Chapter 7: Public Relations
The light in the Capitol wasn't like real light. It was too even, too bright, without warmth or shadow. It poured into Sol’s apartment through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating dust motes that didn’t dare settle. His leg itched ferociously beneath the sleek, gray cast.
Snow arrived precisely at nine, a ghost in another impeccable suit. He didn’t knock. The door simply sighed open for him. He took in Sol, who was slouched on a low divan, staring at a wall-sized screen currently muted and showing a loop of colorful geometric shapes.
“You look rested,” Snow said, which was a lie. Sol’s eyes were dark-hollowed, his skin pulled tight over the fine bones of his face.
“I dreamed about drilling sounds,” Sol said, not looking away from the screen. “The dental kind. Very unsettling.”
“The stylists will be here in twenty minutes. You have a photo shoot for Panem Today at ten-thirty. Then a luncheon with the weapons manufacturers’ guild. They sponsored three of your parachutes.” Snow’s voice was a clipboard checklist. “At three, you record a victory message for District Seven’s broadcast. The angle is hopeful resilience. At five, there’s a cocktail reception for the game makers. Your attendance is mandatory.”
Sol finally turned his head. The movement was slow, reptilian. “A full day. Do I get a juice box if I’m good?”
“You get to keep the use of your limbs.” Snow’s smile was a practiced reflex. “Now. The photo shoot. They’ll want to highlight the… damage. The story is beauty forged in brutality. You will be amenable.”
“I’m always amenable.”
The stylists were a flock of chattering, sharp-eyed birds. Lyra led them, her touch clinical as they removed his shirt. The bandages on his shoulder and torso were replaced with thinner, translucent films that showed the purple bloom of bruising and the stark red lines of stitches. They dressed him in soft, charcoal-gray pants that somehow accommodated the cast, and left his chest bare. They tousled his dark curls artfully, brushed something under his eyes to accentuate the shadows rather than hide them.
“Perfect,” Lyra murmured, pinching his chin to turn his face. “You look beautifully ruined.”
“My specialty,” Sol said.
The studio was a cavern of white screens and blinding flash heads. The photographer, a man with lenses for eyes, directed him with rapid-fire commands. “Look here. Good. Now, think of the forest. The loneliness. The cold. Yes. Give me that emptiness. Perfect.”
Sol complied. He let his gaze go flat and distant, the charming mask dissolved into a hollowed-out stillness. He wasn’t thinking of the forest. He was thinking of the chemical-cherry smell of the cold room, the lumpen shape under the sheet. The flashes popped, capturing a victim, a monument to suffering. It was easier than smiling.
During a break, as a makeup person dabbed gloss on his dry lips, Snow appeared at his elbow. “The guild luncheon is next. They’re engineers. They appreciate efficiency over sentiment. Answer their questions directly. Do not joke about their products.”
“What if their product is a joke?”
“Sol.”
“Fine. Direct. Efficient. Got it.”
The luncheon was in a private dining room all polished black stone and steel. The men and women there wore severe, expensive clothing and looked at him with the analytical detachment of people assessing a well-used tool. The food was some kind of engineered protein, sculpted to look like a bird.
“The grappling hook,” said a woman with silver hair cut like a helmet. “You used it to scale the crane assembly in the sector seven fight. Was the cable tensile strength adequate?”
“It held my weight,” Sol said, cutting the protein bird with surgical precision. “That’s all I needed.”
“And the axe? The weight distribution? We saw you favor an overhead strike.”
“It was sharp. That was its best feature.” He took a bite. It tasted of nothing.
A man with thick glasses leaned in. “Your final maneuver with the blade. You palmed it from your forearm sheath during the convulsion. Was that pre-planned or improvisation?”
Sol set his fork down. He looked at the man, then let his gaze travel slowly around the table. “Improvisation. The plan was to not die. Everything else was just… details.” He offered a small, tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. It seemed to satisfy them. They nodded, making notes on digital pads.
Snow, seated at the head of the table, gave an almost imperceptible nod of approval.
