Our Love Could Be Lethal Act I Re-Write

Act I: A Speech Like It's Your Last

The speech the Capitol has given me is simple. "Never has there been such a fantastic decade of the Hunger Games." Then I'm meant to pause for applause. "As a third-generation victor, it has been a pleasure to see how the Games have evolved into the glory and golden years of the 60s, and it is even more of a pleasure to be one of the lucky ten victors to call this decade my own. It will be hard to top, but I'm confident the next generation will be even stronger. With that in mind, I've been asked to give some advice to those little ones at home who are dreaming of being a tribute one day." This is where I plan to go off script. I'm meant to give some advice to the next generation of children who are sitting on their couches, dreaming of being a victor and tell them how wonderful it all is, how I'm going to hand the baton over to the next generation, and how I look forward to seeing the next decade of magnificent Games. But I've figured out how to flip the script into my own message.

"My advice is simple. The odds are never in our favour. Because as a victor, you will never be free from the Capitol." I assume that I'll have been shot dead by this point but if not, "The other districts are not your enemy. The enemy is right in front of you. You have a shot. Don't miss the target," and I'll point to the Panem flag behind me. If they didn't kill me already, I'm definitely dead then.

They make me up beautifully the next day, a perfect way for everyone to remember my last moments. They twist my hair behind my head into elaborate loops behind my head and give me a golden coatdress which will keep me nice and warm up on the stage. However, there's a circular cut out in the right shoulder, which I instantly recognize is meant to show off my new scar. Of course the Capitol wants to see it, and the stylists oblige their creepy curiosities and put the wound on display.

Despite the Capitol's best efforts, the scar is still big, red and angry. I don't doubt that at some point there'll be a close up on my shoulder and the crowd will gasp dramatically. But I hold my tongue at the distaste because there's really no need or use to put up a fight.

When they usher me behind the stage, I can already hear Johanna shrieking at some attendant. A few of them are trying to clam her down before she goes on stage. One of them is speaking into their headset frantically, "Okay, no speech for her. We're going to have to cut to a clip. I know it's not ideal. Well, even if she does the speech we gave her, she's going to swear so much it'll eat up our entire delay."

Delay? That's news to me. And a significant problem for my plan. They could potentially cut out everything I say. I walk up to the frazzled producer and ask, "Sorry, hi, quick question, how long is the delay? I'm a little nervous I'll mess up."

"Six seconds."

Six seconds. That's good to know. I thank her and move onto Johanna. She's already rolling her eyes at me. "Like you'll mess up. You're practically a public speaking robot."

"It's nice to see you too."

"Oh, yeah, sorry you got stabbed. But you got him, right?"

I nod. "Oh yeah. The person that attacked me is very dead."

Johanna narrow's her eyes at me, trying to sus through my carefully crafted sentence. "Sorry, about your mom too."

I shrug. "Yeah, well, I'm more upset about the shoulder..." I point to the hole in my coatdress.

Johanna snorts, and several Capitol attendants look at me in horror, but it doesn't matter anymore if they hear me tell the truth. They're going to hear much more of it from me later. "Wow, okay, yeah." A memory of Plutarch telling me about someone in Johanna's family being targeted strikes me, and I'm suddenly horrified that I've just made this joke to her. But I can't exactly apologize because I'm not supposed to know.