She was from Six. Her name was Marla Neer, and Caesar had loved her since he was eight years old. In the fifty-seventh Hunger Games her name was dragged from the rolls in Six, and she strode up to the podium with a dazed look in her hazel eyes and knees so shaky they could crumble.
“I’m not going to do it,” Caesar said to Snow. “I don’t care if it’s for just this year or if it’s for forever, I’m not going to do it.”
Snow folded his hands over his desk. “Caesar,” he began. “What do you think the chances were that Marla Neer’s name would be pulled from the ranks in District Six?”
Caesar went still at once. He did not respond.
“And what do you think the chances are that she will win?” Snow asked him. “How good do you think her odds are?”
Caesar’s mouth was closed, his lips unmoving. Every bone in his body felt brittle and cold.
“Tell me something, Caesar,” Snow implored. “How good are yours?”
“I had to watch her die,” Caesar told Finnick once, the stolen sharp-toothed kisses he whored along golden collarbones at President Snow’s high, high price, at Finnick’s, too.
“That’s not so bad,” Finnick answered. “I’ve had to watch plenty of people die.”
“Finnick,” Caesar whispered, and he closed his eyes. “I had to announce it.”
The boy with the bread from District 12 has a politician’s smile and a real way with words. Caesar recognizes him at once.
“I, uh,” Peeta says in the interview, a perfect construction of crestfallen eyes. “I don’t think winning’s gonna help me at all.”
Caesar raises his eyebrows and he plays the game. If anything, he’s learned enough to do that. “And why’s that?” he asks.
“Because . . . she came here with me,” says Peeta, and Caesar smiles.
Later, Snow will say, “She may be the girl on fire, but he is the boy with the words, more dangerous than ever.”
Caesar laughs -- it’s the only thing he remembers how to do anymore.
If he didn’t know better, he’d say Peeta reminds him of someone.
Once, there was a girl.
She was from Six. Her name was Marla Neer, and Caesar had loved her since he was eight years old. In the fifty-seventh Hunger Games her name was dragged from the rolls in Six, and she strode up to the podium with a dazed look in her hazel eyes and knees so shaky they could crumble.
“I’m not going to do it,” Caesar said to Snow. “I don’t care if it’s for just this year or if it’s for forever, I’m not going to do it.”
Snow folded his hands over his desk. “Caesar,” he began. “What do you think the chances were that Marla Neer’s name would be pulled from the ranks in District Six?”
Caesar went still at once. He did not respond.
“And what do you think the chances are that she will win?” Snow asked him. “How good do you think her odds are?”
Caesar’s mouth was closed, his lips unmoving. Every bone in his body felt brittle and cold.
“Tell me something, Caesar,” Snow implored. “How good are yours?”
“I had to watch her die,” Caesar told Finnick once, the stolen sharp-toothed kisses he whored along golden collarbones at President Snow’s high, high price, at Finnick’s, too.
“That’s not so bad,” Finnick answered. “I’ve had to watch plenty of people die.”
“Finnick,” Caesar whispered, and he closed his eyes. “I had to announce it.”
The boy with the bread from District 12 has a politician’s smile and a real way with words. Caesar recognizes him at once.
“I, uh,” Peeta says in the interview, a perfect construction of crestfallen eyes. “I don’t think winning’s gonna help me at all.”
Caesar raises his eyebrows and he plays the game. If anything, he’s learned enough to do that. “And why’s that?” he asks.
“Because . . . she came here with me,” says Peeta, and Caesar smiles.
Later, Snow will say, “She may be the girl on fire, but he is the boy with the words, more dangerous than ever.”
Caesar laughs -- it’s the only thing he remembers how to do anymore.
If he didn’t know better, he’d say Peeta reminds him of someone.
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