The Girl Who Sparked the Capitol - Book 2 - Peeta

Chapter 13

Alessia's body reacts before her mind does and she's running out the door, across the lawns of Victor's Village, into the dark beyond. Moisture from the sodden ground soaks her socks and she's aware of the sharp bite of the wind, but she doesn't top. Where? Where to go? The woods, of course. She's at the fence before the hum makes her remember how very trapped she is. She backs away, panting, turns on her heel, and takes off again.

The next thing she knows, she is on her hands and knees in the cellar of one of the empty houses in Victor's Village. Faint shafts of moonlight coming in through the window wells above her head. She is cold and wet and winded, but her escape attempt has done nothing to subdue the hysteria rising up inside her. It will drown her unless it's released. She balls up the front of her shirt, stuffs it into her mouth, and begins to scream. How long this continues, she doesn't know. But when she stops, her voice is almost gone.

Alessia curls up on my side and stares at the patches of moonlight on the cement floor. Back in the place of nightmares. That's where she's going. She has to admit she didn't see it coming. She saw a multitude of other things. Being publicly humilitated, tortured, and executed.

Fleeing through the wilderness, pursued by Peacekeepers and hovercraft. Marriage to Peeta with their children forced into the area. But never that herself would have to be a player in the Games again. Why? Because there's no prededent for it. Victors are out of the reaping for life. That's the deal if you win. Until now.

There's some kind of sheeting, the kind they put down when they paint. Alessia pulls it over her like a blanket. In the distance, someone is calling her name. But at the moment, she excuses herself from thinking about even those she loves most. She thinks of herself. And what lies ahead.

The sheeting's stiff but holds warmth. Her muscles relax, her heart rate slows. She sees the wooden box in the little boy's hands, President Snow drawing out the yellowed envelope. Is it possible that this was really the Quarter Quell written down seventy-five years ago? It seems unlikely. It's just too perfect an answer for the troubles that face the Capitol today. Getting rid of her and subduing the districts all in one neat little package.

Alessia hears President Snow's voice in her head. "On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."

Yes, Victors are their strongest. They're the ones who survived the arena and slipped the noose of poverty that strangles the rest of them. They, or should she say we, are the very embodiment of hope where there is no hope. And now twenty-three of them will be killed to show how even that hope was an illusion.

Alessia is glad she won only last year. Otherwise she'd know all the other Victors, not just because she sees them on television but because they're guests at every Games. Even if they're not mentoring like Haymitch always has to, most return to the Capitol each year for the event. Alessia thinks a lot of them are friends. Whereas the only friend Alessia will have to worry about killing will be either Peeta or Haymitch. Peeta or Haymitch!

Alessia sits straight up, throwing off the sheeting. What just went through her mind? There's no situation in which she would ever kill Peeta or Haymitch. But one of them will be in the arena with her, and that's a fact. They may have even decided between them who it will be. Whoever is picked first, the other will have the option of volunteering to take his place. She already knws what will happen. Peeta will ask Haymitch to let him go into the arena with her no matter what. For her sake. To protect her.

She stumbles around the cellar, looking for an exit. How did she even get into this place? She feels her way up the steps to the kitchen and sees the glass window in the door has been shattered. Must be why her hand seems to be bleeding. She hurries back into the night and heads straight to Haymitch's house. He's sitting alone at the kitchen table, a half-emptied bottle of white liquor in one fist, his knife in the other. Drunk as a skunk.