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District Eleven is hot.
That’s the easiest thing for Maysilee to focus on as she’s carted from the train to a stage, where she looks out at a crowd of tired, gaunt faces. She tries not to look at anyone too closely. Tries not to focus on the way one girl’s eyes are the same shape as Lou Lou’s, her nose shared with a boy beside her. Instead, she thinks about the heat. The way it presses against her skin, heavy and moist like the worst days of summer back in Twelve, despite the fact that summer has long since passed. An unusually warm winter, Effie had said when they got off the train.
Although Maysilee had been tempted to pour some whiskey into her coffee this morning while Effie wasn’t looking, she’d stopped herself at the last second. Not yet. She would be drinking plenty once they got to the Capitol, so she might as well keep her wits about her while she could stand it.
Each word in the speech Effie had written for her falls to the ground like a dead bird the second it leaves her mouth. There’s no emotion for the sympathies she recites for Hull, Tile, Chicory, and Blossom, despite how badly she wants there to be. Worse, she can’t even summon her own anger as she recites Panem’s praises, instead thinking only of how much she wished she was still asleep in her bed on the train.
Sleeping was easier than stepping across the broken shards of her new life, from trying to find her way out of the fog that consumed her mind so often these days.
After the speech, festivities begin. Maysilee does her best to summon up the snobbish, angry girl she’d played for the cameras, since that’s who the others were expecting. She scoffs at ill-conceived fashion choices and rolls her eyes at jokes people try to make about her skills with a dart gun. But it seems even Effie can tell her heart isn’t in it, because she keeps cutting in to talk for Maysilee whenever she can, and steers her away as soon as conversations go too long.
Plutarch, for the most part, keeps his distance but never strays too far. He hovers in the corner of Maysilee’s vision, as though he’s waiting for the right moment. To do what, she’s not sure. But she can’t bring herself to care either. She just counts down the minutes until she can go back to sleep, and start this hell all over again the next day.
Despite this though, Maysilee doesn’t even feel relieved when Effie leads her to her sleeping quarters in the Justice Building. She’s still wandering in the fog, numb to the soft blankets embroidered with fruits and stalks of wheat covering her bed, not even bothering to change into the silken nightgown Effie had brought for her from the train.
She takes her shoes off and lays down fully-clothed. Her eyes shut, and her mind goes blessedly dark-
For all of an hour.
Maysilee is woken by a sharp knock at her bedroom door. She bolts upright, a lance of fear breaking through the fog—the first emotion she’s properly felt in days. Her thoughts race as she tries to think of who might be behind the door.
It might be Effie reminding her to be ready for some new pointless task tomorrow. It might be a peacekeeper, doing rounds to ensure their Quarter Quell Victor isn’t off breaking more rules—Snow making sure she sticks to her promise.
Or it might be one of Snow’s friends, even all the way out here. She thought she wouldn’t have to deal with this until she got to the Capitol, but powerful people exist in the Districts as well.
Suddenly, she’s convinced that’s what this is. Someone in Eleven—a Capitol envoy, or maybe even the Mayor—has informed Snow that he would like to meet the newest Victor personally. And Snow obliged, confident that Maysilee already knows she has no choice but to go along with it.
Her heart pounds as she pushes to her feet. Her entire body starts to shake as she thinks back to that first party after her win: the large hands on her shoulders, the stink of tacky Capitol perfume mixed with sweat, the small patch of her blood that had stained the shimmering golden sheets.
But then, Maysilee thinks of Merrilee’s hand wrapped around her own. Her thin arms crushing Maysilee against her, blonde hair tickling Maysilee’s cheek as her other half sobbed into her dress. Merrilee’s relief at seeing Maysilee again had been stronger than even her own, and she hadn’t stopped shaking until she’d fallen asleep pressed against Maysilee that first night, the two curled together in a way that must’ve been reminiscent of how they slept in their mother’s womb.
Maysilee swallows down the bile in her throat and takes a deep breath. She lets her mind fall back into the fog as she moves away from the bed. As long as Merrilee is safe, nothing else matters. This is the mantra she repeats to herself as the door takes up more and more of her vision, until it's all she can see in front of her.
Her hands are still shaking as she pulls open the door. But then she sees the figure on the other side.
“Don’t speak,” Plutarch whispers before Maysilee can get a word out, speaking so softly she can barely hear him. “Just follow me.”
He doesn’t wait for her to agree. Instead, he turns on his heel and makes his way down the hall, and Maysilee has no choice but to shut the door softly behind her before she follows.
