Blood runs heavy as mercury when they wipe it off the Capitol's marble floors.
That's the first thought that crosses my mind as they drag me through the back corridor. The white marble arches are designed to make you feel small. They work. I'm five foot seven, but I feel like an insect under a microscope.
My boots leave a red print with every step. I don't look back.
Slow down, slow down. The escort Effie Mars's voice sounds like cough syrup. Her smile is painted on with a fine brush and it never touches her blue eyes. She's wearing a pink dress that looks like it swallowed a flamingo. "You need to clean up before the presentation. Blood doesn't photograph well.
I stop. I look at her until she stops walking.
"It belonged to my father.
Her eyes flicker. For a fraction of a second, the smile disappears. Then it returns. "Belonged. That's the key word, darling. It's past tense now. And now you're here. So let's be practical.
Practical. I love that word. It means no one will wipe your tears when they fall. It means knowing how to hold a knife.
I keep walking.
The Dressing Room
The dressing room looks like a funeral parlor. Mirrors on three sides. Harsh white lights. The smell of antiseptic and makeup.
"This is your presentation outfit." Effie gestures to a transparent box on the counter. A blue piece of fabric small enough to be uncomfortable. "Put it on. We have fifteen minutes until the live broadcast."
She closes the door. I look at the outfit. I look at the mirror.
In the reflection stands a woman with dry eyes and dirty brown hair. On her left cheek a dried bloodstain from when she fell over her father's body. She doesn't cry. She hasn't cried in twelve years, not since they took us from the ranch. Not since the official in the white suit said the Dutton family would bear no children from that day forward. That her womb would remain as empty as a burned field.
I was twenty-two years old. I was still able to have children then. I'm not anymore.
I undress. I put on the blue outfit. I wipe the blood from my face with a cloth I find in the corner. White. Clean. I look at it for a moment before dropping it in the trash.
Meeting the Tributes
On the way to the stage I pass the other tributes' room:
Cato II: Sits in his chair like it's a throne. Massive, with a jaw carved from rock. He stares at me like a man looking at a cut of meat.
Ella May: Sixteen years old, District 11. Trembling like a bird in the rain, clutching a pendant.
Ryan Cross: District 4. Smiling and waving, but his eyes are calculating. I married a man like him once; I divorced him when he sold my family's secrets.
None of them know who I am. None of them know my name was never in the bowl.
The Presentation
The presentation hall is larger than I expected. The stands are packed with Capitol supporters. On the stage, the new President the Head delivers a speech.
And our next tribute! His voice booms. From District 12, the volunteer who stepped forward to replace the one who fell! Beth Dutton! Brave daughter of District 12!
I walk out. The light is white and hot. I see the President extend his hand. I place mine in it a cold, soft hand that has never worked a day in its life. I smile the smile I learned at age four: the one that says "I'm with you while counting your opponent's teeth.
In the second row, I see Roman. Former Gamemaster trainer. The only man who knows my pulse doesn't spike when I lie. He gives a small, respectful nod.
The Choice
In my pocket, a secret earpiece vibrates. Voice 001 says: You'll die in there alone. Or you take revenge with us. Choose.
I haven't chosen yet, but I'm leaning toward an option that starts with a head.
Back in my room, I find an old photograph on the bed: my father, the ranch, and me as a little girl. On the back, handwritten:
It doesn't matter how many bowls they put your name in. You were never meant to be a tribute.
I put the photograph in my pocket. Outside, the city lights never go out. Somewhere below, forty-seven other tributes are sharpening their knives. Forty-one of them will be killed.
Not me. I have an appointment with a President.