The victory message recording was worse. They put him in a cozy-looking sweater, seated him in a faux leather chair in front of a holographic background of a serene, sun-dappled pine forest that looked nothing like the twisted metal of the arena or the dense, dark timber lands of home. A perky producer with a headset fed him lines.
“Just sound like you’re talking to your neighbors, Sol! Warm, proud, grateful.”
The teleprompter scrolled. ‘To my friends and family in District Seven…’
He took a breath. The lights were hot. The sweater was itchy. His leg throbbed. “To my friends and family in District Seven,” he began, his voice flat. He saw the producer’s smile tighten. He forced a slight upturn to his own lips. “I’m coming home soon. Thanks for… keeping the lights on.” He glanced off-camera, where Snow stood in the shadows, his expression unreadable. Sol looked back at the lens, his pale eyes softening just enough. “It was harder than I thought. But I carried you with me. All of you.”
“Cut!” the producer said, a little too brightly. “Great! We’ll use that last take. Just need a bit of a… brighter energy for the closing line, maybe? Let’s try one more.”
They tried four more. By the end, Sol’s jaw ached from faux smiling. The warmth in his voice was a mechanical illusion, a trick of vocal cords. As they finally released him, he felt more drained than after any fight in the arena.
The cocktail reception was a symphony of noise and light and cloying perfume. The game makers clustered like glittering insects, their laughter too loud, their eyes roaming over him with proprietary interest. He was the prize they had crafted.
He accepted a drink he didn’t want. He smiled. He nodded. He let a woman in a feathered dress trace the line of his collarbone with a manicured finger. “Such elegant structure for such a vicious boy,” she cooed.
“It’s all in the presentation,” he murmured, and she laughed like he’d said something profoundly witty.
His eyes glazed. He scanned the crowd, a sea of meaningless faces, until he found Snow. He was standing near a ice sculpture of a mockingjay, deep in conversation with a man in a general’s uniform. Sol began to move, a slow, pained drift through the crowd, using the cast as a buffer. People parted for him, their expressions a mix of awe and morbid curiosity.
He reached Snow’s side just as the general was moving away. Without looking at him, Sol said, low, “If one more person calls me ‘brave’ or ‘inspiring’, I’m going to take this glass and test its breaking point on their skull.”
Snow took a slow sip of his own drink, his eyes still following the general. “The Chancellor of the Exchequer is approaching from your left. He funded the aerial drone coverage. He’ll want to talk about the overhead shot of your final fight. Tell him it was cinematic.”
“It was a metal yard. I was lying in my own blood.”
“Tell him it was cinematic.”
The Chancellor was a small man with damp hands and breath that smelled of mint and something sour. Sol turned the full force of his weary, charming attention on him, his laugh a soft, effortless sound. He spoke of lighting and angles as if he cared. He watched the man’s chest puff up with pride. When the man finally wandered off, Sol’s smile vanished instantly, leaving his face slack.
“I need air,” he said. “Or I’m going to start breaking things.”
Snow studied him for a moment, then gave a curt nod. “The veranda. Five minutes.”
The veranda was a narrow ribbon of obsessive stone overlooking a manicured garden far below. The real air was cooler here, laced with the scent of engineered flowers. Sol leaned heavily on the railing, his good leg bearing his weight. He closed his eyes, just breathing. The noise from the party was a muffled roar behind the glass.
The door slid open and shut. Snow’s footsteps were silent on the stone, but Sol felt his presence.
“You’re performing adequately,” Snow said.
“I feel like a puppet someone left in the sun. All the strings are melted.” Sol didn’t open his eyes. “This is worse than the arena. In there, the threats had teeth. Out here, they just have… money. and talking points.”
“This is the arena,” Snow corrected, his voice close now. “It simply has better decor. The stakes are less immediate, but they are infinite.”
Sol finally looked at him. In the twilight, Snow’s face was all sharp angles and calculated calm. “You enjoy this part, don’t you? The moving pieces. The subtle pressures.”
“I understand it. There’s a clarity to it. A person’s wants, their fears—they are levers. You learn to pull the right ones.” Snow leaned his forearms on the railing beside him, looking out at the city. “You want levers of your own. That’s why you asked for me.”