Plutarch leads her up several twisting staircases. He doesn’t even glance back at her, moving so fast Maysilee has to grab onto the railings to make sure she doesn’t trip. Then, they reach the attic, and Plutarch holds open a trapdoor for Maysilee as she climbs through.
Maysilee gets to her feet, coughing as she brushes dust off her dress. They’re inside the dome of the Justice Building, and faint lights from outside cast yellow streaks along the wood beams. Other than that, there’s no light, and Maysilee can barely make out Plutarch’s face in the shadows.
“You woke me up for this?” Is the first thing Maysilee asks, gesturing around their heads.
“It’s the only place in the Justice Building that isn’t bugged,” Plutarch tells her, and that catches Maysilee’s attention.
“Is that so?” Maysilee asks, forcing herself to stand up straighter. “Why am I here then?”
“Because I need to fill you in. There wasn’t a good time after the Games.”
Maysilee narrows her eyes. She’s never understood Plutarch, even in the wake of the Games. He’s kept his distance from her on the train so far, but now as she stands in front of him, an unwelcome memory rises in her mind.
First, he’d used his waning strength for the most important things. Asking Maysilee to look out for his mother and his brother if she won, and to make sure Lenore Dove got the flint striker back. Of course Maysilee had no issue promising Haymitch she’d help his family, and while she was reluctant to make the second promise, she knew she couldn’t refuse her brother’s dying wish.
But then, after that was all said and done,
“T-Trust Plutarch,” Haymitch whispered in her ear, blood spilling from his lips with every exhale, “trust Beetee.”
Of all the last words Haymitch could’ve given her, those had confused Maysilee to no end. But after Haymitch’s death, she hadn’t had time to go over what he could’ve meant by them. Then, once the Games were over, Maysilee did all she could to avoid thinking about her time in the arena. She’d almost buried the memory in her mind, but now that she’s face to face with Plutarch again, she knows she has to trust the words of a dead boy.
“Why did Haymitch trust you?” She asks.
In the dark, Maysilee can barely make out Plutarch’s raised eyebrows. “What did he tell you?”
Annoyance flares in Maysilee’s chest, but despite this, a part of her is relieved she’s feeling it at all. At least annoyance is something other than fear, or the fog.
“I asked you first.”
Plutarch huffs out something that almost could be a laugh. “That’s fair. I’ll give it to you in a nutshell then: there was a lot more going on in your Games than you might’ve realized, and Haymitch played a big role in that.”
He proceeds to tell Maysilee about the plan Beetee had come up with. The secret discussions he had with Haymitch before the Games began, and the things he’d done to earn Haymitch’s trust. By the time he’s telling Maysilee about Haymitch and Ampert setting off the explosives underneath the arena, Maysilee almost wants to laugh. And here she thought killing a Gamemaker was bad.
Once Plutarch is done, Maysilee isn’t sure what to think. While she’d known there had been something off with the arena after the flood, she never would have guessed that the same boy who refused to back her up when she killed the Gamemaker tried to blow up the entire arena only days before.
Haymitch’s face flashes in her mind again like it has almost every night since she got back. Waxen skin, crimson staining his neck and his clothes, his curls stiff with blood. She remembers the way the birds had gone straight for him, and the rest of the fog burns away as anger takes its place.
“It’s your fault then,” Maysilee snaps, narrowing her eyes at Plutarch. “Your plan is the reason he was targeted.”
“Haymitch didn’t have to agree. He knew the risks, and he was willing to take them.”
“Yeah, because your only other option was a fucking twelve year old!” Maysilee exclaims, and Plutarch winces at how loud her voice is. “You really think he was just going to let Ampert pull that on his own?”
“Actually, Haymitch was the one who asked Beetee how to break the arena,” Plutarch says, pointedly lowering his voice. “Be angry if you want, but he was willing to give his life if it meant stopping the Games. Beetee and I didn’t make him do anything.”
“It didn’t work though,” Maysilee hisses, quieter this time. “Haymitch blew up the goddamn arena, and look what good it did him. Look what it did for the rest of us.”
“It didn’t work this time. But we’re not giving up,” Plutarch tells her.
Maysilee scoffs. “We? You’re part of some pointless little rebellion group now?”
“This ‘little rebellion group’ has existed since before you were even born, Maysilee,” Plutarch tells her in a sharper tone, stepping closer. “Yes, we failed to stop the Quarter Quell. The explosion wasn’t big enough. The Games won’t end tomorrow, and maybe they won’t end in either of our lifetimes. Maybe it will take generations. We’re all part of a continuum. Does that make it pointless?”
