Sparks Fly

Chapter 28

There. He's done it again. Dropped a bomb that wipes out the efforts of every tribute who came before him. Well, maybe not. Maybe this year he has only lit the fuse on a bomb that the victors themselves have been building. Hoping someone would be able to detonate it. Perhaps thinking it would be me in my bridal gown. Not knowing the sheer power of Peeta's wit.

My heart drops into my stomach and a wave of confusion ripples across the audience, quickly replaced by cries of indignation, of fury as they realize the impact of what Peeta has revealed. As the bomb explodes, it sends accusations of injustice and barbarism and cruelty flying out in every direction. Even the most Capitol-loving, Games-hungry, bloodthirsty person out there can't ignore, at least for a moment, how horrific the whole thing is.

I am pregnant. And I'm going back to the arena.

My cheeks heat and my hands immediately drop down to my abdomen protectively, where my dress is now noticeably tighter than it was when I tried it on all those months ago for the photo shoot, where the slightest outline of my womb has begun to protrude from my otherwise flat stomach. I instantly regret how instinctive the movement is; if anyone had any doubts before now, this motion has surely proved otherwise.

The audience can't absorb the news right away. It has to strike them and sink in and be confirmed by other voices before they begin to sound like a herd of wounded animals, moaning, shrieking, calling for help. And me? I know my face is projected in a tight close-up on the screen, but I don't make any effort to hide it. I let my composed mask crack, just for moment, allowing the mess of the person I've become to shine through. I channel every bit of fear and anguish and sorrow that I've felt since the announcement of the Quell, and it's very real agony that's on my face as the crowd explodes in screams around me.

Caesar can't rein in the crowd again, not even when the buzzer sounds. Peeta nods his good-bye and comes back to his seat without any more conversation. I can see Caesar's lips moving, but the place is in total chaos and I can't hear a word. Only the blast of the anthem, cranked up so loud I can feel it vibrating through my bones, lets us know where we stand in the program. I automatically rise and, as I do, I sense Peeta reaching out for me. He cups my face gently in his hands as my own find their place on his cheeks. He rests his brow against mine and tears glisten in his eyes, the same tears that I know are mirrored on my face. The tears that must surely run down the face of every parent of Panem when they realize that they must bring their children into a world that so willingly sacrifices them for entertainment.

I pull away slightly, grasping Peeta's hand tightly, and try to look back to the crowd, but all I can think of are all of the other parents who have been forced to give up their children as offerings to the Games. The faces of Rue's mother and father swim before my eyes. The soul-crushing misery in my own mother's eyes as she involuntarily sent me off to not one, but two arenas. Their suffering. Their loss.

Though our pain is certainly not better by any means, I know that Peeta and I will never experience the same level of heartache. It hurts me, torments me in a way of which I never thought possible, but it's a small comfort that we'll never truly know our child, never hear their laugh or see their smile before they, too, are sacrificed in the Games. It's strange to think that our second sentencing to the arena is now sending not two, but three children to their most certain death. And the most twisted part of it all is that it's not the loss of our lives that is instigating outrage, but the potential casualty of our unborn infant that is causing people to be up-in-arms.

The unfairness of it all has me starting to feel rather angry myself, and I turn spontaneously to Chaff to offer my hand. I feel my fingers close around the stump that now completes his arm and hold fast.

And then it happens. Up and down the row, the victors begin to join hands. Some right away, like the morphlings, or Wiress and Beetee. Others unsure but caught up in the demands of those around them, like Brutus and Enobaria. By the time the anthem plays its final strains, all twenty-four of us stand in one unbroken line in what must be the first public show of unity among the districts since the Dark Days. You can see the realization of this as the screens begin to pop into blackness. It's too late, though. In the confusion they didn't cut us off in time. Everyone has seen.