Sol was quiet for a long moment. The silence between them wasn’t comfortable, but it was honest. It was a space where he didn’t have to smile. “I want to not feel this itch in my leg. I want to not see that fucking screen every time I blink. I want…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“What do you want, Sol?” Snow asked, and it wasn’t a mentor’s question. It was a strategist’s.
Sol met his gaze. The charming ghost was utterly gone. What remained was the cold, calculating creature from the underground rings, from the metal forest. Wounded, but sharp. “I want to not be a piece on your board. I want to see the whole board.”
A faint, genuine intrigue flickered in Snow’s eyes. “That’s a dangerous thing to want.”
“I’m a dangerous thing.”
Below them, a hovercar glided silently through a garden path, its lights cutting through the gathering dark. Snow straightened, adjusting his cuff. “Your five minutes are up. Senator Avens inside is a key vote on the military appropriations committee. He admires your ‘ruthless pragmatism.’ Use that.”
Sol pushed himself upright, the familiar mask of light ease settling back over his features like a physical weight. “Ruthless pragmatism. Got it. Should I flirt, or just agree with everything he says?”
“Flirt subtly,” Snow said, turning back toward the blazing lights and the roar of the party. “Then disagree on one minor point. It will make him feel clever for convincing you.”
Sol followed him inside, the noise and heat swallowing them whole. For the rest of the evening, he was charming, he was witty, he was the beautiful, broken victor. But in the quiet moments between interactions, his eyes would find Snow’s across the room, and for a split second, the performance would drop. Just two predators, acknowledging the cage, and the long, silent game that had only just begun.
Just two predators, acknowledging the cage, and the long, silent game that had only just begun.
The reception finally bled into silence, the last sycophantic laugh echoing away down the polished hallway.Sol’s face ached. His shoulders were a solid block of tension beneath the fine fabric of his shirt. Snow produced a slender, black cane from somewhere, its handle worn smooth, and wordlessly offered it.Sol took it without thanks, the metal cool in his grip. It was better than the gilded prop.It was a tool. He leaned his weight onto it, the sharp tap of its tip on the marble the only sound between them as they walked the endless corridors back to his quarters. The click of Snow’s own heels was a softer, synchronized counterpoint.
At his door, Sol paused, keying the lock with a press of his thumb.The mechanism sighed open. He turned, leaning against the frame, the cane taking the load off his screaming leg.The lavish apartment stretched out behind him, dark and quiet.
“Come in,” Sol said.It wasn’t an invitation.It was a statement of fact.
Snow’s gaze was impenetrable, but after a brief calculation, he stepped past the threshold. The door sealed behind them.Sol didn’t bother with the main lights. He limped toward the sitting area, a pool of soft illumination from a single floor lamp casting long shadows across the deep carpet. He lowered himself onto the wide, low couch with a controlled grimace, propping the cane against its arm. He didn’t look to see if Snow followed.Snow did. He removed his suit jacket, draping it neatly over the back of a chair, and sat on the opposite end of the couch. He didn’t sink into it. He perched, erect, watching Sol melt into the cushions with exhausted defiance.The quiet hum of the climate control filled the space.
“You performed exceptionally today,” Snow began, his voice a dry analysis in the dimness.
“Don’t.” Sol’s eyes were closed, his head tipped back against the cushions.“Just don’t. I’m tired of the reviews.”
A beat of silence passed.Snow waited.
Sol opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling.“You want a piece on your board.Fine. I’ll be whatever piece you need.The charming jester.The tragic survivor.The bitter victor. I’ll wear the costume you pick.” He turned his head, his pale green eyes catching the lamplight. “Just keep me here.Mostly.In the Capitol.”
Snow didn’t react with surprise. He absorbed the information, his fingers steepling in his lap. “Most victors yearn for home.For the quiet.”
“I don’t.” Sol’s voice was flat, final. “I’d rather never go back.”
“Why?”
The question hung there, simple and profound. Sol was quiet for so long Snow might have thought he’d fallen asleep. His breathing was shallow, his gaze fixed on some middle distance only he could see.
