HEART OF GOLD | CORIOLANUS SNOW

𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙋𝙏𝙀𝙍 89

Brilliant, multicoloured explosions embellished the sapphire skies. Some shaped like seashells, others like a palm tree. Some streaked upward with high-pitched shrieks, others flashed as though strobes. Some spouted mini bursts, others showered scintillating star dust. All drew awed cries from the audience.

Panels along the stands, six on each side, had dedicated themselves to one district apiece, displaying a tight shot of their representatives, whose expressions were all the same. Every participant of the 21st Hunger Games was wonderstruck by the glorious pyrotechnics, eyes wide, jaws slack, faces gleaming with polychromatic glows. Then they took over the show.

Vigorously tested, the floats did not glitch. Tiny spotlights on each of the circular, roving platforms had gradually flared to life, now fully illuminating the tributes in the dimming environment. The roar from the masses was as deafening as the fireworks, their mood just as energetic. They whooped, applauded, rose in droves into standing ovations, a human wave that followed the parade.

Behind them, a crew member announced they were off camera. With imprints of the floodlights trained on the balcony still bright on his retinas, he felt a squeeze of his shoulder.

"Well done, Coriolanus," said the president. "Dr. Gaul would have been proud."

Before Coriolanus could thank him, the president was seized by a hacking cough. Instantly, a flurry of activity surrounded them—curtains being shut, lenses being blocked, non-essential personnel being hustled out. President Ravinstill's private secretary materialized with a bottle of water, but in his urgency, the president toppled rather than grabbed it. The carpet was soaked, along with Coriolanus's polished leather oxfords. The man was now hunched over, clasping a handkerchief over his mouth as ragged sounds forced their way out of his lungs.

Aware that the bodyguards had yet to clear the room of all Capitol News employees, Coriolanus ignored the napkins thrusted in his face and guided the president into the nearest chair, as gently and conscientiously as if he were handling his apprentice. Indeed, both of them felt equally fragile. Underneath the man's deceptive loose suit was nothing but a thin, lightweight frame.

The fabric that came away from the president's lips was quickly scrunched up in his fist, but even if the smidge of red Coriolanus had spotted was his imagination, the blood coating the president's teeth was not. As Coriolanus observed the manner in which a nurse in uniform was administering water, coaxing the liquid into the elderly male, he was reminded of Strabo. As he surveyed the multitude of creases and lines that wrinkled the old veteran's face, he saw Dr. Gaul and the Grandma'am.

Ultimately, President Ravinstill recovered sufficiently to dismiss his attendant, with discernible impatience, no less. Handkerchief hidden away, he clutched the armrest for support and wobbled to his feet. Considering his presence a sign of favour and trust, Coriolanus ventured concern.

"Are you feeling alright, sir?"

"I'm feeling like the old man I am," replied the president, his humour reflected by a throaty chuckle tinged with a wheeze. He placed his hand yet again onto Coriolanus's shoulder, his grip disproportionately firm for someone so frail-looking. Perhaps he was using Coriolanus as a crutch. "Great work tonight. Please give your team my compliments and tell them I look forward to the Games."

"Thank you, sir. We're all just doing our part for Panem. I'll be honoured to relay your kind words."

Coriolanus was allowed to address his footwear in the gents before being escorted to the mansion's parking lot, but there was nothing to be done about his socks. In his car, he peeled off the soggy things in violation of all decorum and propriety, but he was alone, and no one else had to know. Barefoot, he stepped on the pedal and sped himself through the grounds, out the gates, and onto the motorway that skirted the Capitol.