for them to release him. Not to force him to participate in the Games.
But Casca wasn't going to allow that.
It was divine retribution.
Crassus Snow invented this hell, the Hunger Games. It was only fair that his son would pay for it, it will be only fair
Casca believed in it. Believed with all his heart. And now he was going to say it to Crassus Snow's son.
The boy sat right by the fence, humming something to himself. Oh, of course, that song from the Reaping, "pure, like the driven snow." Enjoy the sound of falling snow instead. Watch the Snow dynasty collapse. Look Crassus, look, is this what you wanted? Enjoy the show! You haven't seen it all yet!
The boy fell silent, seeing him.
"Good evening," he said mockingly. "What do I owe this unexpected visit to?"
He spoke just like Crassus.
"My name is Casca Highbottom," Casca said. "I was a friend of your father."
The boy looked at him, raising an eyebrow slightly.
"Why doesn’t that sound very promising?"
"Because your father was a scoundrel," Casca dryly replied.
Coriolanus snorted, mockingly looking at him.
"Indeed, not promising at all."
"You resemble him a lot," Casca said after a long silence. "It terrifies me when I look at you because you're his spitting image. The same face as his."
The boy tilted his head to the side.
"I'll take your word for it. I don't remember my father's face at all." He smiled. "But his skull, I remember that very well."
Casca frowned in puzzlement, looking at the boy, but he was staring past him.
"They put his head on a pike. And they brought me to see it every day. They told me that they tore him apart almost with their bare hands, and then they put his head on a pike near the mayor's office. And they hanged my mom on the Hanging Tree. And they also brought me to see her every day. And every day I watched as the flesh peeled off their bodies, leaving only the bones. And they told me, 'Look, look, Capitol scum, see what happens to those who go against the Districts.'"
Casca felt a lump rising in his throat. He remembered Rhae, her bright smile, her shining eyes.
Coriolanus grinned widely, looking at him.
"Since you were a friend of my father, Mr. Highbottom, can you promise me something?"
Casca looked at him in bewilderment, and Coriolanus suddenly became serious.
"I remember from last year. In the Arena, there's a crossbeam, very high, on pillars."
Casca nodded. Yes, there was.
"If I die, hang my body there. Let it be an ornament, like my parents. Let it hang there until it falls off on its own, just like it happened with them. Since Panem devours its young," Coriolanus shrugged, "let it gnaw on the bones."
Casca swallowed hard.
"Are you planning to die?"
"Oh no, Mr. Highbottom." The boy smiled. "My girl is waiting for me in Twelve, my girl, my love, my Lucy Gray. I'm going back to her. I'm going to win. But I have one chance out of twenty-four. So, if it doesn't work out," he smiled brightly again, so reminiscent of Crassus. "Hang me higher, so I can be seen by all of Panem. Snow always lands on top, you know."
And Casca felt as if Crassus had won again. No matter how circumstances unfolded, Crassus always emerged victorious.
Snow always lands on top. Always took the upper hand.