“The first person who was ever honest with me,” Sol began slowly, “was a man from District One who’d have slit my throat for a better position.Vesper.” He said the name like testing a wound. “He looked at the world and saw a system of levers and costs. He told me, the second day, that our alliance would last only as long as our mutual utility.No poetry. No false sentiment.”
He shifted, wincing as the movement tugged at his shoulder.“I loved that. That cold, calculating honesty.It was clean. In Seven, everything is wrapped in this… this damp wool of false comfort. ‘We’re all in this together.’ ‘The forest provides.’ While the mills grind up children and the Peacekeepers take their share and everyone pretends it’s just the way of things.It’s a dishonest kindness. It’s suffocating.”
Sol finally looked directly at Snow, his expression stripped bare of all performance.“Vesper might have eventually betrayed me. Probably would have.But he would have looked me in the eye when he did it. He wouldn’t have patted my head and called me brave first.” He let out a short, humorless breath. “I don’t find that kind of honesty in the trees. I find it in rooms like this. I see it in your eyes.”
The air in the room seemed to still, the hum of the vents fading into a background nothing. Snow’s face was a mask of polished marble, but his eyes, those pale, assessing eyes, held Sol’s gaze without blinking. He saw the raw nerve exposed, the strategic vulnerability laid out like a card on a table.
He saw himself reflected in it.
“Honesty is a luxury,” Snow said, his voice lower now, almost intimate in the quiet.“And a weapon. You’re asking to stay in the armory.”
“I’m asking to be a weapon in the armory,” Sol corrected, his tone weary but clear. “Just point me. I’m tired of being a spectacle.”
Snow leaned forward, just slightly, the distance between them on the couch shrinking by a few charged inches. “And if I point you at your own district? At the damp wool and the false comforts?”
A faint, real smile touched Sol’s lips, tired and sharp. “Then I’ll finally get to use an axe for something fun.”
Snow studied him for another long moment, then gave a single, slow nod. It wasn’t agreement to terms.It was acknowledgment of a fact. The piece had just moved itself on the board.He stood, collecting his jacket from the chair.“Rest.Your schedule tomorrow is lighter. We’ll discuss the tour.” He moved toward the door.
“Snow.”
He paused, hand hovering near the panel.“Thank you,” Sol said, the words foreign in his mouth. “For the cane.”
Snow didn’t turn. “It was my father’s.” He activated the door, and the light from the corridor sliced into the dim room, framing him for a second before he stepped through and was gone.
Sol sat in the silence, the ghost of the admission hanging in the air. The cane, a piece of personal history, lent not out of sentiment but as a calculated tool of alignment.It was the coldest, most honest gift he’d ever received. He reached for it, his fingers closing around the worn handle, and finally allowed the full weight of his exhaustion to pull him under.
He reached for it, his fingers closing around the worn handle, and finally allowed the full weight of his exhaustion to pull him under.
The cane remained by his bed, a dark companion against the cream linens. Over the next weeks, it became a fixture in the quiet, book-lined room Snow used as a private office. The public schedule became a blur of photo shoots and charity galas, but the after-hours meetings there were different. They were stripped of pretense, the air smelling of old paper and Snow's particular cologne, a crisp, alpine scent that felt like a warning.
"The Victory Tour script for District Two is about respect," Snow said, tapping a sheet of paper on the desk. "Acknowledgment of their martial sacrifice. No jokes."
Sol lounged in a deep armchair, his cast propped on a footstool. He was peeling a blood orange, the juice staining his fingertips. "Respect.Right. Do I mention how Cassian almost brained me with a rock on day three?"
"You mention his strength.His honor. You say his loss was a tragedy for the district." Snow’s voice was flat, practical. "You look suitably somber for thirty seconds. Then you smile, and you move on."
Sol popped a segment of orange into his mouth. "And what do I say in Seven? The damp wool of false comfort awaits."
"You say the lumber sustains the nation. You say you miss the smell of pine resin. You don't mention the mill accidents or the ration quotas." Snow leaned back, watching him. "You'll be standing next to your mother. You will hug her. You will not look bored."
