HEART OF GOLD | CORIOLANUS SNOW

𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙋𝙏𝙀𝙍 76

Time would pass if one were patient enough. Time would pass when time passed. Time had a mind of its own, and the only consolation was that it wasn't just Coriolanus—but the entire world who were slaves to his latest nemesis.

That first morning had been the worst, but it also set the stage for things to get easier. His immediate task had demanded plenty of attention to detail, and throwing himself into the job sharpened his head. His obsessive nature ensured everything was not just in order—but perfectly in order.

Relatives of wounded officers flooded his in tray with thank-you cards for reuniting them with such efficiency. The funerals went without a hitch. "In a time of great loss, the military has managed a restrained showing that honours our fallen while respecting those mourning them," the Panem Post had written of the affair. It had credited Coriolanus and included a photograph of him delivering his eulogies. At the Grandma'am's behest, Ma framed up a clipping of the article and had it hung up in her room.

Publicly, President Ravinstill had praised his good work. In private, Coriolanus had been assured he had the role of field marshal in his bag. In fact, on paper, the president had already approved the unprecedented double promotion and sealed the deal. Only, his pinning ceremonies would have to wait—out of consideration to the deceased.

In June, his position as general would be cemented, and on National Heroes Day this year, he would officially be the youngest person ever to be conferred the highest rank in service. He had surpassed his father's achievements, accomplished what General Crassus Snow no doubt would have if a rebel bullet hadn't found his heart first. Coriolanus spent some time wondering how different his life might be if that sniper had missed, grazed an arm rather than punctured a vital organ... Then he realized he was just wasting time. Time that would not turn back for anyone, whether they were the king or a pauper, dead or alive.

Sound reasoning and calm required of military work restored Coriolanus to his rational self. The break had probably tempered things as well, but it was still with remarkable ease that he and Lilith fell back into their pre-bombing Head Gamemaker and apprentice dynamic. It was uncharacteristic that she seemed as eager as him to move on. Despite what she'd promised in the car, he pictured her as just the kind of girl who'd be clingy in a relationship, the kind that sulked and pouted over every missed call and unresponded text, let alone unexplained kisses.

Kiss, he corrected.

There had been just one.

Part of Coriolanus was suspicious of her behaviour, but another was too appreciative to question it—he simply accepted his reality.

With one thing and another, they were on the cusp of May. Overall, April had been a thoroughly fruitful month for the Games. The arena had been demarcated, and zoologists had just finished clearing the area of endangered species after a month-long trapping exercise. Other wildlife were left undisturbed, albeit with natural deterrents placed around the perimeter intended to acclimatize them to steer clear of the upcoming forcefield.

In the approaching weeks, their focus would be on construction. For the starting point, the team had conceived a series of concentric steps that ascended then descended to a center stage at ground level. The interior basically mimicked an amphitheatre, with the steps as the seats and the stage the arena.

Twenty-four plates would be installed onto the highest step, each numbered with a district and coloured in pink or blue, indicating each tribute's position. All plates would be equidistant from the next, equidistant to the center, and fitted with a reverse mine. Any tribute deciding to disobey instructions by moving off their designated plate before the gong would serve as a warning to others planning to try. As per tradition, tributes would be allowed—or mandated—sixty seconds to take in their opponents and surroundings. Here was where things would get interesting, or so the Gamemakers hoped.