The Capitol's Tribute

My eyes fluttered open. The light burned them, and for half a second I could have sworn I was still in the arena.

But, the acrid smell of the clean Capitol told me otherwise. I was back to ‘safety’, to civilization.

I blinked, getting used to the brightness of the world, no longer trapped in my mind, reliving the arena. It took me a few moments to realize that both my eyes were working correctly. My hand flew up to my left eye, smacking it in shock. It burned, watering at the hard touch. I took turns closing each eye, noticing that my left was visibly clearer.

I didn’t want to think about the poor bastard they killed to give me the eye. Or maybe they had perfectly manufactured it like everything else in the Capitol. Both were viable options.

The shininess of my skin alerted me that my eye wasn’t the only thing they tampered with. All the calluses and abrasions that had covered my body were gone, most noticeably my hands. They were a tender, bright pink, like a baby’ skin: brand new.

I wasn’t sure what set me off, the fact that they hadn’t given me a cool eye patch or that they had violated me in my unconsciousness, but in a flash, I was drowning in tears and wretched sobs. My left hand kept tabs on my new eye as I rocked back and forth, consoling myself because there was no one else to.

Brant was gone. I was alone.

I dug my fingers into my palm, drawing blood out, creating little crescent moon scars. I didn’t care. I needed to feel the pain or I would lose the memory I needed: the memories of Brant’s last moments.

They would fuel my fire. I wasn’t going forgive or forget; I was going to get even.

I didn’t hear the door open, but I felt strong, warm arms wrap around me, holding me still. I allowed the touch, halting the destruction of my hands to curl into their lap.

I knew Finnick’s scent by heart. It was a strangely alluring mix between sugar and salt water. He strummed a large hand nimbly through my rat’s nest of hair. He hummed a lullaby softly into my ear. It was one from his District that he often sang to himself when he was distressed. It had a calming effect.

But I was far from consolable at that point.



I was trapped in my healing room for six days in total. I had been out for three, and kept another three for observation, probably to make sure I wouldn’t go mental as soon as I walked out the doors. They kept visitors to a minimum, screening them thoroughly before allowing entrance. I was the Victor after all; they had to make sure nothing hindered me from giving a spectacular performance on Caesar Flickerman’s show.

Finnick wasn’t allowed back in after our short, wordless time together. None of my mentors came around. I sat in silence most of the time. The Peacekeeper that guarded my room turned the television across the room on, mostly for his enjoyment because I never expressed interest in it.

My fifth day in, I had a single visitor: Johanna Mason. If I was being honest, I thought she’d come to murder me with the cold hard glare she entered my room with, and I silently wondered how anyone would allow her to see me when I had permitted her brother to die. But, she stood rigidly in front of me sometime after noon with her jaw clenched and her tensely hands by her side.

I was too terrified to speak. For a moment, I thought she had come to smother me, especially when she turned to the Peacekeeper and said in a plain voice, “Leave.”

The Peacekeeper had seen her Games. He knew what she was capable of. Before I could blink, he was gone.

She faced me with an entirely different demeanor. Her big brown eyes reminded me painfully of Freddy. Her usually tight, stony face was worried and urgent. I didn’t know what was worse: a deadly Johanna, or a scared one.

“I don’t blame you for what happened to Freddy.” She said quickly, “If I’m being honest, it’s for the best. Not what happened after, but that it was slow and painless and he doesn’t have to live in the world of Victors. There’s nothing victorious about surviving the Games, Rixa, but I think you know that.” She paused, giving me time to adjust.

“That being said, you need to know that you’re in serious danger.” She leaned forward on the foot of my bed, her voice dropping. “They won’t let your mentors in because Snow’s forbidden them from warning you that your little stunt in the arena, your proclamation of love for Peeta, has not gone unnoticed. There’s outrage, there’s mutiny. Chaos erupted from Eleven again. You went into the Games under the name of the Capitol’s tribute and you didn’t represent them well.

“Snow’s got it out for you, Rixa. You’re going to have to make some more sacrifices for what happened. You’re going to have to make your engagement to Finnick more believable. You’ve angered all the wrong people, Rixa. You shouldn’t have survived and yet you did.” There was a knock on the door, signaling that they needed to hurry up. Johanna didn’t blink as she gazed directly at me. “Watch yourself, Rixa. He’s coming tomorrow before the interview. He does it every year with the new Victor. Do what he asks and don’t make excuses because he won’t ever kill you, he’ll just make you wish he did.” She swiftly went across the white tiled floor.

“What more can I sacrifice?” I croaked.

A shaky, humorless laugh fell from her red lips, “Oh, Rixa, never ask such an idiotic question. Until we’re dead, we have everything to sacrifice.”

I grimaced, watching her walk away with a million unanswered questions in my head.

Just as she was about to disappear, she mumbled over her shoulder, “Thanks for looking out for him, as long as you could.”

I was so stunned that I almost didn’t answer, “He was a good kid. And I made a promise.”

Johanna nodded, her face hidden behind her curtain of dark hair, before slipping out the door. The Peacekeeper hurried frantically back in to make sure I was still in one piece. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw me sitting morose—but otherwise okay—on the bed and went back to his favorite soap.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I knew I had to because I needed to be on my game tomorrow to sort out the mess I’d created, but the thought of Snow coming to ask me to do something for him made my skin crawl.

I lay in bed, dreaming of ways to exact revenge when he came in. Decapitation was high on the list, but not nearly painful enough. I thought about setting him on fire, reducing him to ashes like Freddy, or stabbing out his left eye like me. But it was all wishful thinking.

Johanna was right. Until I was dead, I still had things to lose. There was always something to grasp onto, even in the darkest of times. There was still so much at risk that I knew there would be no choice when Snow came in: Sacrifice or lose someone else that I loved.

It was an elementary choice and Snow reveled in his power. The hope, the love, it was what kept his tyranny moving along like a well-oiled machine. As long as we had human emotion, he would always have power over us.

And if someone like Johanna still had something to lose, I didn’t want to wake up tomorrow to find Snow in my room.