Sol's chewing slowed. He set the orange aside. "You write it. I'll say it."Good."
It was a transaction, clean and simple. Snow would draft the words, constructing the appropriate emotional scaffolding for each district—grief for the Careers, pride for the industrious, hollow nostalgia for home. Sol would simply memorize and deliver, a hollow vessel pouring out calculated sentiment. He found a profound relief in this emptiness. He didn't have to mine his own fractured feelings for authenticity. He just had to read the lines Snow gave him, a puppet with better strings.
In these private sessions, Sol could let his face settle into its natural, unanimated state. He could ask blunt questions. "What's the real aim in Eleven? Are we stirring hope or reminding them of their place?"
"Reminding them of their place," Snow answered without hesitation. "The hope is a byproduct they'll misinterpret. We show the price of rebellion. You are that price, made pretty."
Sol would nod, understanding the machinery. He’d take another page, scan the cold, effective prose, and feel a camaraderie in their shared cynicism. It was a different kind of alliance, built not on mutual survival but on mutual contempt for the performance everyone else demanded.
The contrast outside was jarring. At a luncheon with the Gamemakers, held in a transparent dome overlooking the arena construction site, Sol became someone else entirely. He wore a soft blue shirt that made his eyes look brighter, more innocent. He leaned on Snow's father's cane with a charming clumsiness.
"The seismic zone in the northwest quadrant was brilliant," he said to a Gamemaker with a beard like a wiring diagram, his voice light and admiring. "The way it made everyone scramble for high ground. Pure chaos."
The bearded man beamed. "We modeled it after real tectonic shifts! The unpredictability..."
"But," Sol interjected, tilting his head with a thoughtful, almost silly expression, "maybe next time, give the high ground some kind of... hidden penalty? Like, it's the only spot with fresh water, but it's also crawling with those electric eel things?" He shrugged, a boyish grin spreading. "Just to really mess with their decision-making. Draw out the panic."
The Gamemaker's eyes lit up with professional glee. "Prolong the tension! Yes! The drama of a bad choice!"
Across the table, Snow sipped his water, his expression a neutral mask. Only the faintest tightening at the corner of his mouth, a suppressed smirk of pure satisfaction, betrayed his thoughts. He watched Sol perform this version of himself—the slightly stupid, flirtatious victor, engaging casually with the architects of his own torment, offering playful suggestions for future torment. It was a masterpiece of deflection. The Gamemakers saw a charming, simple boy, still thrilled by their toys. Snow saw the cold strategist from the watchtower, now advising on game theory.
Later, back in the office, Snow didn't compliment him. He simply handed him the final draft of the District Three speech. "They value intellect. Make sure you pronounce 'innovation' correctly."
Sol took the paper, skimming the lines about circuitry and progress. "Do I get to meet any of the actual innovators? The ones who built the mutts that chased Vesper?"
"You meet the factory supervisors," Snow said. "The ones who manage the workforce. You thank them for their contribution to Panem's security."
Sol looked up from the page, his green eyes flat. "Right.The contribution." He folded the speech and tucked it into his pocket. "When do we leave?"
"The train departs in forty-eight hours. Your stylist is packing your tour wardrobe. It's designed for durability and symbolic color coding."
Sol stood, using the cane to push himself up. "And my mother? Is she...prepped?"
"She's been briefed on the expected emotional response." Snow's gaze was level. "She'll cry when she sees you. She'll hold you. It will be convincing."
Sol absorbed that, the idea of his mother being coached on how to grieve and rejoice for the cameras. The damp wool, now manufactured by the Capitol itself. He gave a slow, single nod, a gesture they'd come to use as a full stop to their conversations. He turned to leave.
"Sol."
He paused at the door.
Snow was still seated, his hands resting on the desk."The cane. Use it on the tour. It's a good symbol. A victor, still healing, but standing."
Sol’s fingers tightened on the worn handle. He didn't thank him. He just nodded again, and stepped out into the hallway where the performance waited, bright and hungry, leaving the cold, honest silence of the office behind.