Despite her anger, Maysilee hesitates as Plutarch’s words settle in. There’s a real rebellion group. It wasn’t just a haphazard plan thrown together by Beetee and Plutarch as soon as they saw an opportunity. There were people who would carry on when others were lost.
“Why are you telling me this?” Maysilee asks, her voice softening.
“Because we need your help.”
Maysilee blinks. “You want me?”
“You didn’t win the Games through sheer luck, Maysilee. You’re smart, and you have a lot of nerve. You killed a Gamemaker while looking them dead in the eye. We need more people like you.”
“Someone like me? Or someone like Haymitch?”
“Someone like both of you, and with better timing. Also, having an army at their back wouldn’t hurt.”
“And I suppose you have one of those just waiting in the wings?”
“Not yet. But one day we might. And we’ll need everyone ready to jump on the opportunity as soon as it presents itself.” Plutarch meets Maysilee’s eyes in the darkness. “Will you jump with us?”
It’s almost a non-question for Maysilee, because of course she would jump at a chance to overthrow the Capitol. If it was just her, she would do anything it took to see Snow’s end with her own eyes.
But it’s not just herself Maysilee needs to worry about.
“Snow is already looking for a reason with me. I can’t risk that.”
“He can’t kill you now, Maysilee. Not when all the Districts know your name.”
Maysilee scoffs. “I’m not talking about myself, idiot. I’m talking about Merrilee.”
“Your sister?”
“After the Games ended, Snow and I had a talk about that Gamemaker I killed. He made it very clear that I have to do exactly what he wants or else Merrilee will die, and it'll be my fault.”
At this, Plutarch’s brows furrow. He stares at Maysilee for a long moment, and her cheeks start to burn with shame.
“Maysilee, what does he want you to do?”
Maysilee blinks fast as she looks to the ground, even though it’s too dark in the attic for Plutarch to see her flushed face. Plutarch lets out a slow breath.
“Correction, I suppose I should be asking what he’s already made you do. But I think I know the answer to that.” He immediately takes a half step back from Maysilee, and she breathes easier with the extra space.
“I can handle it,” Maysilee snaps, although her voice comes out weaker than she wants it to. “If it keeps Merrilee safe, I can deal with it.”
“For the rest of your life?”
Maysilee’s head snaps up and is met with Plutarch’s unreadable expression.
“You know just as well as I do that it won’t end after this year. It’ll be every year you go back to the Capitol with your tributes in tow, at least while you’re still young. If you’re lucky, they’ll lose interest in you once you start getting wrinkles. Capitol people hate being reminded of someone’s real age.”
Maysilee had known this. Of course she did. She wasn’t stupid. But hearing it from someone else makes it real in a way she hadn’t felt until now.
This is the rest of her life, laid out in front of her. Every summer she will go to the Capitol with two kids headed for the slaughter. Then, once their blood has stained the arena floor, she’ll spend the rest of her trip on an itinerary set for her by Snow. Rinse and repeat for the next two decades, if not longer.
“I don’t know how you sleep at night, Plutarch,” Maysilee hisses. “You spend your days spinning propaganda for the Capitol, and your nights using children to do your dirty work for you so you can play the hero and say you helped take them down. But you’re not the one taking any risk here. We are. The Districts feel the pain so the Capitol doesn’t have to.”
As always, Plutarch looks completely unaffected by Maysilee’s words, and his inscrutability only serves to make her angrier.
“I’m nobody’s idea of a hero. But at least I’m in the game,” he says, his voice low and even. He meets her eyes again in the darkness. “So do you want in? Or are you going to let Snow dictate how the rest of your life plays out?”
He holds an outstretched hand between them. Maysilee stares at it for a long moment, thinking of the posters she and Haymitch had spoken about. His poster had been left in the arena, the true colors splashed across it only visible to those who knew what he’d tried—and failed—to do. But was that worse than what Maysilee had done with her poster? How she had all but handed it over to the Capitol for them to turn her into whatever propaganda piece they wanted?
“All I’m asking is that if the time comes, are you with us, Maysilee?” Plutarch pushes after a minute of silence.
Letting out a breath, Maysilee takes the hand.
“If I ever get the chance, I’m stabbing Snow myself.”
Even though Plutarch’s expression doesn’t change, Maysilee catches a glimpse of something flickering across his eyes. Relief? Amusement? Both?
It doesn’t matter. Maysilee has made a choice, and now she can only hope she won’t come to regret it.